st 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."

He complied with her request, watching her curiously, as she laid
both hands in the warm sunshine, which bathed her fair, round arms
and shone upon her raven hair. She felt what she could not see, and
Louis Kennedy ne'er forgot the agonized expression of the white,
beautiful face which turned toward him as the wretched Maude moaned
piteously, "Yes, brother, 'tis morning to you, but dark, dark night
to me. I'm blind! oh, I'm blind!"

She did not faint, she did not shriek, but she stood there rigid and
immovable, her countenance giving fearful token of the terrible
storm within. She was battling fiercely with her fate, and until
twice repeated, she did not hear the childish voice which said to
her pleadingly, "Don't look so, sister. You frighten me, and there
may be some hope yet."

"Hope," she repeated bitterly, turning her sightless eyes toward
him, "there is no hope but death."

"Maude," and Louis' voice was like a plaintive harp, so mournful was
its tone, "Maude, once in the very spot where mother is lying now,
you said because I was a cripple you would love me all the more. You
have kept that promise well, my sister. You have been all the world
to me, and now that you are blind I, too, will love you more. I will
be your light--your eyes, and when James De Vere comes back--"

"No, no, no," moaned Maude, sinking upon the floor. "Nobody will
care for me. No