"Are his eyes changing colour yet?" he would ask. "I want them to be blue. Blue eyes would look so well with his yellow hair." But the baby's eyes remained a dull, clouded grey. "Not blue yet!" Francis would repeat. "How long is it before they begin to change? Fine big eyes, aren't they? I want to make the little beggar look at me, but he won't. Why does he stare at the ceiling?" "It's the electric light," said his wife; but the next morning, when the lights were turned off, the baby still stared blankly upward. "Why the dickens does he stare at the ceiling?" Francis asked again. Gradually, imperceptibly, a growing anxiety began to mingle with his joy, and the anxiety was connected with those staring eyes. He would not put his thoughts into words; but he watched his wife's face, and saw in it no reflection of his own fears. Then for a time he would banish the dread; and anon it would recur. _Were_ the boy's eyes all right? Was it really natural that he should be always staring up? Ridiculous nonsense! Of _course_ it was all right. Things had come to a pretty pass when he took to worrying himself, while his wife, who knew a thousand times more about babies, remained untroubled and serene. Bother the child's eyes! ... He would think about them no more. All his life Francis had been a sworn opponent of worry. When anything disagreeable threatened, his mode of procedure was to shrug his shoulders, and immediately divert his thoughts. "Leave the thing alone; don't bother about it; it will probably come all right in the end!" Such was his theory, and experience had proved that as often as not it was correct. He endeavoured to cultivate the same attitude towards his boy, but in vain. The anxiety recurred. He told himself that he would have the eyes tested, and satisfy himself once for all; but once and again his courage failed, and the days passed on, and nothing was done. Then there came an evening when suddenly fear engulfed him, and made anything seem easier than a continuation of suspense. He was holding the child in his arms, and he rose and carried it across the room, to where a powerful light hung from the wall. He pushed aside the shade, and held the tiny face closely approaching the glass. The eyes stared on, unblinking and still. A great cry burst from Francis' throat: "My God!" he cried. "The boy is blind!"