rs. But she left them with me,
and, in a voice in which I could detect a tear, said:--

"Well, matey, if yer can't see, yer can feel. Let's give yer a kiss."

I nodded assent, and then I received the first kiss from a woman's lips
that I had had since I left home--and then she passed away, but the
memory of that kiss remains, and will remain while life lasts.

I was now taken to St. George's Hospital, and from there to No. 2 London
General Hospital (old St. Mark's College), Chelsea. In this institution
I met for the first time one of the geniuses of the present age, a man
who spent his life working not with clay or marble, or wood or metal,
but with human beings, taking the derelicts of life and moulding them
into useful vessels--Sir Arthur Pearson, a true miracle worker, a man
who has given the equivalent of eyes to hundreds of blind people, who
has enabled many men who felt themselves down and out to face life's
battle bravely, teaching them to look upon their affliction as nothing
more than a petty handicap. A few years ago, as everyone knows, Sir
Arthur was one of the leading journalists and publishers in the British
Empire, the true founder of Imperial journalism. At the summit of his
career, while still a comparatively young man, he was smitten with
blindness. He would not let a thing like that beat him; he conquered
blindness, and set himself to help others to conquer it. He soon became
the leading spirit in the education of the blind in Great Britain, and,
despite his handicap, was elected President of the National Institute
for the Blind, and was the guiding star in many organizations
established to aid the sightless. When war broke out his success as an
organizer, his power as a teacher, caused the authorities to choose him
to look after the blinded of the Army and Navy.

[Illustration: Sir Arthur Pearson]

My meeting with Sir Arthur occurred in the following manner. The ward
door was open--I knew that by the gentle breeze that swept across my
cot. Suddenly, from the direction of the door, a cheery voice exclaimed:
"Are any new men here? Where's Rawlinson?"

I answered: "Right here, sir! But who are you?"

"Well, Rawlinson, and how are you getting along? When do they figure on
letting you get away from here? You know, we are waiting for you at St.
Dunstan's."

I knew then that the man standing by my cot was the famous Sir Arthur. I
shook hands with him, and thanked him for his kindly interest in asking