"Come," he said, quickly, "lean on me, you are weak still, it would refresh you to breathe a little sweet meadow air out of doors, for the air here is thick and heavy. But it is not good for us yet, the doctor says. Our eyes would get sore, and be blind again, if they were to look out into the light too soon. Oh, I know already what light and darkness mean. No flute note is so sweet as when your eyes can do that. It hurt me, I must say, yet I could have looked for ever into the beautiful coloured world, so blissful was the pain. You will feel it too. But it must be many days before we are so happy. But then I will do nothing all day long but see. I want to know so many things, Mary. They say that each thing has a different colour. I wonder what colours your face and mine are? Dark or bright? It would be horrible if they were not very bright. Shall I know you with my eyes? now, touching you so, I could pick you out with my little finger from all the other people in the world. But in future we shall have to learn to know each other all anew again. I know now that your hair and cheeks are soft to touch, will they be so to my eyes? I want to know so much, and it is so long to wait."
After this fashion he chattered incessantly, without remarking how silently she walked beside him. Many of his words had sunk deep into her heart. It had never occurred to her that she too was to see, and she hardly knew what to think about it. She had heard of mirrors, without understanding what was meant. She thought now that when a person who saw opened his eyes, his own face appeared to him.
When she was again in her little bed, and her mother thought she slept, the idea flashed across her mind. "It would be horrible if our faces were not bright!" She had heard of ugly and beautiful, and she knew that ugly people were pitied, and often less loved than others. "Oh, if I should be ugly," she thought to herself, "and he care no more about me. It used to be all the same when he played with my hair and called it silken threads. That will all cease now if he sees that I am ugly; and he--even if he is ugly, I will never let him know it, because I shall love him still. But no! I know that he cannot be ugly--he cannot be."
Long she lay restless with sorrow and anxiety. The air was sultry; without, in the garden, the nightingales called complainingly to each other, and a sobbing west wind beat against the window panes. She was entirely alone in the chamber, for her mother's bed, which had been placed beside hers, had been removed on account of the closeness of the room. And besides, they no longer thought a night watcher necessary, as her fever had entirely disappeared. And just on this very evening it returned again, and tossed her to and fro, until, long after midnight, a short, heavy sleep fell upon her.
Meanwhile the storm, which had circled muttering around the horizon half the night, approached in its might, spread itself over the forest, and then paused. The wind was still. A crash of thunder burst in upon Mary's sleep. Half dreaming she sprang up; she knew not what she sought or thought, a nameless anxiety forced her to rise, her pillow was so hot. Now she stood by the side of her bed and heard the strong rain rushing down without. But it cooled not her feverish brow. She tried to collect herself and think, but found nothing within her soul but the miserable thought with which she had fallen asleep. A strange determination arose within her. She would go to Clement now he was alone; what prevented her from putting an end to her uncertainty, and seeing both herself and him? She thought but of this alone, and every word of the doctor was forgotten; so she went unhesitatingly, just as she had arisen from her couch, towards the door which stood half open, found the end of the bed, crept on her little bare feet, to the side of the sleeping boy, and bending over him, with bated breath, tore the bandage hastily from her eyes.
But she started when all remained dark as before. She had forgotten that it was night, and that she had been told that in the night all people were blind. She had fancied that a light streamed from an eye that saw, and lighted both itself and what it looked upon. Now she felt the boy's breath soft upon her cheek, but she could distinguish no form. Already terrified, and in despair, she wished to go back. There flamed through the now uncovered window-panes a flash one second long--then another and another--the air waved to and fro with the intensity of light--thunder and rain-stream without increased in roar; but she gazed for one short moment on the curly brow that lay softly pressed on the pillow before her--then the vision vanished into the darkness, her eyes gushed with tears, and, overcome with unspeakable terror, she rushed to her room, replaced the bandage, and sank upon her bed, feeling, with a sense of unalterable conviction, that she had seen for the first and the last time.
CHAPTER III.
Weeks have passed away. For the first time, the young powers of the eyes are to be tested by light. The doctor, who had, in the meantime, directed the simple treatment of the children from the town, arrived at the village on a cloudy day, in order to be present himself and to enjoy the fruit of his cure with them.
Instead of the curtains, they had weaved garlands of boughs before the windows, and decked both rooms gaily with green branches and flowers. The baron himself, and all in the village who were connected with either of the families, had arrived to wish both parents and children happiness, and to enjoy the surprise of the healed ones.
Mary pressed herself, with a sad anxiety, amongst the boughs in the corner, when Clement, flushed with delight, was placed opposite to her, and seized her hand.