“John,” she said, a tremble in her voice, “dear John, don’t be angry with me—I know you’ve been put to trouble—trouble and expense, but—I’m a coward, dear—the doctor said it would be painful; I can’t”—she almost sobbed now—“I can’t face the operation!” He held her from him for a minute; no inkling of the truth entered his mind. Then he snatched her to his heart. Was he wicked, selfish, to be so glad? “Not to face it!” he returned. “But think, Nora, just a little pain, or even a great deal, and then to see! To see,” he said the words bravely, “to see baby!” She trembled from head to foot. Oh, to see—to see! “Yes, I know,” she answered. “I have wanted to, but after all, you have been my eyes—such good eyes, John—and I’m not brave at bearing pain. You’re not vexed with me?” “No, darling—no; but think, think again.” “I have thought;” she answered, “and I can’t risk it. You must thank the doctor, and tell him I’m afraid. John, I don’t seem selfish to you because I won’t bear pain—because I must be your blind wife, and baby’s blind mother always?” “No,” he whispered. Was he selfish, wicked, that so great a glow of joy pervaded his whole being? “But, dearest, to be blind all your life, when you might see!” She lifted her lips and kissed him—kissed the scarred cheek, the beautiful eyes. “I don’t mind,” she answered. “Why should I, John, when the most beautiful thing in the world is blind?” “The most beautiful thing?” [Illustration] A BRAVE WOMAN’S DEVOTION A WEIRD STORY FULL OF PATHOS SETTING FORTH THE DEVOTION OF A NATIVE HEROINE BY A NATIVE HAWAIIAN WRITTEN FOR ALEXANDER’S MAGAZINE Three riders came out of the woods, and, turning into the road leading from Napoopoo to the uplands, slowly began the ascent. As they went up, the long plains, reaching from the forest covered heights of Mauna Loa to the ocean, seemed to grow broader, and the sea rose higher, till the far away horizon almost touched the sinking sun. Lanes of glassy water stretched from the shore into illimitable distance. A ship lying motionless looked as if hanging in mid-air. Under the cliff the delicate lines of cocoanut and palm trees were silhouetted against the ocean mirror. Far to the south ran the black and frowning coast, relieved here and there by white lines or foam creeping lazily in from the ocean, only to look darker as the surf melted from sight. On the plain, little clusters of trees, or a house, or a thin curl of smoke, indicated the presence of men; and back of all rose the forest, vast, dim and mysterious, stretching away for miles till lost in the clouds resting softly on the bosom of the mountain. Such a scene could not fail to arrest attention, and, though our riders were tired, they reined in their horses to enjoy its quiet beauty. “What a wonderful scene! I have been through Europe, feasted my eyes on the Alps, and have seen the finest that America can produce, but I never saw its equal,” said the tourist.