born blind? With the
loss of my sight I have become imbued with the gift of appreciation.
What is my inconvenience compared with the affliction of being
sightless from birth.

For thirty-six years I had become accustomed to sights of the world,
and now, though blind, I can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my
imagination can see it and take in the picture.

I can talk to my friends, knowing what they look like, and by their
conversation read the expression on their faces. I can hear the
traffic of a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise the scene.

I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and listen to the songs and
music, and understand what is going on without experiencing that
feeling of mystery and wonder which must be the lot of him who has
always been blind.

And the greatest gift of all, my sense of gratitude, that after
passing through death, I am alive!

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WOMAN WHO WAITS

THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING

Meanwhile, what was transpiring at home? What interpretation had been
put upon my absence?

Many weeks later, after my first letter had reached home like a
message from the dead, a post-card was handed to me from my father,
which seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. It was the first
message to arrive from the England I loved so much, and my home, which
I yearned for.

Letters from every member of my family were hastening towards me; but
all were delayed except the single post-card, which told me only too
plainly of the tragedy at home which was the result of my absence.

The message, written in a shaky hand, ran briefly, thus: "My son, for
four weeks we have mourned you as dead; God bless you!"

In the despair of my heart my blindness and my bonds of captivity
seemed to grow greater. In that simple message I realised the terrible
truth, the full significance of the tragedy which had followed my
fall.

What had been my suffering to theirs? After all I was a soldier, and
mine was a duty. But those who wait at home--what of them?

The letters which followed confirmed my worst fears. I trembled and
cried like a child.

How brave they had all been! How unworthy seemed my life to warrant
the heroic fortitude and silent suffering which these letters
unfolded! What were a few bullets compared with the pluck and silent
self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, who were untrained to bear
such shocks? What physical pain could