ss, alone, swept away. And she was blind.

All the way across the Middle West, across the great plains, Mary
Warren had been able to see somewhat. Perhaps it was the
knitting--hour after hour of it, in spite of all, done in sheer
self-defense. But at the western edge of the great Plains, it had
come--what she had dreaded. Both eyes were gone! Since then she had
not seen at all, and having in mind her long warning, accepted her
blindness as a permanent thing.

She passed now through a world of blackness. She could not see the man
who had written those letters to her. She could catch only the wine of
a high, clean air, the breath of pine trees, the feeling of space,
appreciable even by the blind.

Suddenly she began to sob. Sim Gage by now had somewhat quieted his
wild team, and he looked at her, his face puckered into a perturbed
frown.

"Now, now," he said, "don't you take on, little woman." He was abashed
at his daring, but himself felt almost like tears, as things now were.
"It'll all come right. Don't you worry none. Don't be scared of these
horses a-tall, ma'am; I can handle 'em all right. We got to see that
doctor."

But when presently they had driven the half mile to the village, he
learned that the doctor was not in town.

"We can't do anything," said she. "Drive on--we'll go. I don't think
the doctor could help me very much."

All the time she knew she had in part been lying to him. It was not
merely a cinder in her eye--this was a helpless blindness, a permanent
thing. The retina of each eye now was ruined, gone. So she had been
warned. Again she reached out her hand in spite of all to touch his
arm. He remained silent. She cruelly misunderstood him.

At last she turned fully towards him, and spoke suddenly. "Listen!"
said she. "I believe you're a good man. I'll not deceive you."

"God knows I ain't no good man," said Sim Gage suddenly, "and God knows
I'm sorry I deceived you like I have. But I'll take care of you until
you can do something better, and until you want to go back home."

"Home?" she said. "I haven't any home. I tell you I've deceived you.
I'm sorry--oh, it's all so terrible."

"It shore is," said Sim Gage. "I didn't really write them letters--but
it's my fault you're here. You can blame me fer everything. Why,
almost I was a notion never to come near this here place this morning.
I felt guilty, like I'd shot somebody--I didn't know. I feel that way
now.