Mary pressed herself, with a sad anxiety, amongst the boughs in the corner, when Clement, flushed with delight, was placed opposite to her, and seized her hand. He had entreated to be allowed to see her first of all. At the same moment they loosed the coverings from their eyes. A cry of utter inexpressible joy rang from the boy's lips. He remained fixed on the same spot,--a glorified smile upon his face,--moving his bright eyeballs hither and thither. He had forgotten that Mary was to stand before him, and knew not as yet what the human form might be. She, too, did nothing to put him in mind of her. She stood, motionless, only lightly moving her eyelids, which overshadowed bright brown dead eyes. Yet they had no suspicion of the truth. "The wondrous things," they thought, "which seem so strange to her at first, have paralysed her for a time." But when the boy's delight broke loudly forth, they told him "That is Mary:" and he stretched out his hand towards her cheeks in his old manner, and said, "You have a bright face!" Then her tears flowed apace, she shook her head hastily, and said, hardly intelligibly, "It is still dark here! It is all as it used to be!" Who can describe the misery of the next few hours! The doctor, deeply affected, led her to a chair by the window, and examined her eyes. The thin grey film of the cataract which he had removed had not reappeared. Nothing distinguished the pupils from those of health but their lifeless sorrowful fixedness. "The nerve is paralysed," he said, "some sudden vehement light must have destroyed it." The sacristan's wife fainted, she fell pale as death in her husband's arms. Clement at first hardly understood what had happened. His soul was too full of its newly-gained existence. But Mary lay bathed in tears, and would answer none of the doctor's questions. Even later, they could learn nothing from her. "She did not know how it had happened. They must forgive her for having cried so childishly. She would bear all as it had been appointed. Had she ever known anything different?" When they had made Clement clearly understand the misfortune, he was beside himself, sprang towards her, and cried incessantly, "You _shall_ see too! I will have nothing more than you! Ah! now I know for the first time what you have lost! One does not see oneself; but all around have eyes, and look at us as if they loved us. And they shall look at you so too, only be patient and do not cry." And then he asked for the doctor, and rushed to him, beseeching him with tears to help Mary. The bright drops stood in the good man's eyes--he restrained himself with difficulty, and persuaded the boy to be tranquil; "he would see what could be done," and gave him hopes, in order to avoid an excitement which might be dangerous for him. He did not conceal the hopeless truth from the parents.