“You have seen my poor old trousseau. But it was the finest that could be had here in those days. Sis and I did most of the sewing—or rather sis did it. That was the custom then. And she cried more than I did over it, and was more pale and shaky at the ceremony. She was my bridesmaid. But we all lived happily together afterward. I think sis was more happy than either Hiliary or me. And she was more of a wife to him than I was; more of a mother to my babies than I was. It seemed more her vocation than mine. The only unhappy thing about it—the only terrible thing in all our lives—was when we came home so happy, with a miniature of us that we had painted in Philadelphia for her, to have sis led out of the dark parlor with a black bandage over her eyes and to be told that she was—blind! “_Blind!_ I remember now how she put her hands all over my face and said that she could _feel_ the happiness—and not to cry. But she didn’t want to touch Hiliary. He had come in laughing and calling for her first. For, as I told you, she had been the happy one—not I! “When _he_ saw her, he just held her hands as if he had turned to stone, and the tears ran down his face—the first I had ever seen him shed. And then he kissed her. He had never kissed her before, though I wouldn’t have minded it. Those were greater times for kissing than these. “‘She must never go away from us,’ he said to me in an entire change of voice. In fact, whenever he spoke to her after that it was so. ‘And nothing must ever mar her happiness. She is ours.’ “Of course we were all crying, no one could speak another word—so that there was nothing to do but put our arms about her—and keep her—and make her happy—which we did—didn’t we, sis?” “Yes,” whispered the blind one. Then fell a long pause in which three minds travelled back to that beautiful old time and lived its happiness over again. “It is very funny—what the blind can do if they like. Sis would darn the stockings, nurse the babies, teach them their lessons, tie Hiliary’s stock better than he could, or I, feel in his pocket to see whether he had always a handkerchief, do _everything_ for him—and let _me_ go gadding. It was the very luckiest thing for Hiliary that she never married. For it took both of us to be a wife to him—and sis was more than her share of her. “And,” ended the frail one, “we are very thankful—for we have had everything we wanted. Only, when Hiliary died, my heart would have broken except for sis, for you know sis is brave, oh, sis is _very_ brave—braver than I!” “Yes,” I echoed, “sis is very brave—braver than you!” I looked at the blind one; and I am sure that she knew what I was thinking. Her face was still turned to her plate. But high on the cheeks a flush mounted, as I looked, which might be guilt—or something else. And I fancied a tear under each eyelid which she dare not shed nor wipe away. Poor sis!