Her stepmother's evident preference for Maude had greatly offended
the selfish Nellie, who coldly answered, "Don't trouble yourself,
madam. It's not of the least consequence. But where is my father? He
will welcome me, I am sure."
The feeling too often existing between stepmothers and stepdaughters
had sprung into life, and henceforth the intercourse of Maude
Glendower and Nellie Kennedy would be marked with studied
politeness, and nothing more. But the former did not care. So long
as her eye could feast itself upon the face and form of Maude
Remington she was content, and as Nellie left the room she wound her
arm around the comparatively helpless girl, saying, "Let me take you
to your brother."
Although unwilling, usually, to be led, Maude yielded now, and
suffered herself to be conducted to the chamber where Louis watched
for her coming. She could see enough to know there was a change, and
clasping her companion's hand she said, "I am surely indebted to you
for this surprise."
"Maude, Maude!" and the tones of Louis' voice trembled with joy, as
stretching his arms toward her, he cried, "You can see."
Guided more by the sound than by actual vision, Maude flew like
lightning to his side, and kneeling before him hid her face in his
lap, while he bent fondly over her, beseeching her to say if she
could see. It was a most touching sight, and drawing near, Maude
Glendower mingled her tears with those of the unfortunate children
on whom affliction had laid her heavy hand.
Maude Remington was naturally of a hopeful nature, and though she
had passed through many an hour of anguish, and had rebelled against
the fearful doom which seemed to be approaching, she did not yet
despair. She still saw a little--could discern colors and forms, and
could tell one person from another. "I shall be better by and by,"
she said, when assured by the sound of retreating footsteps that
they were alone. "I am following implicitly the doctor's directions,
and I hope to see by Christmas; but if I do not--"
Here she broke down entirely, and wringing her hands she cried, "Oh,
brother--brother, must I be blind? I can't--I can't, for who will
care for poor, blind, helpless Maude?"
"I, sister, I," and hushing his own great sorrow the crippled boy
comforted the weeping girl just as she had once comforted him, when
in the quiet graveyard he had lain him down in the long, rank grass
and wished that he might die. "Pa's new wife will care for you,
too," he said. "She's a beautiful woman, Maude, and a good one, I am
sure, for she cried so hard over mother's grave, and her voice was
so gentle when, just as though she had known our mother, she said,
`Darling Matty, I will be kind to your children.'"