But I may tell you what I see, here, as I write.

First, that other one, with sudden understanding turning the coin, like an accomplished palmist! Then again, stealing down the stairs in her white night garments, after her sister, and hearing that prayer of agony—then back—for that money—all prepared—because of the earlier prayers—but halting—then, finally, to bed, like a wraith, pretending sleep, having made the supreme sacrifice of her small life.

And I can see her the next day, swearing that prim-faced old banker, in his dusty office, to eternal silence and untruth—an oath he kept with faith.

I wish I might not see her putting aside forever that trousseau—the wedding journey—the little hoard. For these meant that she had been sure of Hiliary. And, perhaps, that she and her sister were afterward to part for her wedded happiness. Was it not best as it happened?

And those sobs—I do not like to hear them—so terrible as to deprive her of her sight. The while she had to think of them in the light and she forever in the dark. And alone! Alone! But it is good to know—is it not?—that they truly lived happy ever after—that the end of all was joy? That she lived with him she loved and who loved her all the rest of his life—in the sound of his voice—in the touch of his hands—in all the gentleness of him—all the more intimately in that she was blind? For she might touch him then as she pleased—and it was his duty to protect her—sometimes he might kiss her. For you will remember that the other one did not mind. And that those were greater times for kissing than these.

And do you think that she darned even his stockings—something that touched his living body—without leaving on them a kiss or a caress? I do not. And wasn’t it splendid to live in the only happiness there was for her—or ever could be—by reason of that one great sacrifice! That she might rear his children, who was to be mother to none! That she might be almost a wife to him—who was to be wife to no one! That she was to have the very comradeship her soul desired because she was blind—not otherwise!

And, best and greatest and sweetest of all, that she for whom it all was—the sorrow—the penance—the sacrifice—would never know till she should reach that Heaven where her knowledge would only be blotted out by the greater joy it would bring—there, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where the Lamb is the one bridegroom!

VIII
WHAT MAY BE SEEN ON A DOORSTEP

When the last one—the frail one—died, the teapots were sent to me in the city. (Had they, do you think, known of my covetousness all the while?) The one is wrapped in some soft, old, yellowed tissue which might have been with the trousseau. It smells faintly of dead rose-leaves. The little crack is neatly filled with fresh putty. Two of the worst chippings have been carefully built up and modelled with the same material. The other is resplendent in its original cotton wool and rests in its box.

Only a little while ago I was passing a man’s back door. On the step was a patent teapot. It was not splendid, but like a person in evil circumstances. And I am sorry to say that I was glad—as I ought not to be in the case of a person in evil circumstances. He was pressing upon an air piston and expelling kerosene to fill a lamp.