Richard and Edith

It would be impossible to describe the deep pathos of Edith's
voice as she uttered the last three words. Love, admiration,
compassion and pity, all were blended in the tone, and it is not
strange that it touched an answering chord in the heart of the
"poor blind man." Slowly the broad chest heaved, and tears, the
first he had shed since the fearful morning when they led him into
the sunlight he felt but could not see, moistened his lashes, and
dropped upon his face.

"He's dreaming a bad dream," Edith said, and with her little
chubby hand she brushed his tears away, cautiously, lest she
should rouse him from his slumbers.

Softly she put back from the white forehead his glossy hair,
taking her own round comb to subdue an obdurate look, while he was
sure that the fingers made more than one pilgrimage to the lips as
the little barber found moisture necessary to her task.

"There, Mr. Blindman, you look real nice," she said, with an
immense amount of satisfaction, as she stepped back, the better to
inspect the whole effect. "I'll bet you'll wonder who's been here
when you wake up, but I shan't tell you now. Maybe, though, I'll
come again to-morrow," and placing the bouquet in his hands, she
ran away.

Pausing for a moment, and looking back, she saw Richard again
raise to his lips her bouquet, and with a palpitating heart, as
she thought, "what if he wern't asleep after all!" she ran on
until Brier Hill was reached.