But the boy's sorrow seemed to have comforted Mary. She sat still by the window, and called him gently to her. "You must not be so sorry," she said, "it all comes from God. Be happy, as I am happy, that you are cured. You know already that I never wished very much for it. And now I should be quite contented if it did not grieve my parents so. But they will grow used to it, and you too, and so it will be as well--if you only love me as you used to do--that I remain as I was." He would not be comforted, and the doctor insisted on the children being separated. They took Clement down into the large room below, where the people from the village pressed around him. They shook his hand, one after another, and spoke kindly words; but the crowd stupified him. He only said, "Do you know yet that Mary is blind still?" and then began to weep afresh. It was high time to replace the bandage and to take him to a cool and quiet room. There he lay down, exhausted with joy, sorrow, and weeping. His father spoke gently and piously to him, which did him but little good; even in his sleep he wept, and seemed to dream painfully. But on the following day, curiosity, desire for information, and astonishment asserted their rights, and his sorrow for Mary only appeared when he happened to see her. He visited her in the early morning and asked her whether she had not altered or got better during the night. But then the bright world that opened itself before him claimed all his attention, and when he returned to Mary it was only to tell her of some new wonder, often checking himself in the midst of his rapid narration, as a glance at his poor little friend reminded him what pain his joy must cost her. But, in truth, it did _not_ cause her much pain; she wanted nothing for herself; to hear him talk so enthusiastically was pleasure enough for her. But when he began to come more rarely, fancying that he made her sad, or was silent because all other interests vanished before the one on which he did not dare to speak, she became uneasy; formerly she had seldom been separated from him during the day, now she was much alone. Her mother, indeed, often came to sit with her; but the cheerfulness of the once lively woman had departed, since her darling hopes had been so rudely crushed; she could say nothing to her child but mere words of comfort which her own heavy sighs belied, and which could be but of little use to Mary. How much of what she now suffered had she foreseen? and yet the sense of separation gave her inexpressible pain.