"Karl," at the last—"you understand?—That's the great secret!—That's the great picture! I've not painted one stroke this winter! I've been working for you—working in your laboratory every day—studying day and night—getting ready to be your eyes—going to give you back your work—oh, Karl—Karl—won't you—" but the sobs could hold back no longer.
She had reached him. He took it in, just a little at first, but comprehension was growing, and upon his face a great wondering, a softening.
"Old man,"—it was Dr. Parkman now—"you get that? See what you've got ahead? God, man—but it was splendid! She came to me with the idea—her idea—thought it all out herself. Karl was not happy—Karl must have his work. Karl—Karl—it was nothing but Karl. She was closer to him than any one in the world. She could make him see what others could not. Then she would be his eyes. Man—do you know that this woman has fairly made over her soul for love of you? Do you know that she has given up becoming one of the great painters of the world to become your assistant? Do you get it, Karl? So help me God it was the pluckiest fight I've ever seen or heard of. And she's won! I'm no fool—and I say she can do what she says she can. She's ready. She's ready to begin to-morrow. What do you say, old man? What do you think of Ernestine now? Isn't she worth taking a good brace and living for?"
And then he got it all; he was taking it in, rising to it, understanding, glowing. And a look that was very wonderful was growing upon Karl's face.
"Ernestine," he whispered, dwelling long upon the name, his voice a voice of wonder, "you did that—for me?"
"I did it because I love you so!" she whispered, and it seemed that surely death itself could not withstand the tenderness of it.
And then his whole face became transfigured. His blind eyes were opened to the light of love. His illumined face reflected it as the supreme moment of his life. In that moment he triumphed over all powers set against him. He rose out of suffering on wings of glory. He transcended sorrow and tragedy, blindness—yes, in that moment, death. He saw behind the veil; he saw into the glory of a soul; he comprehended the wonder of love. Compensation for suffering and loss—understanding, victory, peace; it was the human face lighted with divine light. They did not dare to move or breathe as they looked upon the wonder of his face.
"Ernestine—little one," he whispered, the light not going from his face—"you loved me—like that?"
"You see, Karl,"—it was this must reach him—"what you have to live for now?"
But he did not get that. He was filled with the wonder of that which he was seeing.