“Come with me to the window and sit on a stool at my feet just as you used to do.”

Edith was surprised, and stammered out something about Grace’s being in the room.

“Never mind Mrs. Atherton,” he said, “I will attend to her by and by—­my business is now with you,” and he led her to the window, where Arthur had carried a stool.

Like lightning the truth flashed upon Grace, and with a nervous glance at the mirror to see how she herself was looking that afternoon, she stood motionless, while Richard dashing the shade to the floor, said to the startled Edith,

“The blind man would know how Petrea’s daughter looks.”

With a frightened shriek Edith covered up her face, and laying her head in its old resting place, Richard’s lap, exclaimed,

“No, no, oh no, Richard.  Please do not look at me now.  Help me, Arthur.  Don’t let him,” she continued, as she felt the strong hands removing her own by force.  But Arthur only replied by lifting up her head himself and holding in his own the struggling hands, while Richard examined a face seen now for the first time since its early babyhood.  Oh how scrutinisingly he scanned that face, with its brilliant black eyes, where tears were glittering like diamonds in the sunlight, its rich healthful bloom, its proudly curved lip, its dimpled chin and soft, round cheeks What did he think of it?  Did it meet his expectations?  Was the face he had known so long in his darkness as Edith’s, natural when seen by daylight?  Mingled there no shadow of disappointment in the reality?  Was Arthur’s Edith at all like Richard’s singing bird?  How Arthur wished he knew.  But Richard kept his own counsel, for a time at least.  He did not say what he thought of her.  He only kissed the lips beginning to quiver with something like a grieved expression that Arthur should hold her so long, kissed them twice, and with his hand wiped her tears away, saying playfully,

“’Tis too bad, Birdie, I know, but I’ve anticipated this hour so long.”

He had not called her Birdie before, and the familiar name compensated for all the pain which Edith had suffered when she saw those strangely black eyes fastened upon her, and knew that they could see.  Springing to her feet the moment, she was released, she jumped into his lap in her old impetuous way, and winding her arms around his neck, sobbed out,

“I am so glad, Richard, so glad.  You can’t begin to guess how glad, and I’ve prayed for this every night and every day, Arthur and I. Didn’t we, Arthur?  Dear, dear Richard.  I love you so much.”

“What he make mam-ma cry for?” asked a childish voice from the comer where little Dick stood, half frightened at what he saw, his tiny fist doubled ready to do battle for mother in case he should make up his mind that her rights were invaded.