“Well, you are a darling,” said Paul. “But where in the world do you come from?” He glanced into his father’s room and seeing that he was asleep he picked up the baby in his arms and went out into the garden at the back of the house. There upon the grass he lay, playing with the gurgling babe.
The little one had reached the toddling stage, able to move with timid and uncertain steps. In a few minutes the two were deep in a game of hide-and-seek. The baby had curious manners, one with her little hands, carrying them before her face as if pushing something from her. Then, too, she would pause suddenly in mid-career and stand silent, her head forward as if listening intently. Paul had little experience of babies. The only babe he knew was one of a neighbour’s, a Mrs. Macdonald, the jolly, kindly matronly wife of a very shrewd and successful rancher some five miles down the river. That baby, a sturdy, rosy little rascal about the same age as this, would dash madly after Paul, chasing him round and over obstacles with a reckless disregard of consequences. This youngster had its own queer mannerisms which puzzled Paul. Holding by his finger she could race with him freely and with sure foot on the smooth grass, but alone she was filled with timid hesitation. Once he hid behind a tree, calling her. Cautiously she came running, her little hands high in front of her face, halted a moment listening, then in response to a call came dashing toward him and ran full tilt squarely into the tree. The impact hurled her violently upon her back with an abrased nose. Her screams brought the Indian woman from the house, running swiftly.
“She ran into the tree I was hiding behind,” explained Paul remorsefully.
The mother caught the child in her arms and, sitting on the grass, soothed her with soft strange sounds till her tears were stayed.
“I am awfully sorry,” said the boy. “She must have stumbled head first against the tree.”
Clasping the babe tightly to her breast and rocking her gently while she crooned a quaint low song, the mother said nothing in reply.
“I am awfully sorry” again said Paul, puzzled and a little fearful at her silence.
“No,” said the mother, when the babe had grown quiet, “she did not see the tree. She does not see—anything. She—is—blind.” As she spoke she clutched the babe fiercely to her breast.
“Blind! She can’t see anything? She can’t see me—now?” The boy was staring, horror-stricken, into the blue eyes once more turned steadily on him. He moved closer to the child. “She can’t see!” he said again in a voice shrill with bewilderment, pain, anger.
The mother shook her head, rocking her child in her arms, her face fixed in a look of stony despair.