his knees. " We will go to bed now; tread
softly, wife—softly," he said, as together
they moved away.

But when the door was closed, and all was
still, then, in the darkness and the silence,
large tears began to steal through the closed
lids of Berthalde's eyes; for she had heard all
that which their love would strive to keep
from her. She had had many fears of late:
her father had seemed changed, and sorrowful;
and longing to know what thing it was that
grieved him, she thought it no sin to listen.
Now that she did know the child could only
weep, and sob sorrowfully to herself:

"O, that I could do anything to help them!
O, that I could work! O, that I was not
blind!"

Berthalde was so patient and so gentle, that
she could feel no deep or keen regret for the
loss of that which yet had made her life
almost a blank to her. Others thought that
she had grown accustomed to blindness; that
she had forgotten what it was to see. But
that was the one sweet memory of her life;
sweet, yet full of a wild, deep sadness,
unutterably beautiful, as is the memory of a
glorious dream, too beautiful to have been. Often
in the long, silent nights she lay awake, and
thought of it, weeping then when she was all
alone, as she was weeping now to-night; but
to-night another, and a different thought was
in her heart. A thought which many a time
had risen there before; but never with the
strength and bitterness that it did now; for, as
she lay awake, she thought that there was
not one thing in all the world that she could
ever do to help or comfort any one she loved.
That she must be all through her life until
she was quite old, a burden upon every one—
a useless, helpless, solitary thing, not giving
joy to any, nor feeling joy herself. Thinking
this, the poor child longed to die; and shivering,
drew up the bedclothes round her, hiding
her face beneath them, that the bitter sobs
which burst from her might not be heard
breaking the silence of the night. For in
this hour there seemed no comfort near her;
all dark without, within it seemed as dark;
the love that had been poured upon her
through so many years was all forgotten now,
she could not feel that she was loved; her
whole heart seemed to have room in it only
for one thought—that she was an encumbrance
upon the earth.

Piercing through the richly painted window
of a dim old church the winter's sun
threw on the marble pavement of the
nave bright rays of coloured light, making
the gloom on either side seem deeper still.
From the altars, waxen tapers shed on the
gold and silver plate around, on the gay
vases filled with flowers, and on the rich,
gold-embroidered dresses of the priests, a
sudden radiance.

In the open space without the rails of
the High Altar many people knelt; for it
was a festival to-day, and Mass was being
performed. There was a daily mass, but then
the people were so much absorbed in their
worldly occupations that the mass was often
solemnised on week-days to empty walls. A
child had slowly and softly threaded her way
across the nave to take up her station alone at
the foot of one particular pillar in the chancel.
Daily, for hours together, she sat in the same
spot, as still as if she were a little marble
emblem. Few noticed her, and few came near
her, for the pillar stood in deep shade, and
she was almost hidden when she sat beneath
it. It was a dark and gloomy seat, but the
most cheerful spot in all the church would
have been as dark to poor Berthalde.

To-day there were marks of tears upon her
cheeks. Still she waited patiently to hear
the glorious voice of the organ, which always
spoke to her. It seemed of all the things
upon earth the most beautiful. She thought
it never would begin to play to-day. But at
last she heard the first low swelling notes; and,
as she listened, drinking in the rich, heart-
filling sound, all sorrow seemed to pass away,
all earthly things seemed to be forgotten. As
the exquisite music crept around her—now
soft, faint, and low, now loud and deep, rolling
wave upon wave along the great groined
aisles—she knelt and hid her face, weeping.
Her heart trembled with a strange, wild,
half-understood delight that only cathedral
music afforded her.

Never had the grand and solemn music
seemed more grand and solemn than it did
to-day. As the rich tones of the organ filled
the solemn space around her, and the soft
voices of the choristers rang through the
dimly-lighted aisles, and as one solitary voice
filled the great echoing church with its clear
tones, the blind girl bowed her head upon
her hands, trembling with a wild, almost
painful joy, that seemed to take her breath
away. So shaken was she with emotion,
that the thin slight fingers scarcely served
to hide her tears. Even when the last
notes had quite died away; when the last
lingering footsteps had left the church, she
knelt on, as if still, in the silent air, she
heard an echo of the song that to all other
ears had passed away. Presently two light
quick footsteps gaily tripped along the marble
floor, and the sound of merry voices and
half-suppressed laughter, roused her from her
dream. She crouched upon the step at
the pillar's base, thinking to wait there until
the footsteps had gone past. But suddenly
they stopped quite close to her, and a bright
young voice exclaimed—

"Oh, see how stupid I have been! I have
come down without my music. Margaret,
you must wait for me one minute, till I run
back for it. They are closing the organ.
I shall be scarcely in time! " and with the last
words, leaving her companion, the girl ran
quickly towards the choir.

"They are some of the singers!" Berthalde