“I would rather talk,” said Harriet, turning the leaves of the book rapidly. “I do not believe that a poem will content me. A tale would be more enthralling. Still there are some beautiful passages, and I will try some of them. Here is one that is considered one of the finest in the poem. Father read it to me once.” With a voice rendered more expressive than usual by reason of her unwonted emotion Harriet read that wonderful and pathetic invocation to light with which the blind poet begins the third canto of his immortal poem: “‘Hail, holy Light, offspring of heaven first-born.’” She was fond of poetry, and fond also of reading it aloud; so that soon her attention was caught by the musical cadence of the verse. Peggy watched her, amazed at the transition that now took place. She who had been so agitated and anxious a few moments before was absorbed by the rhythm of the poem. Her eyes kindled; her cheeks flushed, and her accents became sonorous: “‘Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead and ever during dark Surrounds me——’ “Oh!” screamed the girl, suddenly letting the book fall to the floor as she pressed her hands to her eyes. “The dark! The dark!” “What is it?” cried Peggy running to her. “What is the matter, Harriet?” “Oh, I shall be blind! I shall be blind,” broke from Harriet in agonized tones. “I know I shall. It came to me just now. Oh, Peggy! Peggy!” “What a fancy!” cried Peggy giving her a little shake. “Thee is all upset, Harriet. Mother must give thee some Jesuits’ Bark.” “But I shall be,” moaned the girl. “I know that it will happen.” “Thy sight will dim with age, of course,” said Peggy in a matter-of-fact tone. “Just as mine will, and as mother’s hath already done. Then we will both wear bridge glasses, unless we use the spectacles with wire supports which Dr. Franklin hath invented. And thou wilt look at me over them; like this.” She tucked her chin down on her breast, and looked at her cousin so drolly that Harriet laughed through her tears. “That’s better,” approved Peggy. “Thine eyes are all right, Harriet. I see naught wrong with them save that they are much prettier than mine; which is not at all to my liking.” Again Harriet laughed, well pleased with the compliment. “I do believe that you are right, Peggy,” she said. “I am full of fancies. But oh! you don’t know how I felt for a few moments.” She shivered, and passed one hand lightly over her eyes. “I’ve read that passage often, but never before did it affect me so. I could see the dark, the ‘ever-during dark,’ about me; and it came to me that I should be blind.”