"What's up now?" the loungers said to each other, as the three strokes were repeated in rapid succession. "What's got into John?" and those who were fortunate enough to own houses in the village, went into the street to assure themselves there was no fire.
"It can't be a toll," they said. "It's too much like a dancing tune for that," and as the sound continued they walked rapidly to the church, where they found the African bending himself with might and main to his task, the perspiration dripping from his sable face, which was all aglow with happiness.
It was no common occasion which had thus affected John, and to the eager questioning of his audience he replied, "Can't you hear the ding—dong—de-el. Don't you know what it says? Listen now," and the bell again rang forth the three short sounds. But the crowd still professed their ignorance, and, pausing a moment, John said, with a deprecating manner: "I'll tell the first word, and you'll surely guess the rest: it's 'Maude.' Now try 'em," and wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned again to his labor of love, nodding his head with every stroke. "No ear at all for music," he muttered, as he saw they were as mystified as ever, and in a loud, clear voice, he sang, "Maude can see-e! Maude can see-e!"
It was enough. Most of that group had known and respected the blind girl, and joining at once in the negro's enthusiasm they sent up a deafening shout for "Maude De Vere, restored to sight."
John's face at that moment was a curiosity, so divided was it between smiles and tears, the latter of which won the mastery, as with the last hurrah the bell gave one tremendous crash, and he sank exhausted upon the floor, saying to those who gathered round, "Will 'em hear that, think, in France?"
"How do you know it is true?" asked one, and John replied, "She writ her own self to tell it, and sent her love to me; think of dat—sent her love to an old nigger!" and John glanced at the bell, as if he intended a repetition of the rejoicings.
Surely Maude De Vere, across the sea, never received a greater tribute of respect than was paid to her that day by the warm-hearted John, who, the moment he heard the glad news, sped away, to proclaim it from the church-tower. The letter had come that afternoon, and, as John said, was written by Maude herself. The experiment had been performed weeks before, but she would wait until assurance was doubly sure ere she sent home the joyful tidings. It was a wonderful cure, for the chance of success was small, but the efforts used in her behalf had succeeded, and she could see again.
"But what of Louis?" asked Dr. Kennedy, who was listening while his wife read to him the letter. "What of Louis? Have they done anything for him?"
"They had tried, but his deformity could not be helped," and with a pang of disappointment the father was turning away when something caught his ear which caused him to listen again.
"You don't know," Maude wrote, "how great a lion Louis is getting to be. He painted a picture of me just as I looked that dreadful morning when I stood in the sunshine and felt that I was blind. It is a strange, wild thing, but its wildness is relieved by the angel-faced boy who looks up at me so pityingly. Louis is perfect, but Maude—oh! I can scarce believe that she ever wore that expression of fierce despair. Strange as it may seem, this picture took the fancy of the excitable French, and ere Louis was aware of it he found himself famous. They come to our rooms daily to see le petit artist, and many ask for pictures or sketches, for which they pay an exorbitant price. One wealthy American gentleman brought him a daguerreotype of his dead child, with the request that he would paint from it a life-sized portrait, and if he succeeds in getting a natural face he is to receive five hundred dollars. Think of little Louis Kennedy earning five hundred dollars, for he will succeed. The daguerreotype is much like Nellie, which will make it easier for Louis."