“The little girl, she acts so singular,” said Marian, thinking she must make some explanation.
“She’s blind, you know,” was answered in a low tone, and going toward the hall, Frederic met with Alice just as a servant opened the outer door, and a stranger entered, asking for Mr. Raymond.
“In a moment,” said Frederic, and leading Alice up to Marian, he continued, “Your teacher,” and then left the two together.
For an instant there was perfect silence, and Marian knew the blind girl could hear the beating of her heart, while she in turn watched the wonder and perplexity written on the speaking face turned upward toward her own, the brown eyes riveted upon her, as if for once they had broken from their prison walls and could discern what was before them.
Oh! how Marian longed to take the little, helpless creature in her arms; to hug her, to kiss her, to cry over her, and tell her of the love which had never known one moment’s abatement during the long years of their separation. But she dared not; and she sat gazing at her to see if she had changed since the night when she left her sleeping so quietly in their dear old room at home. She was now nearly thirteen, but her figure was so slight, and her features so childlike, that few would have guessed her more than nine, unless they judged by her mature, womanly mind. To Marian she seemed the same; and when, unable longer to restrain herself, she drew the child to her, and, kissing her forehead, said to her kindly,
“You are Alice, my pupil, I am sure. Alice what?”
“Alice Raymond,” and the sightless eyes never moved for an instant from the questioner’s face.
“Are you very nearly related to Mr. Raymond?” asked Marian; and Alice replied:
“Second cousin, that’s all. But he has been more than a brother to me since—since—”
The perplexed, mystified look increased on Alice’s face, and her gaze grew more intense as she continued: “Since Marian went away.”