LEONA: A BLIND MAN'S STORY.

I

HAD not been blind from my birth. Sitting alone in the utter darkness, my closed eyes could make pictures. I could call back glories of nature and glories of art, blue sky, and wind-swept fields; and, above all, dear faces-faces whose very memory lightened my nighttime-my father, my gentle mother, my young, dark-eyed brother. There was another, too, not of our blood, whose face I saw oftener than any. This was strange, for Leona Ashland, the daughter of my mother's most intimate friend, was but a child of ten, six years younger than myself. She was very dear to me, however. She had been in and out of our house as familiarly as a daughter. She was the pet of every one save me; but, child as she was, my own feeling for her was too tender and reverent to admit of gay familiarity. I had never heard any one call her beautiful, but to me her face always seemed that of an angel. I used to tremble lest, some day of summer, God should give her wings, and we should see her no more forever-her features, framed in those long brown curls, seemed so spiritual, so delicate. When I looked into her thoughtful eyes, at school or at church, life seemed a holier, a more earnest thing. But the time came when I could see them no longer.

For fifteen years the world had been visible to me,

with its beauty, its mystery, its romance. Then darkness began to steal gradually over me. It was a whole year before the last ray of light had faded. I was stone-blind at sixteen. I was thankful that it was not a sudden stroke. Day after day I had sought in vain for some cherished object of vision. Once it had been the blue range of the far-off hills; again the familiar outline of a distant tree. After a time the darkness came nearer. Day after day some tender grace would fade out from a beloved face, and I could only reproduce it in my fancy. At length I seemed to dwell in a world of shadows. Shapes, whose dim outline I could only faintly catch, floated by me; but still I could tell day from night; still heaven's blessed light was welcome. But what shall I say of the anguish of desolation when the last ray was gone-when they told me the midday sun was shining clear and bright, and I, alas! sat in blindest, deepest midnight! no light, no hope?

I had so much to give up. It was not alone the joy of sight, the dear faces, the beautiful world, but all my high hopes, my plans for the future, my ambition, my pride. I had meant to be a student. I had had visions of fame. There were months of stormy, surging discontent before I could settle calmly down to my destiny. I secluded myself even from those dearest to me on earth. The very sound of their voices maddened me, for it made more intense the longing to look upon their faces. Day after day I sat alone in my room, where I had besought them not to come to

me.

Sometimes my mother, who loved me more than ever in my sorrow and my helplessness, would steal

into the room, and sit for an hour beside me in silence. She was so still I could scarcely hear her breathe; but I knew that at these times she wept much. Once, in an irresistible impulse of maternal tenderness, she folded her arms around me, and drew my head to her bosom. "Oh, my child!" she cried; "my dear child, be comforted! Believe that there is something left in life, or this blow will kill us both."

But my rebellious spirit would not struggle with its despair, even though I felt that it was breaking my mother's heart.

Once-and I think this did me more good than any thing-Leona came to me. She had so long entreated to see me that at length my mother consented. She came in alone. I knew her footstep as soon as it crossed the threshold, but I did not speak. She came to my side. She laid her hand-her little child's hand -upon mine. I knew, as well as if I had seen it, the sorrowful pity with which her eyes were lifted to my face. She seemed striving to gather self-command enough to speak calmly. At length, low and quiet, yet earnest, her words fell upon my ear:

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This is the passage Mr. 'Like as a father pitieth

Oh, Mr. Allen, the rector says God knows just what is best for every one. He is our father, and he does not love to make us sorry. Green told me to say to you: his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'" Her childish voice had deepened into a thrilling energy as she recited the words of inspiration. Then she turned to leave me; but I detained her. Already she had comforted me.

"How came Mr. Green to tell you to say that to me?” I asked.

"You are not vexed, Mr. Allen?"

"No, I am grateful. I only wished to know how it happened."

“He was at our house last night, and he spoke of you. He pitied you very much; but he said you had a great deal left in life yet, if you would not be in despair. After a while mother went out of the room, and I told him you had been very good to me, and I wanted to tell you something to make you feel better. Then he said I might repeat that verse to you. Does it do you good?"

"Much good, blessed child! Your words have helped me more than you can ever know.”

She left me then. I did not strive to keep her. I felt the need of solitude to receive reverently the light, brighter than earthly dawning, which was rising upon my spirit. Her words had thrilled me as if they had dropped downward from some angel's lips, leaning from the far watch-towers of the celestial city. "A great deal left for me yet in life!" And, as I repeated those words, my blessings seemed to rise up before me and reproach me. For me Agur's prayer had been answered. I had neither poverty nor riches; but a competence was mine in my own right, which would secure me against want. I had health and strength, and many friends. The paths about our little village were all familiar to me. I could traverse them without a guide ; I could feel the free winds sweep my brow; I could inhale the sweet breath of the flowers; I could hear the beloved voices of home. Verily, God had not forsaken me. I had been willfully shutting his mercies out of my heart. I knelt now, and thanked him for what had been left-prayed him to teach me to bear patiently the loss of what had been taken.

When the bell rang for supper, I rose, and went quietly down stairs. They gave no noisy greeting to the son who had not sat beside them there since the spring flowers had blossomed, though now the summer lay green and luxuriant upon hill and woodland. But I understood my father's welcome-the unuttered tenderness which deepened my mother's voice-the eager grasp in which my brother Richard held my hand. I found my plate and my chair in their old place. After that, I never secluded myself from them again.

When supper was over, I went out to go to evening prayers at the church. I had not thought I could ever go there again. I had dwelt morbidly on the curiosity with which the congregation would look at me. I never thought of that now. God had opened the eyes of my spirit. I went there to thank Him for this great mercy. I had never before been so deeply thrilled with the church music. Hearing seemed to me like a new sense. Through it, I drank in deep draughts of pleasure. I had sat in the choir; and, when prayers were over, I entreated the organist to play for me again. Soon we became fast friends. I think that my enthu siasm pleased him, for twilight after twilight found us alone in the church, with only the little boy who blew the bellows-John Cunningham playing, and I listening and dreaming.

But I soon felt-I think an intuitive sense of power revealed it to me that the organist was no artist. Sometimes I longed to sweep him off the stool, and interpret with my own fingers the music that was in my soul. This idea that I could be a musician dawned upon me slowly; but day by day the sense of strengthened.

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