“She founded convents, you know, in Ireland. Now, there was one nun dearly loved by St. Brigit, and she had been blind from birth; and one evening they were sitting on one of the Wicklow Hills, and St. Brigit described to her all the beauties of the green valleys below, and the silver streams and the purple mountains beyond, melting into the happy sky. And the nun said, 'Sister, pray to God to work a miracle and give me sight so that I can see it and glorify Him.' So St. Brigit prayed, and God heard her prayer, and the eyes of the nun were opened, and she looked upon the world, and her senses were ravished by its glory. And then she fell to weeping and trembling and she sank on her knees before St. Brigit and said, I have seen, but I beseech thee pray that my sight be taken again from me, for I fear that in the beauty of the world I may forget God.' And St. Brigit prayed again, and God heard her, and the nun's sight was taken from her. And they both lifted their voices to heaven and glorified the Lord.” Stella sighed when he had ended, and quiet fell upon them. She looked dreamily out of the window. Herold watched her face, with a pang at his heart. It was as pure as a little child's. “It's a lovely legend,” she said at last. “But the nun was wrong. The beauty of this world ought to bring one nearer to God instead of making one forget Him.” Herold smiled. “Certainly it ought to,” said he. “Why did you tell me the story?” “Because it came into my head.” “There was some other reason.” He could not deny, for in her candid eyes he saw assurance; yet he dared not tell her that which dimmed the crystal of his gladness. He saw the creature of cloud and foam gasping in the tainted atmosphere of the world of men; the dewdrop on the star exposed to the blazing sun. What would happen? “I am going to get well,” she continued, seeing that he did not answer, “and walk out soon into the gardens and the streets and see all the wonderful, wonderful things you and Belovedest have told me of. And”--she pressed her hands to her bosom--“I can't contain myself for joy. And yet, Walter dear, you seem to think I should be better off if I remained as I am--or was. I can't understand it.” “My dear,” said Herold reluctantly, wishing he had never heard of St. Brigit, “so long as you see God through the beauties and vanities of the world, as you've seen Him through the sea-mists and the dawn and the sunset, all will be well. But that takes a brave spirit--braver than St. Brigit's nun. She feared lest she might see the world, and nothing but the world, and nothing divine shining through. People who do that lose their souls.” “Then you think,” said Stellamaris, wrinkling her smooth brow--“you think that the blind have the truer vision.” “Truer than that of the weak, perhaps, but not as true as the strong spirits who dare see fearlessly.” “Do you think I am weak or strong?” she asked, with a woman's relentless grip on the personal.