I will not prolong my story more than I can help; already it has far exceeded the limits I proposed to myself; but when the floodgates are opened, the tide rushes in. You can guess what followed; you can guess that I served Mr. Glaive for the sake of his daughter. In a short time he was a free man, and I was his only creditor. I grew to love Frances Glaive most passionately, and her father saw and encouraged my passion. My character underwent a wonderful change. Love transformed all things. Through Frances Glaive's innocence and artlessness the world became purified; through her beauty the world became beautiful to me. By simple contact with her nature all the bitterness in my nature was dissolved. The scales fell from my eyes, and I saw good even in things I had most despised. The days were brighter; the nights were sweeter. Life was worth having. Say that a man who had been born blind, and who had no knowledge of the beauties of nature, is suddenly blessed with vision; a new world is open to him, and he appreciates, with the most exquisite enjoyment and sensibility, the light and colour and graceful shapes by which for the first time he sees himself surrounded. The spring buds, the bright sunshine of summer, the russet tints of autumn, the pure snow with its myriad wonders, as it lies on the hills, as it floats in the air, as it fringes the bare branches--not alone these, but the tiniest insect, the smallest flower, are revelations to him. It was thus with me, and all the fresh feelings of youth came to me when I was a middle-aged man. CHAPTER XX. UNCLE BRYAN CONCLUDES HIS STORY. I became a frequent visitor at Mr. Glaive's house. Three or four times every week I spent my evenings there, and I was always welcomed with smiles and good words. Mr. Glaive and his daughter had never mingled in the gaieties of the city; neither had I. One night we were speaking of a concert that was to be given at the largest public hall in the city; a royal prince had promised his patronage, and Frances Glaive was eager to see him. 'I should like to go so much,' she said; 'I think I would give anything to go.' 'I would take you with pleasure,' said her father; 'but there are two obstacles. One is the expense--that could be got over, I daresay; but the other is insurmountable. The excitement would be too much for my heart.' His heart was a favourite theme with him; he was not to be troubled or irritated or excited because of it; he was to be petted and humoured because of it. It enabled him to live the life he loved best--a life of perfect indolence. The next time I visited them, I presented Frances Glaive with tickets for the concert. It required courage on my part, for it was the first step in a new direction. 'What am I to do with them?' she asked. 'You are very good, but I have no one to take me.' 'I was going to ask Mr. Glaive,' I said, 'if he would intrust you to my care.'