s your whole
heart, I am glad he exists, because we all miss something unless we
have in our lives the wonderful experience of the One Woman or the One
Man. And I want to tell you something, dear sweet friend of mine, which
closely touches you and me; only, before I do so, put your hand in
mine, that I may realise you in a closer intimacy than heretofore. You,
who have been in Sightless Land, know how much a hand clasp means down
here."

Garth stretched his hand across the table, and his whole attitude was
tense with expectation.

"I cannot do that, Mr. Dalmain," said Nurse Rosemary, in a voice which
shook a little. "I have burned my hands. Oh, not seriously. Do not look
so distressed. Just a lighted match. Yes; while I was blind. Now tell
me the thing which touches you and me."

Garth withdrew his hand and clasped both around his knee. He leaned
back in his chair, his face turned upwards. There was upon it an
expression so pure, the exaltation of a spirit so lifted above the
temptations of the lower nature, that Jane's eyes filled with tears as
she looked at him. She realised what his love for her, supplemented by
the discipline of suffering, had done for her lover.

He began to speak softly, not turning towards her. "Tell me," he said,
"is he--very much to you?"

Jane's eyes could not leave the dear face and figure in the chair.
Jane's emotion trembled in Nurse Rosemary's voice.

"He is all the world to me," she said.

"Does he love you as you deserve to be loved?"

Jane bent and laid her lips on the table where his outstretched hand
had rested. Then Nurse Rosemary answered: "He loved me far, FAR more
than I ever deserved."

"Why do you say 'loved'? Is not 'loves' the truer tense?"

"Alas, no!" said Nurse Rosemary, brokenly; "for I fear I have lost his
love by my own mistrust of it and my own wrong-doing."

"Never!" said Garth. "'Love never faileth.' It may for a time appear to
be dead, even buried. But the Easter morn soon dawns, and lo, Love
ariseth! Love grieved, is like a bird with wet wings. It cannot fly; it
cannot rise. It hops about upon the ground, chirping anxiously. But
every flutter shakes away more drops; every moment in the sunshine is
drying the tiny feathers; and very soon it soars to the tree top, all
the better for the bath, which seemed to have robbed it of the power to
rise."

"Ah,--if my beloved could but dry his wings," murmured Nurse Rosemary.
"But I fear I did more than wet them