steadfastly closed. The light terrified her. It penetrated her delicate
lids, and gave her pain. When for a moment she lifted her lashes and saw
the trees, she put out her hand as if to push them away; and when she
saw the sky, she raised her arms as if to hold it off. Everything seemed
to touch her eyes. The bars of sunlight seemed to smite them. Not until
the falling of darkness did her fears subside and her spirits revive.
Throughout the day that followed she sat constantly in the gloom of the
blackest corner of their hut.

But this was only her baptism of light on coming out of a world of
darkness, just as her fear of the voices of the earth and air had been
her baptism of sound on coming out of a land of silence. Within three
days afterwards her terror began to give place to joy; and from that
time forward the world was full of wonder to her opened eyes. Then
sweet and beautiful, beyond all dreams of fancy, were her amazement and
delight in every little thing that lay about her--the grass, the weeds,
the poorest flower that blew, even the rude implements of the house and
the common stones that worked up through the mould--all old and familiar
to her fingers, but new and strange to her eyes, and marvellous as if an
angel out of heaven had dropped them down to her.

For many days after the coming of her sight she continued to recognise
everything by touch and sound. Thus one morning early in their life in
the cottage, and early also in the day, after Israel had kissed her on
the eyelids to awaken her, and she had opened them and gazed up at him
as he stooped above her, she looked puzzled for an instant, being still
in the mists of sleep, and only when she had closed her eyes again, and
put out her hand to touch him, did her face brighten with recognition
and her lips utter his name. "My father," she murmured, "my father."

Thus again, the same day, not an hour afterwards, she came running back
to the house from the grass bank in front of it, holding a flower in her
hand, and asking a world of hot questions concerning it in her broken,
lisping, pretty speech. Why had no one told her that there were flowers
that could see? Here was one which while she looked upon it had opened
its beautiful eye and laughed at her. "What is it?" she asked; "what is
it?"

"A daisy, my child," Israel answered.

"A daisy!" she cried in bewilderment; and during the short hush and
quick inspiration that followed she closed her eyes and