He pressed her closer in his arms and kissed her for the first time in his life. His mother called to him from the neighbouring parsonage-house. He led the still weeping girl to an arm-chair by the wall, let her sink gently into it and hastened out.
Shortly after, two dignified looking men strode down from the castle-hill towards the village. The rector, a tall, powerful figure, with all the strength and majesty of an apostle, and the sacristan, a slender man with an expression of humility about him, and whose hair was already as white as snow. They had both been invited by the baron to spend the afternoon with himself and the doctor, who had come from the town, at his invitation, to examine the children's eyes, and to try the effects of an operation. He had again assured both the rejoicing fathers of his hopes of a perfect cure, and had begged them to hold themselves in readiness for the following day. The mothers had decided on preparing all that was necessary in the parsonage, for they were unwilling to separate the children on the day which was to restore them that light of which they had been together so long deprived.
When the two fathers reached their homes, which lay just opposite to each other, the rector pressed his old friend's hand, and said with a moistening eye, "God be with us and them!" Then they separated. The sacristan entered his house--all was still--the maid was without in the garden. He entered his chamber and rejoiced in the stillness which permitted him to be alone with his God. As he stepped over the threshold, he started--his child had arisen from the chair and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes; her bosom heaved painfully; her cheeks and lips were blanched. He spoke to her and entreated her to calm herself, and asked her earnestly, "What has happened to you?" She answered but with tears which she herself understood not.
CHAPTER II.
They had placed the children in bed in two upper rooms of the rectory looking towards the north. In the absence of shutters, the windows were carefully covered with dark curtains, so that in the brightest day scarcely a ray of light could creep in. The rector's wide orchard overshadowed the walls, and kept at a distance the murmur of external life.
The doctor had recommended that particular care should be taken of the little girl; all that depended on him had succeeded; now, in quiet, must nature do the rest; and the girl's easily excitable temperament required the most careful attention and precaution.
At the decisive moment, Mary had been firm, when her mother burst into tears, as she heard the doctor's footstep on the stairs, she had gone to her and encouraged her.
The doctor began with the boy, who, excited but of good courage, sat down and bore all; only at first he would not allow anyone to hold him during the operation, but at Mary's entreaties he at last permitted it to be done.
When the doctor, after some seconds had elapsed, removed his hands from the boy's eyelids, he screamed loudly with joyous terror.
Mary recoiled. Then she bore without a murmur the passing pain. But tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame trembled; so that the doctor hastily placed a bandage over her eyes, and assisted her himself to her room; for her knees trembled under her. There, on her couch, sleep and fainting struggled long over her, whilst the boy declared that he was perfectly well, and only lay down at his father's earnest entreaties.