and they turned their poor sightless eyes to the light, as if that were to them the symbol of the heaven they longed to reach. It was too sad. The singing ceased, and we all tried to speak of something else. “How did you get that Indian picture?” I asked, looking round, and as the words left my lips, I reproached myself for speaking to one who could not see it, of a thing that could have no present interest to him. But I had made no mistake, as it chanced. “Ay, my brother brought it me,” he answered. “I know what you mean.” “It is painted on ivory, is it not?” “Oh no! this is a picture; my sister wears the one on ivory for a brooch, though it is rather large for that, maybe; but my brother brought them. He was at Agra during the mutiny, and he brought a ball in his shoulder, too, back—that’s what he brought; but I’d forgotten the picture till you mentioned it. But will you hear the children read now? Read the history of England, Abraham.” And Abraham read, opening the book at hazard, and reading clearly and distinctly the death of Cœur de Lion, his forgiveness of his enemy, and his burial in Fontevrault in token of his deep repentance. The children all listened with pleasure till one little one, the pet of the flock, whimpered because “Bessie” did not read; so Bessie, whose fingers were busy with her knitting, was compelled to read, although coming after Abraham it was rather a trying ordeal. Still the pet had to be satisfied, and then every one went on with their straw work, for the funds of the home are dependent on charity or the sale of work, as friends visiting Worcester will do wisely to remember. Straw mats, baskets, and balls were the work of the little ones, and they took the keenest interest in the question whether I preferred blue and white mats, or purple and white. I bought both, and shook hands all round, and in a few minutes was retreading my way towards the broad rolling Severn. Never did I feel how intense the joy of sight was as I did when I stood by its silver stream, and thought of those I had just left in the little house near the railway bridge. THE FOOTPATH. OUT at the doorway with shrill delight Ringing, clear of alloy, After a butterfly flashing so white As it wheels and floats in the soft sunlight, He darts, O adventurous joy! Away! the fields are waving, the wheat Stands proudly over the path, The path winds onward, winning his feet Through avenues arched and shady and sweet,— Sweet vista that childhood hath. But stay: the butterfly has upflown High in the stainless blue; Under the shadowing wheat alone, He stands and wonders, still as a stone, For all the world is new. He sees each beautiful stem, blue-green, Standing alone in its grace, Great pendulous poppies aflame between, And little convolvulus climbing to screen That dim forest world from his face.