Edith was growing excited.  It reminded her of blind man’s buff; and she bent her head to elude the hand which came so near entangling itself in her hair.  Again a profound silence ensued, and thinking it might have been a fancy of his brain that some one was there with him, poor blind Richard Harrington sat down within the arbor, where the pleasant September sunshine, stealing through the thick vine leaves, fell in dancing circles upon his broad white brow, above which his jet black hair lay in rings.  He was a tall, dark, handsome man, with a singular cast of countenance, and Edith felt that she had never seen anything so grand, so noble, and yet so helpless as the man sitting there before her.  She knew now that he was blind, and she was almost glad that it was so, for had it been otherwise she would never have dared to scan him as she was doing now.  She would not for the world have met the flash of those keen black eyes, had they not been sightless, and she quailed even now, when they were bent upon her, although she knew their glance was meaningless.  It seemed to her so terrible to be blind, and she wondered why he should care to have his house and grounds so handsome when he could not see them.  Still she was pleased that they were so, for there was a singular fitness, she thought, between this splendid man and his surroundings.

“I wish he had a little girl like me to lead him and be good to him,” was her next mental comment, and the wild idea crossed her brain that possibly Mrs. Atherton would let her come up to Collingwood and be his waiting maid.  This brought to mind a second time the object of her being there now, and she began to devise the best plan for delivering the bouquet.  “I don’t believe he cares for the compliments,” she said to herself, “any way, I’ll keep them till another time,” but the flowers; how should she give those to him?  She was beginning to be very much afraid of the figure sitting there so silently, and at last mustering all her courage, she gave a preliminary cough, which started him to his feet, and as his tall form towered above her she felt her fears come back, and scarcely knowing what she was doing she thrust the bouquet into his hand, saying as she did so, “Poor blind man, I am so sorry and I’ve brought you some nice flowers.”

The next moment she was gone, and Richard heard the patter of her feet far up the gravelled walk ere he had recovered from his surprise.  Who was she, and why had she remembered him?  The voice was very, very sweet, thrilling him with a strange melody, which carried him back to a summer sunset years ago, when on the banks of the blue Rhine he had listened to a beautiful, dark-eyed Swede singing her infant daughter to sleep.  Then the river itself appeared before him, cold and grey with the November frosts, and on its agitated surface he saw a little dimpled hand disappearing from view, while the shriek of the dark-eyed Swede told that her child was gone.