Helen was less exquisitely fair, less beautiful than Alice, but hers was an eye of sunbeams and shadows, that gave wonderful expression to her whole face. Some one has observed that “every face is either a history or a prophecy.” Child as Helen was, hers was both. You could read in those large, pensive, hazel eyes, a history of past sufferings and trials. You could read, too, in their deep, appealing, loving expression, a prophecy of all a woman’s heart is capable of feeling or enduring.
“I never saw such eyes in the head of a child,” was a common remark upon Helen. “There is something wildly, hauntingly interesting in them; one loves and pities her at the first glance.”
Helen was too pale and thin to be a beautiful child, but with such a pair of haunting eyes, soft, silky hair of the same hazel hue, hanging in short curls just below her ears, and a mouth of rare and winning sweetness, she was sure to be remembered when no longer present. She looked several years older than Alice, though of the same age, for the calm features of the blind child had never known the agitations of terror or the vague apprehensions of unknown evil. Every one said “Helen would be pretty,” and felt that she was interesting.
Now, while knitting her purse, and sliding the silver beads along the blue silken thread, she would look up with an eager, listening countenance, as if her thoughts were gone forth to meet some one, who delayed their coming.
Alice, too, was listening with an expecting, waiting heart—one could tell it by the fluttering of the blue ribbon that encircled her neck.
“He will not come to-night, mother,” said she, with a sigh. “It is never so late as this, when he rides in through the gate.”
“I fear some accident has happened,” cried Helen, “he has a very bad bridge to cross, and the stream is deep below.”
“How much that sounds like Helen,” exclaimed Mrs Hazleton, “so fearful and full of misgivings! I shall not give him up before ten o’clock. If you like, you can both sit up and bear me company—if not, you may leave me to watch alone.”
They both eagerly exclaimed that they would far rather sit up with her, and then they were sure they could finish their purses, and have them ready as gifts for the brother and friend so anxiously looked for. Though the distance that separated them from him was short, and his visits frequent, they were ever counted as holidays of the heart, as eras from which all past events were dated—and on which all future ones were dependent.
“When Arthur was here, we did so and so.” “When Arthur comes, we will do this and that.” A stranger would have thought Arthur the angel of the Parsonage, and that his coming was the advent of peace, and joy, and love. It was ever thus that listening ears and longing eyes and waiting hearts watched his approach. He was an only son and brother, and seldom indeed is it that Heaven vouchsafes such a blessing to a household, as a son and brother like Arthur Hazleton.