our is her hair, Aunty?" she asked, as she blotted and turned
her first neat page.

"A good deal the colour of that old copper tea-kettle that a woman paid
six dollars for once, do you remember? I've always thought she was
crazy, for she wouldn't even let me clean it."

"And her eyes?"

"Brown and big, with long lashes. She looks well enough, and her voice
is pleasant, and I must say she has nice ways. She didn't make me feel
like a peddler, as so many of them do. P'raps she'll come," admitted
Miriam, grudgingly.

"Oh, I hope so. I'd love to see her and her pretty clothes, even if she
didn't buy anything." Barbara threw back a golden braid impatiently,
wishing it were copper-coloured and had smooth, shiny waves in it,
instead of fluffing out like an undeserved halo.

While Barbara was writing, her father came in and sat down near her.
"More sewing, dear?" he asked, wistfully.

[Sidenote: Writing Letters]

"No, Daddy, not this time. I'm just writing letters."

"I didn't know you ever got any letters--do you?"

"Oh, yes--sometimes. The people at the hotel come up to call once in a
while, you know, and after they go away, Aunt Miriam and I occasionally
exchange letters with them. It's nice to get letters."

The old man's face changed. "Are you lonely, dear?"

"Lonely?" repeated Barbara, laughing; "why I don't even know what the
word means. I have you and my books and my sewing and these letters to
write, and I can sit in the window and nod to people who go by--how
could I be lonely, Daddy?"

"I want you to be happy, dear."

"So I am," returned the girl, trying hard to make her voice even. "With
you, and everything a girl could want, why shouldn't I be happy?"

Miriam went out, closing the door quietly, and the blind man drew his
chair very near to Barbara.

[Sidenote: Dreaming]

"I dream," he said, "and I keep on dreaming that you can walk and I can
see. What do you suppose it means? I never dreamed it before."

"We all have dreams, Daddy. I've had the same one very often ever since
I was a little child. It's about a tower made of cologne bottles, with a
cupola of lovely glass arches, built on the white sand by the blue sea.
Inside is a winding stairway hung with tapestries, leading to the cupola
where the golden bells are. There are lovely rooms on every floor, and
you can stop wherever you please."

"It sounds like a song," he mused.

"Perhaps it is. Can't you make one of it?"

"No--we each have