"Old man,"--it was Dr. Parkman now--"you get that? See what you've got ahead? God, man--but it was splendid! She came to me with the idea--_her_ idea--thought it all out herself. Karl was not happy--Karl must have his work. Karl--Karl--it was nothing but Karl. She was closer to him than any one in the world. She could make him see what others could not. Then _she_ would be his eyes. Man--do you know that this woman has fairly made over her soul for love of you? Do you know that she has given up becoming one of the great painters of the world to become your assistant? Do you get it, Karl? So help me God it was the pluckiest fight I've ever seen or heard of. And she's won! I'm no fool--and I say she can do what she says she can. She's ready. She's ready to begin to-morrow. What do you say, old man? What do you think of Ernestine now? Isn't she worth taking a good brace and living for?" And then he got it all; he was taking it in, rising to it, understanding, glowing. And a look that was very wonderful was growing upon Karl's face. "Ernestine," he whispered, dwelling long upon the name, his voice a voice of wonder, "you did that--for me?" "I did it because I love you so!" she whispered, and it seemed that surely death itself could not withstand the tenderness of it. And then his whole face became transfigured. His blind eyes were opened to the light of love. His illumined face reflected it as the supreme moment of his life. In that moment he triumphed over all powers set against him. He rose out of suffering on wings of glory. He transcended sorrow and tragedy, blindness--yes, in that moment, death. He saw behind the veil; he saw into the glory of a soul; he comprehended the wonder of love. Compensation for suffering and loss--understanding, victory, peace; it was the human face lighted with divine light. They did not dare to move or breathe as they looked upon the wonder of his face. "Ernestine--little one," he whispered, the light not going from his face--"you loved me--like that?" "You see, Karl,"--it was this must reach him--"what you have to live for now?" But he did not get that. He was filled with the wonder of that which he was seeing. "You see, old man," said Parkman, sharply, "what you've got ahead of you?" But he only murmured, happily, faintly, as one about to fall asleep: "She loved me--like that." It terrified her; it seemed, not as though the great idea were holding him, but as though he were taking it away with him, even as though well content to go, having this to take with him from life. "Karl--Karl!" she sobbed--"don't you _see _how I love you?--don't you see you _must _live now--for me?" But he had far transcended all sense of suffering or loss, even her suffering and loss. Her plea--she herself--could not reach him. He and the great idea were going away together. And that light did not leave his face.