"Grannie, shall I read to you, while I'm waiting?"
"I'm afraid you don't feel well enough."
"Oh yes, I should like to read; I want to read the chapter father read this morning."
She turned over the leaves and found the place, and began: "I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications."
"Oh yes," said grannie; "David isn't the only one who can say that. God has always heard me."
"Did you ever ask him, grannie, to make you see?" said Nannie.
"No; I never asked him. I asked him to make me patient to bear it. You think it's dreadful, Nannie, to be blind, and I used to think so too. But God never takes anything from us without giving us something else to make up for it. You think I sit in the dark always; but it isn't dark, Nannie; it's all light—a light brighter than the sun: it's the light of heaven; I see it constantly. It isn't only those that live in heaven that can say they have no need of the sun or moon, for the Lamb is their light: I can say it too.—Yes," she went on, more to herself than Nannie,—"yes, dear Saviour, thou art my light."
Nannie sat looking wonderingly at the wrinkled old face, so happy and peaceful, and at the withered hands folded so quietly, and thought she did not understand it then. Many years after, when she too was old, did she remember that peaceful face and those folded hands, and say in the midst of trial and sorrow,—
"Yes, dear Saviour, thou art my light!"
"I have thought sometimes," grannie went on, "that heaven will be pleasanter to me, for not seeing here. Think how new it will all be there! People that have always had their sight only see something different when they go to heaven; but I haven't seen anything for ten years. Just think what it will be to me to see those beautiful things you read about!"