"Because we did not know the world--and I _will_ know it at all risks! I suffered myself to be pleased with groping about in the dark with you, and being obliged to do nothing, but not always! Often, when my father taught us history, and told us about heroes and bold deeds, I asked him if any of them had been blind? But whoever had done anything great could see. And then I often plagued myself all day long with thoughts about it. Then when I played on the spinet, or was allowed to play on the organ, in your father's place, I forgot my uneasiness for a time; but when it came back, I thought, 'Must you always play the organ, and go the few hundred paces up and down the village that you know; and must no one out of the village ever know you; and must none ever name you after you are dead?' Look you, Mary,--since the doctor has been at the castle, I hope that I yet may become a perfect man; and then I will go out into the world and take the path that pleases me, and I shall have nothing to ask any one!" "And not me, Clement?" She said it uncomplainingly and without reproach. But the boy answered vehemently, "Sister Mary, do not talk such nonsense--I cannot bear it! Do you think that I would leave you alone at home and steal away amongst strangers? Do you not trust me?" "I know well what happens when young men go from the village to the town, or on their wanderings, no one goes with them, not even their own sisters. And here too, even before they are grown up, the boys run away from the little girls and go into the woods with each other, and mock the girls when they meet them. Till now they have left you and me together, and we played and learned with each other. You were blind like me--what did you want with the other boys? But when you can see, and want to sit in the house with me, they will laugh at you, as they do at everyone who won't go with them. And then--then you will go quite away for a long, long time, and I had grown so accustomed to be with you." She had spoken the last words with difficulty; then her sorrow overcame her and she sobbed aloud. Clement drew her closely to him, stroked her cheek, and said entreatingly, "You _must_ not cry! I will never go away from you! never! never! rather than do that I will remain blind and forget everything. I _will_ not leave you if it makes you cry. Come, be calm, be cheerful. You should not heat yourself, the doctor said, because it is so bad for your eyes, darling, darling Mary!" He pressed her closer in his arms and kissed her for the first time in his life. His mother called to him from the neighbouring parsonage-house. He led the still weeping girl to an arm-chair by the wall, let her sink gently into it and hastened out.