"What became of him?" said Gertrude.
"I cannot give you an exact account of what followed. I was in no state to know anything of my father's treatment of his step-son. He banished him from his sight and knowledge for ever; and it is easy to believe it was with no added gentleness, since he had now, besides the other crimes imputed to him, been the cause of his daughter's blindness."
"And did you never hear from him again?"
"Yes. Through the good doctor—who alone knew all the circumstances—I learned that he had sailed for South America; and in the hope of once more communicating with the poor exile, and assuring him of my continued love, I rallied from the sickness, fever, and blindness into which I had fallen; the doctor had even a thought of restoring sight to my eyes. Several months passed, and my kind friend, who was persevering in his inquiries, having learned the residence and address of the ill-fated youth, I was commencing, through the aid of Mrs. Ellis (whom pity had now won to my service), a letter of love, and an entreaty for his return, when a fatal seal was put to all my earthly hopes. He died in a foreign land, alone, unnursed, and uncared for; he died of that southern disease which takes the stranger for its victim; and I, on hearing the news of it, sunk back into a more pitiable malady; and—and alas, for the encouragement of the good doctor had held out of my gradual restoration to sight!—I wept all his hopes away!"
Emily paused. Gertrude put her arms around her, and they clung closely to each other; grief and sorrow made their union dearer than ever.
"I was then, Gertrude," continued Emily, "a child of the world, eager for worldly pleasures, and ignorant of any other. For a time, therefore, I dwelt in utter darkness—the darkness of despair. I began, too, again to feel my bodily strength restored, and to look forward to a useless and miserable life. You can form no idea of the utter wretchedness in which my days were passed.
"But at last a dawn came to my dark night. It came in the shape of a minister of Christ, our own dear Mr. Arnold, who opened the eyes of my understanding, lit the lamp of religion in my now softened soul, taught me the way to peace, and led my feeble steps into that blessed rest which even on earth remaineth to the people of God.
"In the eyes of the world I am still the unfortunate blind girl; cut off from every enjoyment; but so great is the awakening I have experienced that to me it is far otherwise, and I am ready to exclaim, like him who in old time experienced his Saviour's healing power, 'Once I was blind, but now I see!'"
Gertrude half forgot her own troubles while listening to Emily's sad story; and when the latter laid her hand upon her head, and prayed that she too might be fitted for a patient endurance of trial, and be made stronger and better thereby, she felt her heart penetrated with that deep love and trust which seldom come to us except in the hour of sorrow, and prove that it is through suffering only we are made perfect.