"Why it has been a delight to me, dear; if only it hasn't hurt you. But it is time now to go down where it is dark." "Yes," he assented wearily; "it is time now to go down where it is dark." CHAPTER XVIII TELLING ERNESTINE He had thought to tell her on Tuesday, but after their talk, when he took his last look at her pictures--it had tortured both eyes and heart to do that, but he knew in the days ahead that he would be unsatisfied with having passed it by--he could not bring himself then to do it. He could not keep it from her long now, but she was so happy that day in her triumph about the picture. He was going to darken all of her days to come; he would leave her this one more unclouded. But it was hard for him to go through with it. He longed for her so! He must have her help. He had asked for the pictures before telling her just because he knew it would be unbearable for them both, if she did know. It would need to be done in that casual way or not at all. It was strange how he felt he must see them. It was his longing to keep close to her. He could not bear the thought that his blindness might make him to her as something apart from life, even though the dearest thing of all. He must enter into every channel of her life. It was Wednesday now, and he had told her. All the night before he had lain awake trying to think of words which would hurt her the least. He would put it very tenderly to his poor Ernestine. He would even pretend he saw some way ahead, something to do. Ernestine could not bear it unless he did that. It was the one thing which remained for him now--to make it easy for her. This was firmly fixed in his mind when he told her that morning he wanted to talk to her about something and asked her to come into the library. He was sure he had himself well in hand; the words were upon his lips. And then when he said: "I want to tell you something, dear--something that will hurt you very much. I never wanted to hurt you; I can not help it now,"--when he had said that, and she, with quick response to the sorrow in his voice, had knelt beside him, her arms about his neck, something,--the feel of her arms, the knowing there was some one now to help him--swept away the words and his broken-hearted cry had been: "Oh, sweetheart--help me! I'm going blind!"