The way was dark.  I followed her white frock,
Past the now-chiming, sweet-tongued unseen clock,
Into the room.  One figure like a rock

Draped in an unstarred night—­his mother—­bowed
Unrising and unspeaking.  His aunt stood
And took my hand, murmuring, “So good, so good!”

Never such quiet people had I known. 
Voices they scarcely needed, they had grown
To talk less by the word than muted tone.

“We’ll soon have tea,” the girl said.  “Please sit here.” 
She pushed a heavy low deep-seated chair
I knew at once was his; and I sat there.

I could not look at them.  It seemed I made
Noise in that quietness.  I was afraid
To look or speak until the aunt’s voice said,

“You were his friend.”  And that “You were!” awoke
My sense, and nervousness found voice and spoke
Of what he had been, until a bullet broke

A too-brief friendship.  The rock-like mother kept
Night still around her.  The aunt silently wept,
And the girl into the screen’s low shadow stept.

“You were great friends,” said with calm voice the mother. 
I answered, “Never friend had such another.” 
Then the girl’s lips, “Nor sister such a brother.”

Her words were like a sounding pebble cast
Into a hollow silence; but at last
She moved and bending to my low chair passed

Swift leaf-like fingers o’er my face and said,
“You are not like him.”  And as she turned her head
Into full light beneath the lamp’s green shade

I saw the sunken spaces of her eyes. 
Then her face listening to my dumb surprise. 
“Forgive,” she said, “a blind girl’s liberties.”

“You were his friend; I wanted so to see
The friends my brother had.  Now let’s have tea.” 
She poured, and passed a cup and cakes to me.

“These are my cakes,” she smiled; and as I ate
She talked, and to the others cup and plate
Passed as they in their shadow and silence sat.

“Thanks, we are used to each other,” she said when I
Rose in the awkwardness of seeing, shy
Of helping and of watching helplessly.

And from the manner of their hands ’twas clear
They too were blind; but I knew they could hear
My pitiful thoughts as I sat aching there.

...  I needs must talk, until the girl was gone A while out of the room.  The lamp shone on, But the true light out of the room was gone.

“Rose loved him so!” her mother said, and sighed. 
“He was our eyes, he was our joy and pride,
And all that’s left is but to say he died.”

She ceased as Rose returned.  Then as before
We talked and paused until, “Tell me once more,
What was it he said?” And I told her once more.

She listened:  in her face was pride and pain
As in her mind’s eye near he stood and plain.... 
Then the thin leaves fell on my cheek again

And on my hands.  “He must have loved you well,”
She whispered, as her hands from my hands fell. 
Silence flowed back with thoughts unspeakable.