Methinks that I can trace a meaning smile upon the faces of some of my readers at the detailed description of one they deem too blind to see. Not so, there is a strange mysterious masonry in human souls, and while
"Few are the hearts, whence one same touch,
Bids the sweet fountain flow,"
an indescribable consciousness of mutual interest came with this meeting; and while I little dreamed that this stranger would in after time stand by my side in the nearest and dearest relation of life, even that of a husband; his face, his form, his voice, his soul were all to me an open volume, which by that inner sight, I read in every minute detail, and then and there were all these photographed upon my heart.
Before I had taken my next leave of Chicago I had passed through all the phases of doubt, in which I deeply questioned my own heart, seeking there the solution of why I had inspired an interest in this stranger. Ever since my sickness in Philadelphia I had been a comparative invalid, devoting much of my time to the restoration of health, and above all the recovery of that sight which was still so dear to me, and so hard to relinquish without a struggle. So with my depleted strength, moderate means and somewhat darkened hopes, I seemed to myself a very unattractive object. Be this as it may, while no formal engagement bound us, we parted as acknowledged lovers.
Miss Rogers entered into business for herself, and I went unattended to Ypsilanti, Michigan, to be under the charge of a physician, who was to test the effect of electrical treatment as a means of restoration to sight. While he was deeply imbued with interest in my case, and gave me every care and attention while I remained under his roof, he was unfortunately wedded to one whose cold, unsympathetic suspicious nature made a pandemonium for all within the circle of her baleful influence. Of such unions Watts has truly said:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals,
Are married just like sordid souls;
With osiers for a bend.
To her I am indebted for many a dark and tearful hour, when not only my heart, but my eyes, needed perfect repose.
But beside this thorn-tree in the home garden bloomed for me, and for all, a beautiful flower, in the person of her niece, Josie McMath, who, with her loving, gentle touch, toned down the inequalities and smiled away the frowns.
She and I became fast friends, and afterward freely exchanged confidences, telling to each other a mutual tale of girlish hope and trustful affection.
During my stay in Ypsilanti I received a letter from Rachel Weaver, who had been bereft of her mother and had lost every means of support. She earnestly desired to return to me; and as the letter brought with it the magnetism of a former attachment, I wrote to her to come to me.