And the face of the other one was flushed, too. But I knew very certainly that meant joy. For her beautiful dark eyes looked straightly and happily into mine. Yet—there were tears there, too! And so you see that the saying of the dear old lady is once more proven true. People cry for joy. I reached across the table, scattering the teacups as I went, and took a hand of each. “A beautiful story,” I said. “It is the first time,” said she, happily, who had told it so badly. “I didn’t think I could tell a story. But somehow I was just carried along.” “It shall never be told again,” I said, “unless you permit it.” But I pressed the hand of the blind one, slowly, gently, until her head drooped a little further and she responded: “Not until we are both dead.” I have kept the faith. They are both dead. And I will not put into printed words the thoughts of my mind. I will not spoil the story of the dear old ladies by making it orderly and conventional. For fifty years the frail one had believed in the mystery of it—had even seen God in it. A miracle! How unquestioning was faith then! How simple was she! But I may tell you what I see, here, as I write. First, that other one, with sudden understanding turning the coin, like an accomplished palmist! Then again, stealing down the stairs in her white night garments, after her sister, and hearing that prayer of agony—then back—for that money—all prepared—because of the earlier prayers—but halting—then, finally, to bed, like a wraith, pretending sleep, having made the supreme sacrifice of her small life. And I can see her the next day, swearing that prim-faced old banker, in his dusty office, to eternal silence and untruth—an oath he kept with faith. I wish I might _not_ see her putting aside forever that trousseau—the wedding journey—the little hoard. For these meant that _she_ had been _sure_ of Hiliary. And, perhaps, that she and her sister were afterward to part for _her_ wedded happiness. Was it not best as it happened? And those sobs—I do not like to hear them—so terrible as to deprive her of her sight. The while she had to think of _them_ in the light and she forever in the dark. And alone! Alone! But it is good to know—is it not?—that they truly lived happy ever after—that the end of all was joy? That she lived with him she loved and who loved her all the rest of his life—in the sound of his voice—in the touch of his hands—in all the gentleness of him—all the more intimately in that she was blind? For she might touch him then as she pleased—and it was his duty to protect her—sometimes he might kiss her. For you will remember that the other one did not mind. And that those were greater times for kissing than these.