"Oh, but I didn't," she laughed a little embarrassedly. "You're at home now, and you have all your old friends, and—"
"But they're not you. There's not any one like you," cut in the youth fervently. "And now you're going to stay a long time, aren't you?"
"Y-yes, several weeks, probably."
"Good! And you'll come every day to see me?"
"W-well, as to that-"
"It's too much to ask, of course," broke off Keith contritely. "And, truly, I don't want to impose on you."
"No, no, it isn't that," protested the girl quickly. "It's only—There are so many—"
"But I told you there isn't anybody like you, Miss Stewart. There isn't any one here that UNDERSTANDS—like you. And it was you who first taught me to do—so many things." His voice faltered.
[Illustration: "YOU'VE HELPED MORE—THAN YOU'LL EVER KNOW">[
He paused, wet his lips, then plunged on hurriedly. "Miss Stewart, I don't say this sort of thing very often. I never said it before—to anybody. But I want you to know that I understood and appreciated just what you were doing all those weeks for me out there at the sanatorium. And it was the WAY you did it, with never a word or a hint that I was different. You did things, and you made me do things, without reminding me all the time that I was blind. I shall never forget that first day when you told me dad would want to hear from me; and then, before I could say a word, you put that paper in my hands, and my fingers fell on those lines that I could feel. And how I blessed you for not TELLING me those lines were there! Don't you see? Everybody here, that comes to see me, TELLS me—the lines are there."