You first taught me how beautiful it was. I
told you of the tints upon the sky and upon
the sea, and upon the boats with their
glistening sails, and you set the view before
me in all its harmony and loveliness, brought
it home to my heart, and made me feel how
cold and insensible I had been before."

"Ah, Mary," said Edward mournfully,
"near you, I am no longer blind!"

The book she had been reading fell
unheeded on the ground, she trembled, her
colour went and came, as she laid her hand
timidly on his arm; indescribable tenderness,
reverence, and compassion were busy within
her soul.

"Edward, you will not change in anything
towards us; this new companion need not
estrange you from your oldest and dearest
friends—your mother's friends! Let me
always be your pupil, your friend, your—
sister!"

"Sustainer, consoler, guide! Sister above
all, oh yes, my sister! Best and sweetest
title—say it again, Mary, say it again!" and
seizing her hand he kissed it passionately,
and held it for a moment within his own.
Then as suddenly relinquishing it, he
continued in an altered tone, "My sister and
my friend, until another comes to claim a
higher privilege, and Mary shall be for ever
lost to me!"

She drew back, and a few inaudible words
died away upon her lips; he could not see
her appealing tearful eyes. Mistaking the
cause of her reserve, he made a strong effort
to regain composure.

"Do you remember when you were a child,
Mary, how ambitiously romantic you used to
be, and how you were determined to become
a duchess at least?"

"And how you used to tease me, by saying
you would only come to my castle disguised
as a wandering minstrel, and would never
sit at the board between me and the duke,
Edward? Yes, I remember it all very well,
foolish children that we were! But I, at
least, know better now; I am not ambitious
in that way any longer."

"In that way? In what direction then
do your aspirations tend?"

"To be loved," said Mary fervently; "to
be loved, Edward, with all the trust and
devotedness of which a noble nature is
susceptible—to know that the heart on which I
lean has no thought save for me—to be
certain that, with all my faults and waywardness,
I am loved for myself alone, not for—
for any little charm of face which people may
attribute to me."

Edward rose abruptly, and walked up and
down the room, which, from his long stay in
the house, had become familiar to him.
"Mary," he resumed, stopping as he drew
near her, "you do yourself injustice. The
face you set so little store by, must be
beautiful, as the index of your soul; I have
pictured you so often to myself; I have
coveted the blessing of sight, were it only for
an instant, that I might gaze upon you! The
dim form of my mother, as I last beheld her
in my infancy, floats before me when I think
of you, encircled with a halo of heavenly
light which I fancy to be your attribute, and
a radiance hovers round your golden tresses
such as gladdens our hearts in sunshine."

"Ah, Edward, it is better you cannot see
me as I am! You would not love—I mean
you would not think of me— so much!"

"If I could but see you for a moment as
you will look at the ball to-night, I fancy I
should never repine again."

"The ball to-night! I had quite forgotten
it; I wish mamma would not insist upon my
going. I do not care for these things any
longer;—you will be left alone, Edward, and
that seems so heartless and unkind!"

"Mary," said one of her sisters, opening
the library door, "look at these beautiful
hot-house flowers which have arrived here for
us. Come Edward, come and see them too."

They were so accustomed to treat him as
one of themselves, and were so used to his
aptitude in many ways, that they often did
not appear to remember he was blind.

The flowers were rare and beautiful, and
yet no donor's name accompanied the gift.
Suddenly one of the girls cried out laughingly,
"I have guessed, I have guessed. It is Edward!
He has heard us talking about this ball, and
must have ordered them on purpose for us.
Kind, good Edward!" and they were loud
in their expressions of delight; all except
Mary, who kept silently aloof.

"Mary does not like her flowers?" said
Edward inquiringly, turning in the direction
where she stood.

"No," she replied sorrowfully, "it is the
ball that I do not like, nor your thinking
about decking us out for it. As if I cared
to go!"

"Look at these lovely roses," said the
eldest sister, as they were selecting what each
should wear; "would not Mary look well
with a wreath of these roses in her hair?"

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Edward eagerly,
"and let me weave it for her! You know,
Mary, it is one of my accomplishments; you
were proud of my garlands when you were
a little girl. Will you trust my fingers for
the task?"

"If you really wish it, if it does not seem
too trifling, yes," said Mary gently, with a
troubled expression upon her brow usually so
serene, as she moved reluctantly away. "But
it must appear such mockery to you, poor
Edward!" and then, without waiting for a
reply, she hurried to her room, and did not
show herself again until the family assembled
for dinner; while Edward, seated between
the sisters who were in great delight in their
anticipation of the evening's amusements,
silently betook himself to his task.

Early after dinner, the large old-fashioned
drawing-room at Woodlands was deserted;