"He was a wonderful-looking man, tall and straight; and his voice--I don't know how to describe it. It was clear and deep, like the sound of a big bell.... But I don't think it was any of these things that most appealed to Anne Blakeslie. It was his helplessness, his pitiful blindness. She talked to me about it quite often that fall. I knew by that time that there was no hope--I mean that I knew, by then, that she loved this stranger, and she said I was the only person she could talk freely to. Her father was a hard man, and she the only child.... She told me, at last, that she was going to marry Winthrop Curwood whether he wanted her to or not. She was high-spirited in those days--headstrong, you might call it--and, when she'd made up her mind definitely that Curwood should not live alone, she----You may not understand this part of the story, Mr. Clancy. Her father didn't, and cut her off completely--refused to see her, and left the farm and everything he had to a distant cousin, who lives there to-day--a selfish wretch!" For the first time there was bitterness in the old man's tone. Peter said, with quiet sympathy: "I'll understand, you may be sure of that. Tell me what happened." "Well, one night, just at dusk, Anne Blakeslie climbed this side of the mountain for the last time. She took some clothing with her, and a few other things.... She didn't tell me much, but I can imagine--knowing her.... She went in, quietly, and told him she had come to stay. He--he protested. He pointed out the sacrifice she was making. She overruled all his objections--as Anne Blakeslie would know how to do--and then----" The room was growing dark. A big white moth flew in through the open window and fluttered softly among the lilies. "The next morning they went together down the far side of the mountain, and were married by Father O'Connell.... Anne sent me a letter and I went to see them. I was the only one, of all the people hereabouts, and I went only when Anne sent for me, which wasn't often. Somehow, Curwood, in his quiet, dignified way, made me feel--well, anyway, I never went except when Anne needed me. But in those few times it seemed to me that they were managing very well. They seemed quite comfortable as long as Curwood lived.... He was an Englishman, I think. At least, he spoke differently from us. I'm quite sure he must have been English, though Anne never told me anything about him. He did not wish it, was all she said. If she was satisfied, it was enough for me. "I found out, later, when he died, that he had only--what they call an annuity, which ended with his life. Anne had known it all along and had saved what she could, which wasn't a great deal. The two little girls were growing up, and it took something to care for them. They came down here to the little old brick school house every day for several winters, and I used to see them often."