she said, with a gentle pressure on his
fingers. "I can smell the woods and feel the air soft as a caress. I
can't see the buds bursting, or the new, pale-green leaves, but I know
what it is like. Sometimes I think that beauty is a feeling, instead
of a fact. Perhaps if I could see it as well as feel it--still, the
birds wouldn't sing more sweetly if I could see them there swaying on
the little branches, would they, Bob?"

There was a wistfulness, but only a shadow of regret in her tone. And
there were no shadows on the fresh, young face she turned to
Hollister. He bent to kiss that sweet mouth, and he was again thankful
that she had no sight to be offended by his devastated features. His
lips, unsightly as they were, had power to stir her. She blushed and
hid her face against his coat.

They found a dry log to sit upon, a great tree trunk cast by a storm
above high-water mark. Now and then a motor whirred by, but for the
most part the drive lay silent, a winding ribbon of asphalt between
the sea and the wooded heights of Point Grey. English Bay sparkled
between them and the city. Beyond the purple smoke-haze driven inland
by the west wind rose the white crests of the Capilanos, an Alpine
background to the seaboard town. Hollister could hear the whine of
sawmills, the rumble of trolley cars, the clang of steel in a great
shipyard,--and the tide whispering on wet sands at his feet, the birds
twittering among the budding alders. And far as his eyes could reach
along the coast there lifted enormous, saw-toothed mountains. They
stood out against a sapphire sky with extraordinary vividness, with
remarkable brilliancy of color, with an austere dignity.

Hollister put his arm around the girl. She nestled close to him. A
little sigh escaped her lips.

"What is it, Doris?"

"I was just remembering how I lay awake last night," she said,
"thinking, thinking until my brain seemed like some sort of machine
that would run on and on grinding out thoughts till I was worn out."

"What about?" he asked.

"About you and myself," she said simply. "About what is ahead of us. I
think I was a little bit afraid."

"Of me?"

"Oh, no," she tightened her grip on his hand. "I can't imagine myself
being afraid of _you_. I like you too much. But--but--well, I was
thinking of myself, really; of myself in relation to you. I couldn't
help seeing myself as a handicap. I could see you beginning to chafe
finally under the burden of a blind wi