Cousin Maude

There were bitter tears shed at that parting; Maude Glendower

weeping passionately over the child of Harry Remington, and Dr.

Kennedy hugging to his bosom the little hunchback boy, Matty's boy

and his. They might never meet again, and the father's heart clung

fondly to his only son. He could not even summon to his aid a maxim

with which to season his farewell, and bidding a kind good-by to

Maude, he sought the privacy of his chamber, where he could weep

alone in his desolation.

Hannah and John grieved to part with the travelers, but the latter

was somewhat consoled by the gracious manner with which Maude had

accepted his gift.

"I cannot see it," she said, "but when I open the casing I shall

know your kind, honest face is there, and it will bring me many

pleasant memories of you."

"Heaven bless you, Miss Maude," answered John, struggling hard to

keep back the tears he deemed it unmanly to shed. "Heaven bless you,

but if you keep talking so book-like and good, I'll bust out a-

cryin', I know, for I'm nothin' but an old fool anyhow," and

wringing her hand, he hurried off into the woodshed chamber, where

he could give free vent to his grief.

Through the harbor, down the bay, and out upon the sea, a noble

vessel rides; and as the evening wind comes dancing o'er the wave it

sweeps across the deck, kissing the cheek of a brown-eyed boy and

lifting the curls from the brow of one whose face, upturned to the

tall man at her side, seems almost angelic, so calm, so peaceful, is

its expression of perfect bliss. Many have gazed curiously upon that

group, and the voices were very, low which said, "The little boy is

deformed," while there was a world of sadness in the whisper, which

told to the wondering passengers that "the beautiful bride was

blind."

They knew it by the constant drooping of her eyelids, by the

graceful motion of her hand as it groped in the air, and more than

all by the untiring watchfulness of the husband and brother who

constantly hovered near. It seemed terrible that so fair a creature

should be blind; and like the throb of one great heart did the

sympathy of that vessel's crew go out toward the gentle Maude, who

in her newborn happiness forgot almost the darkness of the world

without, or if she thought of it, looked forward to a time when hope

said that she should see again.

So, leaving her upon the sea, speeding away to sunny France, we glance backward for a moment to

the lonely house where Maude Glendower mourns for Harry's child, and

where the father thinks often of his boy, listening in vain for the

sound which once was hateful to his ear, the sound of Louis'

crutches.