“My little Huldah—­my daughter, can you see me?”

She stooped, put her face close to his, swept her small fingers repeatedly over the emaciated features, to convince herself of the identity of the new sensation of sight with the old and reliable sense of touch; then she threw her head back with a wild laugh, a scream of delight.

“Oh!  I see!  Thank God I see my father’s face!  My dear pa! my own dear pa!”

For some moments she hung over the sufferer, kissing him, murmuring brokenly her happy, tender words, and now and then resorting to the old sense of touch.

While Edna wiped away tears of joyful sympathy which she strove in vain to restrain, she glanced at Mr. Murray, and wondered how he could stand there watching the scene with such bright, dry eyes.

Seeming suddenly to remember that there were other countenances in the world beside that tear-stained one on the pillow, Huldah slipped down from the cot, turned toward the group, and shaded her eyes with her fingers.

“Oh, Edna! a’n’t you glad for me?  Where are you?  I knew Jesus would hear me.  ’What things soever ye desire, when ye pray believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.’  I did believe, and I see!  I see!  I prayed that God would send down some angel to touch my eyes, and He sent Mr. Murray and the doctor.”

After a pause, during which the oculist prepared some bandages, Huldah added: 

“Which one is Mr. Murray?  Will you, please, come to me?  My ears and my fingers know you, but my eyes don’t.”

He stepped forward and putting out her hands she grasped his, and turned her untutored eyes upon him.  Before he could suspect her design she fell at his feet, threw her arms around his knees, and exclaimed: 

“How good you are!  How shall I ever thank you enough?  How good.”  She clung to him and sobbed hysterically.

Edna saw him lift her from the floor and put her back beside her father, while the doctor bandaged her eyes; and waiting to hear no more, the orphan glided away and hurried along the road.

Ere she had proceeded far, she heard the quick trot of the horses, the roll of the carriage.  Leaning out as they overtook her, Mr. Murray directed the driver to stop, and swinging open the door, he stepped out and approached her.

“The doctor dines at Le Bocage; will you take a seat with us, or do you, as usual, prefer to walk alone?”

“Thank you, sir; I am not going home now.  I shall walk on.”

He bowed, and was turning away, but she drew the delicately perfumed envelope from her pocket.

“Mr. Murray, I was requested by the writer to hand you this note, as she feared its predecessor was lost by the servant to whom she entrusted it.”

He took it, glanced at the small, cramped, school-girlish handwriting, smiled, and thrust it into his vest pocket, saying in a low, earnest tone: 

“This is, indeed, a joyful surprise.  You are certainly more reliable than Henry.  Accept my cordial thanks, which I have not time to reiterate.  I generally prefer to owe my happiness entirely to Gertrude; but in this instance I can bear to receive it through the medium of your hands.  As you are so prompt and trusty, I may trouble you to carry my answer.”