Although unwilling, usually, to be led, Maude yielded now, and suffered herself to be conducted to the chamber where Louis watched for her coming. She could see enough to know there was a change, and clasping her companion's hand she said, "I am surely indebted to you for this surprise."
"Maude, Maude!" and the tones of Louis' voice trembled with joy, as stretching his arms toward her, he cried, "You can see."
Guided more by the sound than by actual vision, Maude flew like lightning to his side, and kneeling before him hid her face in his lap, while he bent fondly over her, beseeching her to say if she could see. It was a most touching sight, and drawing near, Maude Glendower mingled her tears with those of the unfortunate children on whom affliction had laid her heavy hand.
Maude Remington was naturally of a hopeful nature, and though she had passed through many an hour of anguish, and had rebelled against the fearful doom which seemed to be approaching, she did not yet despair. She still saw a little--could discern colors and forms, and could tell one person from another. "I shall be better by and by," she said, when assured by the sound of retreating footsteps that they were alone. "I am following implicitly the doctor's directions, and I hope to see by Christmas; but if I do not--"
Here she broke down entirely, and wringing her hands she cried, "Oh, brother--brother, must I be blind? I can't--I can't, for who will care for poor, blind, helpless Maude?"
"I, sister, I," and hushing his own great sorrow the crippled boy comforted the weeping girl just as she had once comforted him, when in the quiet graveyard he had lain him down in the long, rank grass and wished that he might die. "Pa's new wife will care for you, too," he said. "She's a beautiful woman, Maude, and a good one, I am sure, for she cried so hard over mother's grave, and her voice was so gentle when, just as though she had known our mother, she said, `Darling Matty, I will be kind to your children.'"
"Ah, that I will--I will," came faintly from the hall without, where Maude Glendower stood, her eyes riveted upon the upturned face of Maude, and her whole body swelling with emotion.
A sad heritage had been bequeathed to her--a crippled boy and a weak, blind girl; but in some respects she was a noble woman, and as she gazed upon the two she resolved that so long as she should live, so long should the helpless children of Matty Remington have a steadfast friend. Hearing her husband's voice below she glided down the stairs, leaving Louis and Maude really alone.
"Sister," said Louis, after a moment, "what of Mr. De Vere? Is he true to the last?"
"I have released him," answered Maude. "I am nothing to him now," and very calmly she proceeded to tell him of the night when she had said to Mr. De Vere, "My money is gone--my sight is going too, and I give you back your troth, making you free to marry another--Nellie, if you choose. She is better suited to you than I have ever been."
Though secretly pleased at her offering to give him up, J.C. made a show of resistance, but she had prevailed at last, and with the assurance that he should always esteem her highly, he consented to the breaking of the engagement, and the very, next afternoon, rode out with Nellie Kennedy.
"He will marry her, I think," Maude said, as she finished narrating the circumstances, and looking into her calm, unruffled face Louis felt sure that she had outlived her love for one who had proved himself as fickle as J.C. De Vere.
"And what of James?" he asked. "Is he still in New Orleans."
"He is," answered Maude. "He has a large wholesale establishment there, and as one of the partners is sick, he has taken his place for the winter. He wrote to his cousin often, bidding him spare no expense for me, and offering to pay the bills if J.C. was not able."
A while longer they conversed, and then they were summoned to supper, Mrs. Kennedy coming herself for Maude, who did not refuse to be assisted by her.
"The wind hurt my eyes--they will be better to-morrow," she said, and with her old sunny smile she greeted her stepfather, and then turned to Hannah and John, who had come in to see her.
But alas for the delusion! The morrow brought no improvement, neither the next day, nor the next, and as the world grew dim there crept into her heart a sense of utter desolation which neither the tender love of Maude Glendower nor yet the untiring devotion of Louis could in any degree dispel. All day would she sit opposite the window, her eyes fixed on the light with a longing, eager gaze, as if she feared that the next moment it might leave her forever.
Whatever he could do for her Louis did, going to her room each morning and arranging her dress and hair just as he knew she used to wear it. She would not suffer anyone else to do this for her, and in performing these little offices Louis felt that he was only repaying her in part for all she had done for him.
Christmas Eve came at last, and if she thought of what was once to have been on the morrow, she gave no outward token, and with her accustomed smile bade the family good-night. The next morning Louis went often to her door, and hearing no sound within fancied she was sleeping, until at last, as the clock struck nine, he ventured to go in. Maude was awake, and advancing to her side he bade her a "Merry Christmas," playfully chiding her the while for having slept so late. A wild, startled expression flashed over her face, as she said: "Late, Louis! Is it morning, then? I've watched so long to see the light?"
Louis did not understand her, and he answered, "Morning, yes. The sunshine is streaming into the room. Don't you see it? "
"Sunshine!" and Maude's lips quivered with fear, as springing from her pillow. she whispered faintly, "Lead me to the window."
