So brother George and this loving little girl were to be Edward’s companions and playmates while he should be kept prisoner in the dark chamber. When the first bitterness of his grief was over he began to feel that, there might be some comforts and enjoyments in life even for a boy whose eyes were covered with a bandage.
“I thank you, dear mother,” said he, with only a few sobs; “and you, Emily; and you too, George. You will all be very kind to me, I know. And my father,—will not he come and see me every day?”
“Yes, my dear boy,” said Mr. Temple; for, though invisible to Edward, he was standing close beside him. “I will spend some hours of every day with you. And as I have often amused you by relating stories and adventures while you had the use of your eves, I can do the same now that you are unable to read. Will this please you, Edward?”
“O, very much,” replied Edward.
“Well, then,” said his father, “this evening we will begin the series of Biographical Stories which I promised you some time ago.”
CHAPTER II.
When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward considerably revived in spirits and disposed to be resigned to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of the boy, as it was dimly seen by the firelight, reclining in a well-stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable that many people might have envied hun. When a man’s eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of the world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune to have them bandaged.
Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward’s side with the air of an accomplished nurse. As well as the duskiness of the chamber would permit she watched all his motions and each varying expression of his face, and tried to anticipate her patient’s wishes before his tongue could utter them. Yet it was noticeable that the child manifested an indescribable awe and disquietude whenever she fixed her eyes on the bandage; for, to her simple and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her dear friend Edward was separated from her because she could not see his eyes. A friend’s eyes tell us many things which could never be spoken by the tongue.
George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as stout and healthy boys are accustomed to do in the society of the sick or afflicted. Never having felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to sympathize with the sufferings of others.