"Because I like you," he replied; "you remind me, too, of a dear little sister of mine, whom I love very tenderly. Poor unfortunate Alice! Your lot is happier than hers." "What makes _me_ happier?" asked Helen, thinking that one who had so kind a brother ought to be happy. "She is blind," he replied, "she never saw one ray of light." "Oh! how dreadful!" cried Helen, "to live all the time in the dark! Oh! I should be afraid to live at all!" "I said you were happier, Helen; but I recall my words. She is not afraid, though all the time midnight shadows surround her. A sweet smile usually rests upon her face, and her step is light and springy as the grasshopper's leap." "But it must be so dreadful to be blind!" repeated Helen. "How I do pity her!" "It is a great misfortune, one of the greatest that can be inflicted upon a human being--but she does not murmur. She confides in the love of those around her, and feels as if their eyes were her own. Were I to ask her to walk over burning coals, she would put her hand in mine, to lead her, so entire is her trust, so undoubting is her faith." "How I wish I could be like her!" said Helen, in a tone of deep humility. "You are like her at this moment, for you have gone where you believed great danger was lurking, trusting in my promise of protection and safety,--trusting in me, who am almost a stranger to you." Helen's heart glowed within her at his approving words, and she rejoiced more than ever that she had obeyed his will. Her sympathies were painfully awakened for the blind child, and she asked him a thousand questions, which he answered with unwearied patience. She repeated over and over again the sweet name of Alice, and wished it were hers, instead of Helen. At the great double gate, that opened into the wood-yard, Arthur left her, and she hastened on, proud of the victory she had obtained over herself. Mittie was standing in the back door; as Helen came up the steps, she pointed in derision at her soiled and disordered dress. "I couldn't help it," said Helen, trying to pass her, "I fell down." "Oh! what nice strawberries!" exclaimed Mittie, "and so many of them. Give me some." "Don't touch them, Mittie--they are for mother," cried Helen, spreading her hand over the top of the bucket, as Mittie seized the handle and jerked it towards her. "You little, stingy thing, I _will_ have some," cried Mittie, plunging her hand in the midst of them, while the sweet wild flowers which Arthur's hand had scattered over them, and the shining leaves with which he had bordered them, all fell on the steps. Helen felt as if scalding water were pouring into her veins, and in her passion she lifted her hand to strike her, when a hollow cough, issuing from her mother's room, arrested her. She remembered, too, what the young doctor had said, "that it was harder to keep from doing wrong, than to do what was right."