"But I am. I knew it was coming. The light was getting dimmer every day. I could hardly see your face this morning when you went."
"And I went away and you stayed here and went blind!" He broke into sobs and she allowed him to cry it out as they sat together in the darkness.
"Come," she said at length, "now you mustn't take on so. It's not as awful as you think. I said to Phares to-day that I'm almost glad it's here, for it was awful to know it's coming."
"But it's awful," he shuddered. "Come in to the light and let me see you—but oh, you can't see me!"
"Yes I can." She reached a hand to his face. "This is the way I see you now. The same mouth and chin, the same mole on your left cheek—that's good luck, Davie—the same nose with its little turn-up."
"Mommie"—he grabbed her hands and kissed them—"there's not another like you in the whole world! If I were blind I'd be groaning and moaning and making life miserable for everybody near me, and here you are your same cheerful self. You're the bravest of 'em all!"
"But you mustn't think that I haven't rebelled against this, that I haven't cried out against it! I've had my hours of weakness and tears and rebellion."
"And I never knew it."
"No. Each one goes to Gethsemane alone."
"But isn't it almost more than you can bear—to be blind?"