“I smell the pond lilies; we must he near Silverton,” he said, and a sigh escaped his lips as he thought of coming home and not being able to see it or the woods and fields around it.  “Thy will be done,” he had said many times since the fear first crept into his heart that for him the light had faded.

But now, when home was almost reached, and he began to breathe the air from the New England hills and the perfume of the New England lilies, the flesh rebelled again, and he cried out within himself:  “Oh, I cannot be blind!  God will not deal thus by me!” while keen as the cut of a sharpened knife was the pang with which he thought of Katy, and wondered would she care if he were blind.

Just then the long train stopped at Silverton, and, led by his attendant, he stepped feebly into the crowd, which sent up deafening cheers for Dr. Grant come home again.  At the sight of his helplessness, however, a feeling of awe fell upon them, and whispering to each other, “I did not suppose he was so bad,” they pressed around him, offering their hands and inquiring anxiously how he was.

“I have been sick, but I shall get better now.  The very sound of your friendly voices does me good, even though I cannot see you distinctly,” he said, as he went slowly to his carriage, led now by Uncle Ephraim, who could not keep back his tears as he saw how weak Morris was, panting for breath as he leaned back among the cushions.

It was very pleasant that afternoon, and Morris enjoyed the drive so much, assuring Uncle Ephraim that he was growing better every moment.  He did seem stronger when at last the carriage stopped at Linwood, and his step was more rapid as he went up the steps where Helen, Katy and Mrs. Hull were waiting for him.  He could not see them sufficiently to distinguish one from the other, but even without the aid of her voice he would have known when Katy’s hand was put in his, it was so small, so soft, and trembled so as he held it.  Her cap had been worn for nothing, nor did she think of it in her sorrow at finding him so helpless.  Pity was the strongest feeling of which she was conscious, and it manifested itself in various ways.

“Let me lead you, Cousin Morris,” she said, as she saw him groping his way to his room, and without waiting for his reply, she held his hand again in hers and led him to his room, where the sweet English violets were.

“I used to lead you, Katy,” Morris said, as he took his seat by the window, “and I little thought then that you would one day return the compliment.  It is very hard to be blind.”

The tone of his voice was inexpressibly sad, but his smile was as cheerful as ever as his face turned toward Katy, who could not answer for her tears.  It seemed so terrible to see a strong man so stricken, and that strong man Morris—­terrible to watch him in his helplessness, trying to appear as of old, so as to cast on others no part of the shadow resting so darkly on himself.  When dinner was over and the sun began to decline, many of his former friends came in, but he looked so pale and weary that they did not tarry long, and when the last one was gone, Morris was led back to his room, which he did not leave again until the summer was over and the luscious fruits of September were ripening upon the trees.