In the course of her study of Milton, Annie had come upon Samson's lamentation over his blindness; and had found, soon after, the passage in which Milton, in his own person, bewails the loss of light. The thought that she would read them to Tibbie Dyster was a natural one. She borrowed the volumes from Mrs Forbes; and, the next evening, made her way to Tibbie's cottage, where she was welcomed as usual by her gruff voice of gratefulness. "Ye're a gude bairn to come a' this gait through the snaw to see an auld blin' body like me. It's dingin' on (snowing or raining)--is na 't, bairn?" "Ay is't. Hoo do ye ken, Tibbie?" "I dinna ken hoo I ken. I was na sure. The snaw maks unco little din, ye see. It comes doon like the speerit himsel' upo' quaiet herts." "Did ye ever see, Tibbie?" asked Annie, after a pause. "Na; nae that I min' upo'. I was but twa year auld, my mither used to tell fowk, whan I had the pock, an' it jist closed up my een for ever--i' this warl, ye ken. I s' see some day as weel's ony o' ye, lass." "Do ye ken what licht is, Tibbie?" said Annie, whom Milton had set meditating on Tibbie's physical in relation to her mental condition. "Ay, weel eneuch," answered Tibbie, with a touch of indignation at the imputed ignorance. "What for no? What gars ye spier?" "Ow! I jist wanted to ken." "Hoo could I no ken? Disna the Saviour say: 'I am the licht o' the warl?'--He that walketh in Him maun ken what licht is, lassie. Syne ye hae the licht in yersel--in yer ain hert; an' ye maun ken what it is. Ye canna mistak' it." Annie was neither able nor willing to enter into an argument on the matter, although she was not satisfied. She would rather think than dispute about it. So she changed the subject in a measure. "Did ye ever hear o' John Milton, Tibbie?" she asked. "Ow! ay. He was blin' like mysel,' wasna he?" "Ay, was he. I hae been readin' a heap o' his poetry." "Eh! I wad richt weel like to hear a bittie o' 't." "Weel, here's a bit 'at he made as gin Samson was sayin' o' 't, till himsel' like, efter they had pitten oot's een--the Phillisteens, ye ken." "Ay, I ken weel eneuch. Read it." Annie read the well-known passage. Tibbie listened to the end, without word of remark or question, her face turned towards the reader, and her sightless balls rolling under their closed lids. When Annie's voice ceased, she said, after a little reflection: "Ay! ay! It's bonnie, an' verra true. And, puir man! it was waur for him nor for me and Milton; for it was a' his ain wyte; and it was no to be expecket he cud be sae quaiet as anither. But he had no richt to queston the ways o' the Maker. But it's bonnie, rael bonnie." "Noo, I'll jist read to ye what Milton says aboot his ain blin'ness. But it's some ill to unnerstan'." "Maybe I'll unnerstan' 't better nor you, bairn. Read awa'." So admonished, Annie read. Tibbie fidgeted about on her seat. It was impossible either should understand it. And the proper names were a great puzzle to them.