“I wanted to see it so bad,” continued the woman, tremulously, “that something just drove me here to this paper. I knowed it was here because my nephew's wife brought me here one day and we come across it. We took this paper at home for more 'an twenty years. That's why I come. 'Twas the closest I could get.” “I know what you mean,” said the girl again, unsteadily. “And it's the closest I will ever get!” sobbed the woman. “Oh, don't say that,” protested the girl, brushing away her own tears, and trying to smile; “you'll go back home some day.” The woman shook her head. “And if I should,” she said, “even if I should, 'twill be too late.” “But it couldn't be too late,” insisted the girl. “The mountains, you know, will be there forever.” “The mountains will be there forever,” repeated the woman, musingly; “yes, but not for me to see.” There was a pause. “You see,”--she said it quietly--“I'm going blind.” The girl took a quick step backward, then stretched out two impulsive hands. “Oh, no, no you're not! Why--the doctors, you know, they do everything now.” The woman shook her head. “That's what I thought when I come here. That's why I come. But I saw the biggest doctor of them all today--they all say he's the best there is--and he said right out 'twas no use to do anything. He said 'twas--hopeless.” Her voice broke on that word. “You see,” she hurried on, “I wouldn't care so much, seems like I wouldn't care 't all, if I could get there first! If I could see the sun go down behind them just one night! If I could see the black shadows come slippin' over 'em just once! And then, if just one morning--just once!--I could get up and see the sunlight come a streamin'--oh, you know how it looks! You know what 'tis I want to see!” “Yes; but why can't you? Why not? You won't go--your eyesight will last until you get back home, won't it?” “But I can't go back home; not now.” “Why not?” demanded the girl. “Why can't you go home?” “Why, there ain't no money, my dear,” she explained, patiently. “It's a long way off--Colorado is, and there ain't no money. Now, George--George is my brother-in-law--he got me the money to come; but you see it took it all to come here, and to pay them doctors with. And George--he ain't rich, and it pinched him hard for me to come--he says I'll have to wait until he gets money laid up again, and--well he can't tell just when 't will be. He'll send it soon as he gets it,” she hastened to add. “But what are you going to do in the meantime? It would cost less to get you home than to keep you here.” “No, I stay with my nephew here. He's willin' I should stay with him till I get my money to go home.” “Yes, but this nephew, can't he get you the money? Doesn't he know,” she insisted, heatedly, “what it means to you?”