“And rob her of one of life’s greatest blessings?” he answered. “No, I’m not so selfish as that, and she wants to see the little one. Ah, well; he, at all events, is perfectly beautiful; she will turn from me, perhaps; but she can feast her eyes on our little son.”
As quietly as she had come, the blind girl stole away, up the stairs to her little one’s nursery, where he lay crooning in his cot. With a half sob, she bent over him, kissed him—touched the tiny face.
A little later, with a quick, light step, she ran down the stairs, her hand just touching the banisters; listened an instant, then went straight to the room in which John sat. He glanced up, and she went to him, kissed him softly.
“John,” she said, a tremble in her voice, “dear John, don’t be angry with me—I know you’ve been put to trouble—trouble and expense, but—I’m a coward, dear—the doctor said it would be painful; I can’t”—she almost sobbed now—“I can’t face the operation!”
He held her from him for a minute; no inkling of the truth entered his mind. Then he snatched her to his heart. Was he wicked, selfish, to be so glad?
“Not to face it!” he returned. “But think, Nora, just a little pain, or even a great deal, and then to see! To see,” he said the words bravely, “to see baby!”
She trembled from head to foot. Oh, to see—to see!
“Yes, I know,” she answered. “I have wanted to, but after all, you have been my eyes—such good eyes, John—and I’m not brave at bearing pain. You’re not vexed with me?”
“No, darling—no; but think, think again.”
“I have thought;” she answered, “and I can’t risk it. You must thank the doctor, and tell him I’m afraid. John, I don’t seem selfish to you because I won’t bear pain—because I must be your blind wife, and baby’s blind mother always?”