And the face of the other one was flushed, too. But I knew very certainly that meant joy. For her beautiful dark eyes looked straightly and happily into mine. Yet—there were tears there, too!
And so you see that the saying of the dear old lady is once more proven true. People cry for joy.
I reached across the table, scattering the teacups as I went, and took a hand of each.
“A beautiful story,” I said.
“It is the first time,” said she, happily, who had told it so badly. “I didn’t think I could tell a story. But somehow I was just carried along.”
“It shall never be told again,” I said, “unless you permit it.”
But I pressed the hand of the blind one, slowly, gently, until her head drooped a little further and she responded:
“Not until we are both dead.”
I have kept the faith. They are both dead.
And I will not put into printed words the thoughts of my mind. I will not spoil the story of the dear old ladies by making it orderly and conventional. For fifty years the frail one had believed in the mystery of it—had even seen God in it. A miracle! How unquestioning was faith then! How simple was she!