“I suppose I know,” she answered, “because God, who is very just, has given me a greater power of perception of some things than those who can see—a fuller sympathy. Tell me what is wrong, John—why you are sad?” He hesitated a moment; then very slowly, half timidly, he sank upon his knees. “This is why,” he answered, and his hungry lips almost kissed her hand. “I want something that I dare not ask for, and yet if it could be mine how I would love and cherish it! I want something—some one to work for, to make money for; some one to surround with adoration and comfort, but I dare not—I dare not say to her I love you, because——” He paused. She stretched out her hand and laid it unfalteringly upon his shoulder. “Because she is blind, John?” He covered her hand with his—then he covered it with kisses. “No, no! A thousand times no!” he answered. “Oh, Nora, you know I love you—want you—you know your blindness makes you all the dearer to me! But you don’t know me as others know me—you have never seen me. If—if you should give yourself to me, you would be giving yourself to an unknown man. I think you care for me—but——” “There is no but,” she interrupted. “I love you. As for knowing you, there is no one in the world I know so well. And today my mother has told me just what you are like—has so to speak, painted the picture of your every feature. I can look at you now with my mind’s eye—I am so glad, dear!” He put his arm round her; he drew her gently to him; he kissed her lips. “Little sweetheart!” he said. “Little wife to be! So your mother told you all? Are you sure you did not dislike the picture?” With her slender, sensitive fingers she touched his features, one by one, smiling, but a little puzzled. “Quite,” she answered; “and mother was right; your features are beautiful. Your skin is rough and rugged, different from mine—that is because you are a man, but you must not think”—one could scarcely believe she was not looking at the scarred face—“I love you for your beauty; I love you just because I love you—because I can’t help it. And I hope—I do hope, with all my heart—you will never regret your goodness in taking a blind girl to your heart—wanting her for your wife.” Chapter III. Many times during their short engagement something almost compelled John Le Strange to paint a word picture of himself as he really was, not as he knew she believed him to be; but, after all, is it necessary? She loved him, and, God knows, he loved her! She would never look upon his face; always to her he would be beautiful. So far as utter affection could, he would keep all sorrow from her, surround her with every comfort. She was more helpless than most women; would need all her life more care and cherishing. More than once he asked Mrs. Desmond if it would not be better to undeceive the girl. She, however, was emphatic in her negative.