"You've talked to me so much about not telling you any terrible things," said she, with a troubled look, "that you've made me like a candle under a bushel, instead of a light upon a hill-top. I've never told such stories since, as I used to tell when the first Mrs. Gleason was alive, and I spun in the nursery all the evening, and little Helen was the only one to listen to what I had to say. There was something in the child's eyes that kept me going, for they grew brighter and larger every word I said." Helen looked up, and met the glance of the young doctor, riveted upon her with so much pity and earnestness, she looked down again with a blending of gratitude and shame. She well knew that, notwithstanding her reason now taught her the folly and madness of her superstitious terrors, the impressions of her early childhood were burnt into her memory and never could be entirely obliterated. "I remember a story about a blind child, which I heard myself, when a little girl," said Miss Thusa, "and if I should live to the age of Methuselah, I never should forget it. I don't know why it stayed with me so long, for it has nothing terrific in it, but it comes to me many a time when I'm not thinking of it, like an old tune, heard long, long ago. "Once there was a woman who had an only child, a daughter, whose name was Lily. The woman prayed at the birth of the child that it might be the most beautiful creature that ever the sun shone upon, and she prayed, too, that it might be good, but because she prayed for beauty before goodness, it was accounted to her as a sin. The child grew, and as long as it was a babe in the arms, they never knew that the eyes, which gave so much light to others, took none back again. The mother prayed again, that her child might see, no matter how ugly she might become, no matter how dull and dim her eyes, let them but have the gift of sight. But Lily walked in a cloud, from the cradle to the time when the love-locks began to curl round her forehead, and her cheeks would flush up when the young men told her she was beautiful. When it was sunlight, her mother watched her every step she took, for fear she would get into danger, but she never thought of watching her by night, for she said the _angels took care of her then_. Lily had a little bed of her own, right by the window, for she told her mother she loved to feel the moon shining on her eye-lids, making a sort of faintish glimmer, as it were.