Richard and Edith

On Richard's darkened pathway, there WAS now a glimmer of
daylight, shed by Edith Hastings' visit, and with a vague hope
that she might come again, he on the morrow groped his way to the
summer house, and taking the seat where he sat the previous day,
he waited and listened for the footstep on the grass which should
tell him she was near. Nor did he wait long ere Edith came
tripping down the walk, bringing the bouquet which Grace had
prepared with so much care.

"Hist!" dropped involuntarily from her lips, when she descried
him, sitting just where she had, without knowing why, expected she
should find him, and her footfall so light that none save the
blind could have detected it.

To Richard there was something half amusing, half ridiculous in
the conduct of the capricious child, and for the sake of knowing
what she would do, he professed to be ignorant of her presence,
and leaning back against the lattice, pretended to be asleep,
while Edith came so near that he could hear her low breathing as
she stood still to watch him. Nothing could please her more than
his present attitude, for with his large bright eyes shut she
dared to look at him as much and as long she chose.

He was to her
now a kind of divinity, which she worshipped for the sake of the
Swedish baby rescued from a watery grave, and she longed to wind
her arms around his neck and tell him how she loved him for that
act; but she dared not, and she contented herself with whispering
softly, "If I wasn't so spunky and ugly, I'd pray every night that
God would make you see again. Poor blind man."