Maude’s chamber was ready at last, and very inviting it looked with its coat of fresh paint, its cheerful paper, bright carpet, handsome bedstead, marble washstand, and mahogany bureau, on which were arranged various little articles for the toilet. The few pieces of furniture which Mrs. Kennedy had ordered from the cabinet-maker’s had amounted, in all, to nearly one hundred dollars, but the bill was not yet sent in; and in blissful ignorance of the surprise awaiting him the doctor rubbed his hands and tried to seem pleased when his wife, passing her arm in his, led him to the room, which she compelled him to admire.

“It was all very nice,” he said, “but wholly unnecessary for a blind girl. What was the price of this?” he asked, laying his hand upon the bedstead.

“Only twenty-five dollars. Wasn’t it cheap?” and the wicked black eyes danced with merriment at the loud groan which succeeded the answer.

“Twenty-five dollars!” he exclaimed. “Why, the bedstead Matty and I slept on for seven years only cost three, and it is now as good as new.”

“But times have changed,” said the lady. “Everybody has nicer things; besides, do you know people used to talk dreadfully about a man of your standing being so stingy? But I have done considerable toward correcting that impression. You aint stingy, and in proof of it you’ll give me fifty cents to buy cologne for this.” And she took up a beautiful bottle which stood upon the bureau.

The doctor had not fifty cents in change, but a dollar bill would suit her exactly as well, she said, and secretly exulting in her mastery over the self-willed tyrant, she suffered him to depart, saying to himself as he descended the stair, “Twenty-five dollars for one bedstead. I won’t stand it! I’ll do something!”

“What are you saying, dear?” a melodious voice called after him, and so accelerated his movements that the extremity of his coat disappeared from view, just as the lady Maude reached the head of the stairs.

“Oh!” was the involuntary exclamation of Louis, who had been a spectator of the scene, and who felt intuitively that his father had found his mistress.

During her few weeks residence at Laurel Hill Maude Glendower had bound the crippled boy to herself by many a deed of love, and whatever she did was sure of meeting his approval. With him she had consulted concerning his sister’s room, yielding often to his artist taste in the arrangement of the furniture, and now that the chamber was ready they both awaited impatiently the arrival of its occupant. Nellie’s last letter had been rather encouraging, and Maude herself had appended her name at its close. The writing was tremulous and uncertain, but it brought hope to the heart of the brother, who had never really believed it possible for his sister to be blind. Very restless he seemed on the day when she was expected; and when, just as the sun was setting, the carriage drove to the gate, a faint sickness crept over him, and wheeling his chair to the window of her room he looked anxiously at her, as with John’s assistance, she alighted from the carriage.

“If she walks alone I shall know she is not very blind,” he said, and with clasped hands he watched her intently as she came slowly toward the house with Nellie a little in advance.

Nearer and nearer she came-closer and closer the burning forehead was pressed against the window pane, and hope beat high in Louis’ heart, when suddenly she turned aside-her foot rested on the withered violets which grew outside the walk, and her hand groped in the empty air.

“She’s blind-she’s blind,” said Louis, and with a moaning cry he laid his head upon the broad arm of his chair, sobbing most bitterly.

Meantime below there was a strange interview between the new mother and her children, Maude Glendower clasping her namesake in her arms and weeping over her as she had never wept before but once, and that when the moonlight shone upon her sitting by a distant grave. Pushing back the clustering curls, she kissed the open brow and looked into the soft black eyes with a burning gaze which penetrated the shadowy darkness and brought a flush to the cheek of the young girl.

“Maude Remington! Maude Remington!” she said, dwelling long upon the latter name, “the sight of you affects me painfully; you are so like one I have lost. I shall love you, Maude Remington, for the sake of the dead, and you, too, must love me, and call me mother-will you?” and her lips again touched those of the astonished maiden.

Though fading fast, the light was not yet quenched in Maude’s eyes, and very wistfully she scanned the face of the speaker, while her hands moved caressingly over each feature, as she said, “I will love you, beautiful lady, though you can never be to me what my gentle mother was.”

At the sound of that voice Maude Glendower started suddenly, and turning aside, so her words could not be heard, she murmured sadly, “Both father and child prefer her to me.” Then, recollecting herself, she offered her hand to the wondering Nellie, saying, “Your Sister’s misfortune must be my excuse for devoting so much time to her, when you, as my eldest daughter, were entitled to my first attention.”

Her stepmother’s evident preference for Maude had greatly offended the selfish Nellie, who coldly answered, “Don’t trouble yourself, madam. It’s not of the least consequence. But where is my father? He will welcome me, I am sure.”

The feeling too often existing between stepmothers and stepdaughters had sprung into life, and henceforth the intercourse of Maude Glendower and Nellie Kennedy would be marked with studied politeness, and nothing more. But the former did not care. So long as her eye could feast itself upon the face and form of Maude Remington she was content, and as Nellie left the room she wound her arm around the comparatively helpless girl, saying, “Let me take you to your brother.”

Although unwilling, usually, to be led, Maude yielded now, and suffered herself to be conducted to the chamber where Louis watched for her coming. She could see enough to know there was a change, and clasping her companion’s hand she said, “I am surely indebted to you for this surprise.”

“Maude, Maude!” and the tones of Louis’ voice trembled with joy, as stretching his arms toward her, he cried, “You can see.”

Guided more by the sound than by actual vision, Maude flew like lightning to his side, and kneeling before him hid her face in his lap, while he bent fondly over her, beseeching her to say if she could see. It was a most touching sight, and drawing near, Maude Glendower mingled her tears with those of the unfortunate children on whom affliction had laid her heavy hand.

Maude Remington was naturally of a hopeful nature, and though she had passed through many an hour of anguish, and had rebelled against the fearful doom which seemed to be approaching, she did not yet despair. She still saw a little-could discern colors and forms, and could tell one person from another. “I shall be better by and by,” she said, when assured by the sound of retreating footsteps that they were alone. “I am following implicitly the doctor’s directions, and I hope to see by Christmas; but if I do not-

Here she broke down entirely, and wringing her hands she cried, “Oh, brother-brother, must I be blind? I can’t-I can’t, for who will care for poor, blind, helpless Maude?”

“I, sister, I,” and hushing his own great sorrow the crippled boy comforted the weeping girl just as she had once comforted him, when in the quiet graveyard he had lain him down in the long, rank grass and wished that he might die. “Pa’s new wife will care for you, too,” he said. “She’s a beautiful woman, Maude, and a good one, I am sure, for she cried so hard over mother’s grave, and her voice was so gentle when, just as though she had known our mother, she said, `Darling Matty, I will be kind to your children.’”

“Ah, that I will-I will,” came faintly from the hall without, where Maude Glendower stood, her eyes riveted upon the upturned face of Maude, and her whole body swelling with emotion.

A sad heritage had been bequeathed to her-a crippled boy and a weak, blind girl; but in some respects she was a noble woman, and as she gazed upon the two she resolved that so long as she should live, so long should the helpless children of Matty Remington have a steadfast friend. Hearing her husband’s voice below she glided down the stairs, leaving Louis and Maude really alone.

“Sister,” said Louis, after a moment, “what of Mr. De Vere? Is he true to the last?”

“I have released him,” answered Maude. “I am nothing to him now,” and very calmly she proceeded to tell him of the night when she had said to Mr. De Vere, “My money is gone-my sight is going too, and I give you back your troth, making you free to marry another-Nellie, if you choose. She is better suited to you than I have ever been.”

Though secretly pleased at her offering to give him up, J.C. made a show of resistance, but she had prevailed at last, and with the assurance that he should always esteem her highly, he consented to the breaking of the engagement, and the very, next afternoon, rode out with Nellie Kennedy.

“He will marry her, I think,” Maude said, as she finished narrating the circumstances, and looking into her calm, unruffled face Louis felt sure that she had outlived her love for one who had proved himself as fickle as J.C. De Vere.

“And what of James?” he asked. “Is he still in New Orleans.”

“He is,” answered Maude. “He has a large wholesale establishment there, and as one of the partners is sick, he has taken his place for the winter. He wrote to his cousin often, bidding him spare no expense for me, and offering to pay the bills if J.C. was not able.”

A while longer they conversed, and then they were summoned to supper, Mrs. Kennedy coming herself for Maude, who did not refuse to be assisted by her.

“The wind hurt my eyes-they will be better to-morrow,” she said, and with her old sunny smile she greeted her stepfather, and then turned to Hannah and John, who had come in to see her.

But alas for the delusion! The morrow brought no improvement, neither the next day, nor the next, and as the world grew dim there crept into her heart a sense of utter desolation which neither the tender love of Maude Glendower nor yet the untiring devotion of Louis could in any degree dispel. All day would she sit opposite the window, her eyes fixed on the light with a longing, eager gaze, as if she feared that the next moment it might leave her forever. Whatever he could do for her Louis did, going to her room each morning and arranging her dress and hair just as he knew she used to wear it. She would not suffer anyone else to do this for her, and in performing these little offices Louis felt that he was only repaying her in part for all she had done for him.

Christmas Eve came at last, and if she thought of what was once to have been on the morrow, she gave no outward token, and with her accustomed smile bade the family good-night. The next morning Louis went often to her door, and hearing no sound within fancied she was sleeping, until at last, as the clock struck nine, he ventured to go in. Maude was awake, and advancing to her side he bade her a “Merry Christmas,” playfully chiding her the while for having slept so late. A wild, startled expression flashed over her face, as she said: “Late, Louis! Is it morning, then? I’ve watched so long to see the light?”

Louis did not understand her, and he answered, “Morning, yes. The sunshine is streaming into the room. Don’t you see it?”

“Sunshine!” and Maude’s lips quivered with fear, as springing from her pillow, she whispered faintly, “Lead me to the window.”

He complied with her request, watching her curiously, as she laid both hands in the warm sunshine, which bathed her fair, round arms and shone upon her raven hair. She felt what she could not see, and Louis Kennedy ne’er forgot the agonized expression of the white, beautiful face which turned toward him as the wretched Maude moaned piteously, “Yes, brother, ’tis morning to you, but dark, dark night to me. I’m blind! oh, I’m blind!”

She did not faint, she did not shriek, but she stood there rigid and immovable, her countenance giving fearful token of the terrible storm within. She was battling fiercely with her fate, and until twice repeated, she did not hear the childish voice which said to her pleadingly, “Don’t look so, sister. You frighten me, and there may be some hope yet.”

“Hope,” she repeated bitterly, turning her sightless eyes toward him, “there is no hope but death.”

“Maude,” and Louis’ voice was like a plaintive harp, so mournful was its tone, “Maude, once in the very spot where mother is lying now, you said because I was a cripple you would love me all the more. You have kept that promise well, my sister. You have been all the world to me, and now that you are blind I, too, will love you more. I will be your light-your eyes, and when James De Vere comes back-

“No, no, no,” moaned Maude, sinking upon the floor. “Nobody will care for me. Nobody will love a blind girl. Oh, is it wicked to wish that I could die, lying here in the sunshine, which I shall never see again?”

There was a movement at the door, and Mrs. Kennedy appeared, starting back as her eye fell upon the face of the prostrate girl, who recognized her step, and murmured sadly, “Mother, I’m blind, wholly blind.”

Louis’ grief had been too great for tears, but Maude Glendower’s flowed at once, and bending over the white-faced girl she strove to comfort her, telling her how she would always love her, that every wish should be gratified.

“Then give me back my sight, oh, give me back my sight,” and Maude clasped her mother’s hands imploringly.

Ere long she grew more calm, and suffered herself to be dressed as usual, but she would not admit anyone to her room, neither on that day nor for many succeeding days. At length, however, this feeling wore away, and in the heartfelt sympathy of her family and friends she found a slight balm for her grief. Even the doctor was softened, and when Messrs. Beebe & Co. sent in a bill of ninety-five dollars for various articles of furniture, the frown upon his face gave way when his wife said to him, “It was for Maude, you know!”

“Poor Maude!” seemed to be the sentiment of the whole household, and Nellie herself said it many a time, as with unwonted tenderness she caressed the unfortunate girl, fearing the while lest she had done her a wrong, for she did not then understand the nature of Maude’s feelings for J.C. De Vere, to whom Nellie was now engaged.

Urged on by Mrs. Kelsey and a fast diminishing income, J.C. had written to Nellie soon after her return to Laurel Hill, asking her to be his wife. He did not disguise his former love for Maude, neither did he pretend to have outlived it, but he said he could not wed a blind girl. And Nellie, forgetting her assertion that she would never marry one who had first proposed to Maude, was only too much pleased to answer Yes. And when J.C. insisted upon an early day, she named the 5th of March, her twentieth birthday. She was to be married at home, and as the preparations for the wedding would cause a great amount of bustle and confusion in the house, it seemed necessary that Maude should know the cause, and with a beating heart Nellie went to her one day to tell the news. Very composedly Maude listened to the story, and then as composedly replied, “I am truly glad, and trust you will be happy.”

“So I should be,” answered Nellie, “if I were sure you did not care.”

“Care! for whom?” returned Maude. “For J.C. De Vere? Every particle of love for him has died out, and I am now inclined to think I never entertained for him more than a girlish fancy, while he certainly did not truly care for me.”

This answer was very quieting to Nellie’s conscience, and in unusually good spirits she abandoned herself to the excitement which usually precedes a wedding. Mrs. Kennedy, too, entered heart and soul into the matter, and arming herself with the plea, that “it was his only daughter, who would probably never be married again,” she coaxed her husband into all manner of extravagances, and by the 1st of March few would have recognized the interior of the house, so changed was it by furniture and repairs. Handsome damask curtains shaded the parlor windows, which were further improved by large heavy panes of glass. Matty’s piano had been removed to Maude’s chamber, and its place supplied by a new and costly instrument, which the crafty woman made her husband believe was intended by Mrs. Kelsey, who selected it, as a bridal present for her niece. The furnace was in splendid order, keeping the whole house, as Hannah said, “hotter than an oven,” while the disturbed doctor lamented daily over the amount of fuel it consumed, and nightly counted the contents of his purse or reckoned up how much he was probably worth. But neither his remonstrances nor yet his frequent groans had any effect upon his wife. Although she had no love for Nellie, she was determined upon a splendid wedding, one which would make folks talk for months, and when her liege lord complained of the confusion, she suggested to him a furnished room in the garret, where it would be very quiet for him to reckon up the bill, which from time to time she brought him.

“Might as well gin in at oncet,” John said to him one day, when he borrowed ten dollars for the payment of an oyster bill. “I tell you she’s got more besom in her than both them t’other ones.”

The doctor probably thought so too, for he became comparatively submissive, though he visited often the sunken graves, where he found a mournful solace in reading, “Katy, wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged twenty-nine,”-“Matty, second wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged thirty,” and once he was absolutely guilty of wondering how the words, “Maude, third wife of Dr. Kennedy, aged forty-one,” would look. But he repented him of the wicked thought, and when on his return from his “graveyard musings,” Maude, aged forty-one, asked him for the twenty dollars which she saw a man pay to him that morning, he gave it to her without a word.

Meanwhile the fickle J.C. in Rochester was one moment regretting the step he was about to take and the next wishing the day would hasten, so he could “have it over with.” Maude Remington had secured a place in his affections which Nellie could not fill, and though he had no wish to marry her now, he tried to make himself believe that but for her misfortune she should still have become his wife.

“Jim would marry her, I dare say, even if she were blind as a bat,” he said; “but then he is able to support her,” and reminded by this of an unanswered letter from his cousin, who was still in New Orleans, he sat down and wrote, telling him of Maude’s total blindness, and then, almost in the next sentence saying that his wedding was fixed for the 5th of March. “There,” he exclaimed, as he read over the letter, “I believe I must be crazy, for I never told him that the bride was Nellie; but no matter, I’d like to have him think me magnanimous for a while, and I want to hear what he says.”

Two weeks or more went by, and then there came an answer, fraught with sympathy for Maude, and full of commendation for J.C., who “had shown himself a man.”

Accompanying the letter was a box containing a most exquisite set of pearls for the bride, together with a diamond ring, on which was inscribed, “Cousin Maude.”

“Aint I in a deuced scrape,” said J.C., as he examined the beautiful ornaments; “Nellie would be delighted with them, but she shan’t have them; they are not hers. I’ll write to Jim at once, and tell him the mistake,” and seizing his pen he dashed off a few lines, little guessing how much happiness they would carry to the far-off city, where daily and nightly James De Vere fought manfully with the love that clung with a deathlike grasp to the girl J.C. had forsaken, the poor, blind, helpless Maude.