Chapter 3

"Then, very soon, it grew so knowing, and showed such surprising quickness, far beyond (the _parents_ thought) of any baby ever seen or read of since the beginning of the world. Of course it was very red at first, but then the red was such a beautiful shade. It hadn't the least speck of hair; but what of that? There was a lovely expression about even the _back_ of its head; really quite intellectual.

"Very soon, it would start at an unexpected noise or touch, and if dinner did not come at the very moment it was wanted, little Eva (for that was her sweet name) could cry in a manner to astonish you; but then, such an excellent cry! so loud and strong, that it was certain she had splendid lungs. And what more could a mother's heart desire? And her precious treasure was watched and guarded night and day by a mother's love, stronger than death.

"But what is this? The good doctor watches little Eva as she grows, and always when he looks at her, a sad, strange expression comes over his face; and one day, when going down stairs, he paused, and turned to go back, but did not, for he said aloud to himself: 'Not yet; they cannot bear it yet; and perhaps, after all, I may be in the wrong.'

"They were both so happy--that young father and mother! How they pitied all the poor married people who had no children!

"But the next day after this the good doctor decided not to withhold the communication, whatever it might be, from Eva's father and mother. As soon as he entered the room, he said abruptly: 'Nurse, bring me the child.' He stood by a window, and threw wide open the darkened blinds. The little Eva was brought to him just from her morning toilette, fresh, sweet, and pure as a rain-brightened flower; her long embroidered dress sweeping the carpet, and soft lace nestling about her tiny arms.

"'Oh, dear doctor!' exclaimed the young mother, 'do not take the baby there! That bright glare of light has dazzled even my strong eyes; and how can her feeble sight endure it?'

"'It is necessary, madam,' replied the doctor. He seemed to be a cross old fellow, but beneath his gruff manner was hidden a great, kind heart.

"He took the child, and having sent the nurse away, turned from the mother, who lay anxiously watching him. He gazed fixedly at little Eva, while he exposed her beautiful and tender eyes to the bright glare of the morning sun. His brow was contracted into a great heavy frown, and a short but deep sigh escaped him; but he never took his eyes from her face: then he forced the lids, with their long silken fringes, far away from the ball of the eye, and little Eva was now screaming with the pain caused by this rough and cruel treatment. Alas! a deeper shade of anxiety crossed the doctor's face, and the hard and unfeeling man, as the weeping mother thought him, drew the infant tenderly to his breast, and murmured in a low tone, '_Poor little thing! poor little helpless thing!_' and gave her back to her nurse, and went away without saying another word.

"That same evening the doctor came again. It was very unusual for him to come after dark, and his great creaking boots and rough manner would have broken in upon a very pretty group.

"But he went softly up stairs, and looked in the room, unseen himself. There was the happy mother wrapped in a cashmere, and half-buried in an immense arm-chair, with a sweet motherly look upon her face, watching her darling.

"Close to his wife, Eva's father sat, holding her in his arms; and, wonderful to tell, for a _man_, holding her quite comfortably; for he had lulled her to sleep with a lullaby of his own composition, the language of which was utterly unknown to the rest of the company. He was learning to talk 'baby talk,' and was really getting on very well, and just now he was looking extremely proud and happy at his success in soothing the little one.

"Opposite to these happy parents sat Mr. Vernon, a noble-looking gentleman, and his wife, a beautiful lady, uncle and aunt to the baby; and, in the distance, was the faithful black nurse, old Dinah, fast asleep, and quite as happy, in her own opinion, as the rest of the party.

"Presently the father laid the baby tenderly down in her beautiful cradle, and while gently rocking her, said softly: 'I wonder what the baby was thinking about while I sang to her?'

"'She looked so wonderfully wise,' said the mother.

"'Did you ever come across that lovely little poem--"What is the little one thinking about?"' said Mr. Vernon. 'I can only remember the last part of it, though my little daughter has often read it to me,' and he recited, in a sweet, low voice, this exquisite little fragment:

"What is the little one thinking about? What does she think of her mother's eyes? What does she think of her mother's hair? What, of the cradle roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does she think of her mother's breast, Round and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight-- Cup of her life, and couch of her rest? What does she think, when her quick embrace Presses her hand, and buries her face Deep, where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tender love she can never tell, Though she murmurs the words Of all the birds, Words she had learned to murmur well? Now she thinks she'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over her eyes in soft eclipse Over her brow, and over her lips. Out to her little finger-tips! Softly sinking--down she goes! Down--she--goes!--down--she--goes! See! she is hushed in sweet repose."

"As the doctor gazed on this lovely scene, and heard the beautifully touching words so fitly spoken, instead of smiling, he frowned and sighed, for his heart was troubled.

"Coming forward, he grumbled out, 'A family party, I see.'

"'Yes,' said the father, rising and smiling; 'and no one but yourself would find a welcome.'

"'So much the better,' growled the doctor. 'Nurse, light the gas.'

"'We have not lit it yet,' said the young mother, pointing to the two wax lights in a distant corner, 'because they tell me the eyes of infants are very weak and tender.'

"The doctor took no notice of this, only nodded to the nurse; and she, standing in mortal fear that he would cut her head off immediately if she hesitated, obeyed his order.

"The mother looked at her little child, who was still peacefully sleeping, and then shaded her eyes with her hand from the sudden blaze of light, thinking that though the doctor seemed very cruel, he must be doing what was right. Poor young mother!

"'I only need this last test before I tell you what it means,' said the doctor. 'Here, give me the child.'

"The father tenderly laid the little Eva in his arms, though quite at a loss to imagine what experiment was to be tried. The light was certainly too strong to be let suddenly into a darkened room, he thought; but the doctor knew best. It was strange that only the noble-looking gentleman, Mr. Vernon, seemed to divine the meaning of the rough but kind-hearted man, but he knew only too well; he was _sadly sure_. I will tell you why, presently.

"And now the tender head of the sleeping child lay helplessly against the physician's rough coat, encircled by his arm.

"Suddenly he dashed some cold water, that stood near, into her face.

"Little Eva awoke, and opened her dark blue eyes immediately under the bright stream of light. She did not cry; she did not shrink; calmly she looked up, never flinching, never winking as she lay.

"The doctor raised her nearer and nearer to the flame; he turned the screws, and let out each burner to its fullest capacity, and passed his hands rapidly to and fro close to the child's eyes, then turning towards the wondering, panic-stricken group, who were slowly beginning to understand the meaning of that fearful pantomime, he laid her once more in her father's arms, and looking in his face, said, in a rough, broken voice, while a great tear trembled in his eye--'God help little Eva,--SHE IS BLIND.'

"The doctor went away that night with the sorrowful wail of the poor parents smiting his heart.

"He came again and again, but nevermore in that house did he open the door upon a group so smilingly happy, as that which greeted him on the fatal night, when he told them the dreadful truth, that their child would never see their faces, for she was blind.

"And now I will tell you about Mr. Vernon. When he was quite a young man, rich, handsome, and surrounded with friends, he was taken ill with a dreadful fever, which left him totally blind. For a long, long time he murmured at God's will, and refused to believe there was any thing left worth living for; but God's ways are not our ways, and in His own good time He so softened the wilful heart of the blind man, so that he became not only resigned, but happy.

"After a few years, God gave him a beautiful wife, who loved him more because of the affliction which made him so dependent upon her loving care; and oh! how I hope that all who are reading this true story will have a tender pity for those upon whom God has caused outward darkness to fall. They cannot see the sunshine, or the beautiful flowers--let them _feel_ the warm sunshine of a loving heart.

"In due course of time Mr. Vernon had two lovely children, the elder a pretty little maiden, with deep blue eyes, and dark, wavy hair, whose sweet name was Ruth. The dear little girl was six years old before the other darling came to gladden his parents' heart, and having no companions but her blind father and gentle mother, she grew to be quite a dignified little woman. None so proud and happy as Ruth, when she was guiding her blind father; none knew better all his favorite walks in and around the beautiful country place where they lived; and her gentle, patient ways made her the very darling of his heart.

"In a few years there was another little being in the world, to whose happiness Ruth was necessary; and that was her poor blind cousin, Eva, and though Ruth's parents missed her sadly, they would often give up their darling, and send or take her into the city, to visit and comfort and amuse Eva.

"Ruth understood Eva better than any one else, because she had been her dear blind father's constant companion; and Eva loved her with all her heart; she knew her step; she would hear it before any one else did, and the color would rush in her face, and she would wait with beating heart till the door opened, and then she would rush to her, throw her arms round her neck, and cry, 'Oh, dear Ruth! darling Ruth!' and kiss her twenty times, and Ruth would kiss Eva just as many, and then they would sit down close together, and have such a nice, happy talk! for Ruth had to tell all about the chickens, and Dandy, the pony, who loved sugar so dearly; and how she had hemmed six pocket-handkerchiefs for her dear father, and most wore a hole in her little thimble; and how her little baby brother had scrabbled off with old Dobbin's bran-bag, just as the poor old horse was going to eat his dinner, and poked his own dear little head in it, and when he pulled it out, the bran was all over his face, making him look as if he was covered with freckles; which funny caper made Eva laugh like 'any thing.'

"And when the talking was over, Ruth read to little Eva, for all toys were useless to the blind child; but her books were doubly dear, and Ruth was never tired of reading to her; so while she staid, Eva was as happy as it was possible to be.

"One day the good doctor brought a celebrated occulist to see Eva. An occulist is a physician who cures diseases of the eyes, and devotes his whole time and talent to that precious and delicate part of the human frame.

"The occulist examined her eyes very carefully, and then said: 'After a few years I can perform an operation on Eva's eyes that _may_ give her sight; but it will be a very painful one, and perhaps I may not succeed. If this dear little child were mine, I would almost rather let her remain blind than give her such terrible pain, which may end in disappointment.'

"But oh! what a blessed hope! her parents _would not_ see the dark side; they dwelt upon the happiness it would be for little Eva to see; and one day her father took her upon his knee, and, fondly kissing her, said: 'Eva, my darling, would you like to see the beautiful sunlight and sweet flowers?'

"'O papa! yes! yes! but, most of all, I want to see you and mamma, and Ruth and Dinah.'

"'Well, my darling, if you can make up your mind to endure a terrible pain, when you are older we will have the operation tried. It will only last a moment, dear Eva, and then just think! you will see the whole beautiful world! and know all of us by our faces, as you now do by our steps and voices; you will see the birds flying in the air; the moon sailing slowly in the heavens, the little twinkling stars, and the rippling water, and we shall be so happy! so happy! I will not tell you when to have it done; I will wait till _you_ are ready, my darling.'

"Then Eva thought long of it, and had many an earnest conversation upon the subject with her little cousin Ruth; and one day she said: 'Ruth, will you promise me, _true for true_, that you will come and hold my hand when they operate upon my eyes?'

"'I promise you, _true for true_,' said Ruth.

"And so the matter was settled.

"Time passed on; and Eva was now eleven years old, and Ruth nine.

"Then Eva made a great resolution, and going to her father, she said: '_Father, I am ready_ NOW.'

"They were simple words; but poor little Eva had prayed to God, for nights and nights, and many times in the day, to give her strength to say them, and God had heard her prayer; for though her father turned deadly pale at the words, the low sweet voice of the child did not tremble.

"And now the good doctor came, all his roughness gone, and he held that little head, with its glossy waves of hair, to keep it steady, but it trembled far less than he did; for he had watched Eva from her infancy, and dearly loved her, and he was intensely interested in the result of the experiment about to be performed.

"Near Eva stood her mother and her brave and faithful cousin Ruth, holding her hand, as she had promised '_true for true_,' and telling her to take courage, for all would be well.

"'Patience,' said the operator, softly; 'a pang, and half the suffering will be over.'

"The little hand which held Ruth's was clasped more tightly, and a groan smote on the listeners' ears. The room reeled--a faintness came over the heroic child; but she was soon herself again.

"'Would you not rather wait a day or two for the other eye to be operated upon?' said the kind physician. 'A week hence, or a month, will answer.'

"'Oh! no,' answered Eva, with quiet self-possession, 'let it be done to-day; let it be done NOW. I do not think I could bear the suspense, and it would _please my father_ to know that it was over.'

"Love sustained her. Another sigh--another groan, and it was finished.

"Then came the bandages, the darkened room, the stillness, the repose, for one whose nerves had been so shaken; but often those little cousinly hands were clasped together in a pressure which spoke more love than many words.

"Her father hardly ever left the house, and her mother wept often, for she loved her child in her blindness as much as a mother _could_ love, and had never wished her to go through so much suffering--suffering which might be fruitless; and she waited for the result with trembling anxiety.

"A _look_ from a physician has often more weight than many words spoken; and Ruth, who read the good doctor's face with the keenness of a child's perception, was the first to see an expression of hope shining upon it. When the day came for the bandages to be removed, Eva's father and mother were so dreadfully agitated, that they had to leave the room. Trembling, they stood outside in the hall, waiting for the happy or wretched tidings.

"But Ruth--brave little Ruth--held Eva's hand as before. Those little clasped hands gave each other courage, for Ruth needed it as much as Eva, and her heartbeats could almost be heard in the silence. What a study her sweet little face was, as the emotions of love, pity, fear, and hope, crossed it, as shadowy clouds flit across the sky!

"Slowly, cautiously, the bandages were removed, and at last the end came, and the little girl saw upon the physician's face a broad, cheerful, happy smile. Ruth was a heroine, and had great self-control; but now control became impossible. She thought not of consequences--she only thought of the unceasing prayer which had been breathed by that household for many weeks--she only saw that that prayer had been granted.

"'SHE WILL SEE! she will see!!' she almost screamed. 'Eva! Eva! love! darling! do you hear?'

"The physician gave her a stern look of rebuke, but it was too late; Little Eva had fainted.

"'_Ruth is right_,' said he to the father and mother, who had rushed in at this blessed announcement, 'but she has been too abrupt. Her cousin and herself are wonderful little women in times of trial and danger; but neither of them are equal to a sudden joy.'

"It was a long time before Eva got well, and was permitted to use her new and precious gift of sight; but then the amazement and delight with which she ran from one thing to another--the joy with which she gazed upon the faces of her parents and Ruth, no one of us, who have always seen, can ever know or appreciate.

"And old Binah said, as she hugged her darling to her faithful breast, 'God bress de good massa dat gib de sight to my little missis. It don't make no sort of difference to she, case old Binah _black_. Dear, no! she lub her just de same when she see _dat_! don't you, little missis?'

"'Why, _of course_ I do,' answered little Eva, and she kissed good old Binah, and ran off with Ruth to look at some flowers. Oh, that precious sight! how dear it was, to her!

"And now she is no longer _poor_ rich little Eva."

* * * * *

The children had listened to the story of Eva, with eager, breathless attention; and when Ruth screamed out, "She will see! she will see!" they very nearly screamed, too, so rejoiced were they that the blindness had been removed; and the dear little girl had not suffered so much for nothing.

"It must be so terrible to be blind," said Anna; "don't you remember when we went to see the exhibition of the blind children at the Academy of Music, the tears were rolling down mamma's face nearly the whole time, and we all felt so sorry, that we came home quite unhappy?"

"Dear me," cried Harry, "I do wish there was no such affliction; why must there be, mamma?"

"God knows best, dear Harry," answered the little mother. "If He did not, for His own wise purpose, permit us to know trouble and sorrow in this world, we would never desire that blessed rest and peace hereafter, which he promises to all those who put their trust in him."

"Yes, God must know best," said Clara, in a low voice; "for dear Charley has had more suffering and sorrow than any of us, and yet he loves Him, and wants to go to heaven."

"When Charley was very little," said the mother, "I found him crying bitterly one day. 'Why, what is the matter, my darling?' I said.

"'Oh mamma!' he sobbed, 'I am so afraid there won't be room enough in heaven for me! Do you think such a poor, lame child can get there?'

"I took him in my arms, and kissed and comforted him, and told him that Jesus looked at the heart, not at the weak, crooked body; and that the better and purer his life was, the greater would be his welcome to His house Beautiful, when life had ended here."

All the children looked at Charley, with their eyes full of love; and in their prayers that night, they entreated that Jesus would remember their dear little brother's life-long suffering, and give him a place close to Him in heaven.

THE FOURTH LETTER.

ILL TEMPER.

_For George._

"DEAR GEORGE:--You know you are now nearly seventeen years old, and quite a patriarch in the Nightcap family; and I am rejoiced that I can say with truth, that you have been, and are, a most excellent elder brother, unselfish, sweet-tempered, and always setting a good example."

"Dear me," interrupted George, laughing and blushing very much, "I do not deserve such high praise;" but here the expression of his face changed, his lip began to tremble, and running up to his mother, he kissed her, and said--"Whatever I am that is good, you, dear mother, have made me."

"With God's help and blessing, my dear son," said his mother, returning the kiss; and then she went on reading.

"When you were a little fellow, of not quite seven years, you had the scarlet fever, and were very ill; and perhaps you remember how cross you were for a long time after."

"Oh, yes," exclaimed George; "mother used to say somebody else must have jumped into my skin, for, certainly, I was not the same George."

"I have written a story about this change in temper, and how a cure was effected. _You_ became sweet-tempered again, as soon as you got quite well; but Arthur, in my story, required a lesson and some punishment, as he became cross without scarlet fever, rhyme, or reason. I hope you will let me know if you think I have invented a good plan to cure a cross-patch. You know I am a great believer in our always trying first upon _ourselves_, what we propose to '_do to others_,' as the very best way of finding out if we would like the same '_done to us_.'"

"Why, that's the 'golden rule!'" cried little Minnie; and now the children settled themselves, and eagerly listened to the following story:

ILL TEMPER.

"When Arthur was about seven years old, he was one of the very best boys to be found in a long summer's day. In the morning he would spring out of bed with a bright smile, wash and dress himself quickly, with the help of Mary, his kind nurse, say his prayers slowly and reverently, (ah! _that_ was the secret of his goodness!) and then all day long he would be so obliging and good-tempered, that no one could help loving him that knew him; and so they didn't try to help it, for everybody loved him dearly.

"But, alas! I have heard the doctors say, (and of course _they_ must know,) that once in every seven years the whole body is renewed, flesh, bones, blood, nerves, muscles; and I grieve to have to relate, that in Arthur's case the change seemed to include his spirit-part also; that is, his good temper and loving ways marched out of him, and some very bad substitutes marched in, as I shall proceed to relate.

"One morning Arthur awoke at his usual hour, but not with his usual smile. His face was all puckered up like a frozen apple. He floundered about the bed, and bumped his head against the head-board, and was just as cross as forty bears.

"Of course every thing went wrong; he put his stockings on wrongside out, tied his shoes in a hard knot, pulled on his pantaloons with the back part before, and drew his arms through his jacket upside down. Did you ever hear of such a piece of work?

"When Mary came to brush his hair and wash his face, he screamed out, stamping his foot at her--'Do stop! Stop! I tell you! You brush me as hard as ever you can! I wish you would leave me alone, you ugly old thing!'

"Oh, dear, dear, what a sad boy! He puts me in mind of that other naughty boy who scolded his nurse in a piece of poetry. This is it:

"'Oh _why_ must my face be washed so clean, And scrubbed and scoured for Sunday? When you know very well, as you've always seen, 'Twill be dirty again on Monday.