over her large clear brown passive eyes. No suspicions were
awakened yet. "Those unknown wonders of sight are strange to her," they
said. But when the boy broke out into this sadden rapture, and they
said to him, "This is Marlene," and in his old way he had felt for her
cheek with his hand, and stroked it, saying, "Your face is bright;"
then her tears gushed out. She hastily shook her head, and said, almost
inaudibly--"It is all dark; it is just as it always was!"

The horror of that first moment who shall describe? The agitated doctor
drew her towards the window, and proceeded to examine her eyes; the
pupils were not to be distinguished from seeing ones, save by their
lifeless melancholy fixedness. "The nerve is dead!" he said; "some
sadden shock, or vivid light must have destroyed it." The sexton's wife
tamed white, and fell fainting in her husband's arms. Clement could
hardly gather what was passing--his mind was filled with the new life
given him. But Marlene lay bathed in tears, and returned no answer to
the doctor's questions. Nothing was ever learned from her; she could
not tell how it had happened, she said; she begged to be forgiven
for her childish weeping. She could bear all that was appointed for
her--she had never known a happier lot.

Clement was beside himself when the extent of her misfortune was made
known to him. "You shall see too!" he cried, running to her; "I do not
care to see if you do not! It cannot be so hopeless yet. Ah, now I know
what it is you lose! Seeing would be nothing; it is that everybody else
has eyes, that look so kindly on us--and so shall you see them look on
you! Only have patience, and do not cry!" And then he turned to the
doctor, and with tears, implored him to cure Marlene. Large tears stood
in the good doctor's eyes; he could scarcely so far compose himself as
to bid the boy first be careful of himself; meanwhile he would see what
could be done; he was forced to leave him a ray of hope to spare him
dangerous agitation.

From the disconsolate parents, however, he did not withhold the truth.

The boy's grief had been some comfort to Marlene. As she was sitting by
the window she called him to her: "You must not be so grieved," she
said; "it is the will of God. Rejoice, as I rejoice, that you are
cured. You know I never cared so much; I could have been contented as
it was. If only father and mother would not mind!--but they will get
used to it again, and so will you. If you w