“What I have done is a very common thing in Europe even among the best of people.”

“Do you mean selling your cast-off garments?”

“Why, Mrs. Flaxman, you have as poor an opinion of me as Mr. Winthrop.  I wonder what is the reason my friends have so little confidence in me?” I said, despairingly.

“But, dear, there is some mystery; and young ladies, outside of tragic stories, are expected to live lives of crystal clearness.”

“I will tell you, for fear you imagine I have done some terrible thing.  When we were in New York, I hunted up a picture-dealer and submitted a number of my sketches, that I had hidden away in my trunk, to him, and he consented to act as my agent.  For one good sized painting of Oaklands he has given me fifty dollars.  Perhaps that Mr. Bovyer bought it, I have felt afraid that he did; but any way the money will do good; be the indirect means of giving sight to one of Christ’s own followers.  All the afternoon, like the refrain of some beautiful melody, those words have been sounding in my ears:  ’Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’” Over my burning cheeks a few bitter tears were falling, while a mad desire seized me to leave Oaklands, and the cold, selfish life it imposed, and try in some purer air to live as conscience urged.  I walked to the farthest end of the long room without waiting for Mrs. Flaxman’s reply, and stood looking out into the bright moonlit air.  Far away I could see the moonbeams dimpling on the waters, making a long, shimmering pathway to the distant horizon, while in the frosty sky a few bold stars were shining, scarce dimmed by the moon’s brightness.  The thought came to me that, in a few weeks, Mr. Bowen might be thrilled by just such a vision of delight.  I turned abruptly to tell Mrs. Flaxman I could never go back to the old life of selfish ease, when such opportunities for helpfulness were given me, when I met her face to face.  She gave me a look I will never forget.

“Medoline, can you forgive me those unjust suspicions?”

“Yes, if you won’t interfere with my picture selling,” I said joyously.

“Hush!  Mr. Winthrop may hear you.  I think he is coming.  But you may sell all the pictures you can, only don’t speak of it now.”

Mr. Winthrop was waiting for us.  As he looked at me he said:—­“You seem to have more mental sunshine than your share—­your face is so bright.  Possibly you have been having a specially happy season with your bereaved ones.”

“With one of them I have been more than happy.”

“May I ask the name of this favored individual?”

“It is Mr. Bowen, the blind man.”

“Ah, then, you are finding the widowers most congenial.  They do not dissolve into tears so readily as the widows; and there may be other fascinations.  Really, I shall be compelled to forbid such intimacies.”

“He is going to New York to-morrow morning, with the expectation of having his sight restored, after being blind nearly twelve years.”