osphere of the home, and sincerely
regretted the comfortable, easy-going husband of yore.

For three whole years Frank lived untroubled, and then the questions
began to come.

"Am I blind, father? Why am I blind? Is it naughty to be blind?"

The baby child was easily appeased. Later on the questions would become
more insistent. Francis prepared himself for that hour. At four years
fleeting shadows began to pass over the boy's radiance. Alone with his
father, his face would pucker in thought.

"Shall I always be blind, father? I don't like to be blind. Was you
blind when you was a little boy?"

The knife turned in the father's heart at the sound of the innocent
words; but always the cloud loomed darker ahead. He trained himself
more zealously, in preparation for the hour when the boy would rebel!

But there were happy hours between, hours when the natural joy of
childhood filled the house with laughter, and father and son were
supremely happy in each other's society. No companion of his own age
was half as dear to the boy; no living creature stood for so much in the
father's heart. They read and studied together; they held long,
intimate conversation. They played games from which blind people are
usually debarred. Standing behind a hoop on the croquet lawn the father
would cry in a brisk, staccato voice, "Prank!" and on the instant the
boy's mallet would hit the ball, and send it in the direction indicated,
and proud and glad was Frankie to know that his aim was surer than that
of his sighted sisters. And every hour of contentment, every added
interest and occupation bestowed upon the boy, was as a salve to the
sore father heart. But at six years the inevitable rebellion began.

"Is he blind?" the boy would ask of a new acquaintance. "Can _he_ see,
too? _Everyone_ can see but me! ... _I_ want to run about like the
other fellows, and play cricket, and have some fun. It's dull all alone
in the dark. Can't you have me made better, father?"

At times he would cry; piteous, pitiful tears, but the sensitive ear was
quick to catch the distress in his father's voice, and he would offer
consolation in the midst of his grief. "Don't be sorry, father. I
don't want you to be sorry. It doesn't matter; really it doesn't. I
have a ripping time!"

Never for a moment did the boy hold his parents responsible for his
infirmity; but there came a day when he blamed his God.

"If God can do everything He lik