"Well," said Mrs. Richards, smiling at what she afterwards called Bessie's old-fashioned ways,—"well, I think it was the kitten was to blame for the disturbance, not you, nor your pretty dog there; and I'm sure we're all glad to see you, dear. Are you the little girl that was lost and taken up to the station?"
"Yes, I am," said Bessie; "but I was not taken up 'cause I was naughty, but 'cause I could not find my way home. Is my policeman pretty well?"
"He's very well, thank you, dear; but he'll be mighty sorry to hear you've been here, and he not home to see you."
"Mother," said Willie, "what a sweet voice that little girl has! Will she let me touch her?"
"Would you, dear?" asked Mrs. Richards; "you see it's the only way he has now of finding what anybody is like."
"Oh! he may touch me as much as he likes," said Bessie, and coming close to the blind boy, she put her hand in his, and waited patiently while he passed his fingers up her arm and shoulder, then over her curls, cheek, and chin; for Willie Richards was already gaining that quick sense of touch which God gives to the blind.
The mother's heart was full as she watched the two children, and saw the tender, pitying gaze Bessie bent upon her boy.
"Poor Willie!" said the little girl, putting her arm about his neck, "I am so sorry for you. But perhaps our Father will let you see again some day."