“You is goin’ off, Dotty Dimpwil.”

“Yes, dear, and you must kiss me.”

“No, not now; you isn’t gone yet.  You’s goin’ nex’ day after this day.”

Miss Dimple and Horace exchanged glances, for they had an important secret between them.

“Dotty, does you want to hear me crow like Bantie?  ’Cause,” added Katie, with a pitying glance at her cousin, “’cause you can’t bear me bimeby, when you didn’t be to my house.”

“That will do, you blessed little Topknot,” cried Horace, as the shrill crowing died on the air, and the pink bud of a mouth took its own shape again.  “Now I just mean to tell you something nice, for you might as well know it and be happy a day longer:  mother and you and I are going to Indianapolis to-morrow with Dotty ­going in the cars.”

“O!” exclaimed the child, whirling about like a leaf in a breeze.  “Going to ‘Naplis, yidin’ in the cars!  O my shole!”

“Yes, and you’ll be good all day ­won’t you, darling, and not hide mamma’s spools?”

“Yes, I won’t if I don’t ’member.  We for salt, salt, salt,” sang Flyaway (meaning mi, fa, sol).  Then she ran to the bureau, perched herself before it on an ottoman, and talked to herself in the glass.

“Now you be good gell all day, Katie Clifford ­not dishbey your mamma, not hide her freds o’ spools, say fank you please.  O my shole!”

So Katie was made happy for twenty-four hours.

“After we sleep one more time,” said she, “then we shall go.”

She wished to sleep that “one more time” with Dotty; but her little head was so full of the journey that she aroused her bedfellow in the middle of the night, calling out, ­

“We’s goin’ to ‘Naplis, ­we for salt, salt, salt, ­yidin’ in the cars, Dotty Dimpwil.”

It was some time before Dotty could come out of dreamland, and understand what Katie said.

“Won’t you please to hush?” she whispered faintly, and turned away her face, for the new moon was shining into her eyes.

“Let’s we get up,” cried Katie, shaking her by the shoulders; “don’t you see the sun’s all corned up bwight?”

“O, that’s nothing but just the moon, Katie Clifford.”

“O ho! is um the moon?  Who cutted im in two?” said Flyaway, and dropped to sleep again.

Dotty was really sorry to leave aunt Maria’s pleasant house, and the charming novelties of Out West.

“Phebe,” said she, with a quiver in her voice, when she received the tomato pincushion, “I like you just as well as if you wasn’t black.  And, Katinka, I like you just as well as if you wasn’t Dutch.  You can cook better things than Norah, if your hair isn’t so nice.”

This speech pleased Katinka so much that she patted the letter O’s on each side of her head with great satisfaction, and was very sorry she had not made some chocolate cakes for Dotty to eat in the cars.

Uncle Henry did not like to part with his bright little niece.  She had been so docile and affectionate during her visit, that he began to think her very lovely, and to wonder he had ever supposed she had a wayward temper.

The ride to Indianapolis was a very pleasant one.  Katie thought she had the care of the whole party, and her little face was full of anxiety.

“Don’t you tubble yourself, mamma,” said She; “I’ll look out the winner, and tell you when we get there.”

“Don’t let her fall out, Horace,” said Mrs. Clifford; “I have a headache, and you must watch her.”

“Has you got a headache, mamma?  I’s solly.  Lean ’gainst me, mamma.”

Horace wished the conductor had been in that car, so he could have seen Miss Flyaway trying to prop her mother’s head against her own morsel of a shoulder ­about as secure a resting-place as a piece of thistle-down.

“When was it be dinner-time?” said she at last, growing very tired of so much care, and beginning to think “’Naplis” was a long way off.

But they arrived there at last, and found Mr. Parlin waiting for them at the depot.  After they had all been refreshed by a nice dinner, and Flyaway had caught a nap, which took her about as long as it takes a fly to eat his breakfast, then Mr. Parlin suggested that they should visit the Blind Asylum.

“Is it where they make blinds?” asked Dotty.

“O, no,” replied Mr. Parlin; “it is a school where blind children are taught.”

“What is they when they is blind, uncle Eddard?”

“They don’t see, my dear.”

Flyaway shut her eyes, just to give herself an idea of their condition, and ran against Horace, who saved her from falling.

“I was velly blind, then, Hollis,” said she, “and that’s what is it.”

“I don’t see,” queried Dotty, ­“I don’t see how people that can’t see can see to read; so what’s the use to go to school?”

“They read by the sense of feeling; the letters are raised,” said Mr. Parlin.  “But here we are at the Institute.”

They were in the pleasantest part of the city, standing before some beautiful grounds which occupied an entire square, and were enclosed by an iron fence.  In front of the building grew trees and shrubs, and on each side was a play-ground for the children.

“Why, that house has windows,” cried Dotty.  “I don’t see what people want of windows when they can’t see.”

“Nor me needer,” echoed Katie.  “What um wants winners, can’t see out of?”

They went up a flight of stone steps, and were met at the door by a blind waiting-girl, who ushered them into the visitors’ parlor.

“Is she blind-eyed?” whispered Flyaway, gazing at her earnestly.  “Her eyes isn’t shut up; where is the see gone to?”

Mrs. Clifford sent up her card, and the superintendent, who knew her well, came down to meet her.  He was also “blind-eyed,” but the children did not suspect it.  They were much interested in the specimens of bead-work which were to be seen In the show-cases.  Mr. Parlin bought some flowers, baskets, and other toys, to carry home to Susy and Prudy.  Horace said, ­

“These beads are strung on wires, and it would be easy enough to do that with one’s eyes shut; but it always did puzzle me to see how blind people can tell one color from another with the ends of their fingers.”

The superintendent smiled.

“That would be strange indeed if it were true,” said he; “but it is a mistake.  The colors are put into separate boxes, and that is the way the children distinguish them.”

“I suppose they are much happier for being busy,” said Mr. Parlin.  “It is a beautiful thing that they can be made useful.”

“So it is,” said the superintendent.  “I am blind myself, and I know how necessary employment is to my happiness.”

The children looked up at the noble face of the speaker with surprise.  Was he blind?

“Why does he wear glasses, then?” whispered Dotty.  “Grandma wears ’em because she can see a little, and wants to see more.”

The superintendent was amused.  As he could not see, Dotty had unconsciously supposed his hearing must be rather dull; but, on the contrary, it was very quick, and he had caught every word.

“I suppose, my child,” remarked he, playfully, “these spectacles of mine may be called the gravestones for my dead eyes.”

Dotty did not understand this; but she was very sorry she had spoken so loud.

After looking at the show-cases as long as they liked, the visitors went across the hall into the little ones’ school-room.  This was a very pleasant place, furnished with nice desks; and at one end were book-cases containing “blind books” with raised letters.  Horace soon discovered that the Old Testament was in six volumes, each volume as large as a family Bible.

In this cheerful room were twenty or thirty boys and girls.  They looked very much like other children, only they did not appear to notice that any one was entering, and scarcely turned their heads as the door softly opened.

Dotty had a great many new thoughts.  These unfortunate little ones were very neatly dressed, yet they had never seen themselves in the glass; and how did they know whether their hair was rough or smooth, or parted in the middle?  How could they tell when they dropped grease-spots on those nice clothes?

“I don’t see,” thought Dotty, “how they know when to go to bed!  O, dear!  I should get up in the night and think ’twas morning; only I should s’pose ’twas night all the whole time, and not any stars either!  When my father spoke to me, I should think it was my mother, and say, ‘Yes’m.’  And p’rhaps I should think Prudy was a beggar-man with a wig on.  And never saw a flower nor a tree!  O, dear!”

While she was musing in this way, and gazing about her with eager eyes which saw everything, the children were reading aloud from their odd-looking books.  It was strange to see their small fingers fly so rapidly over the pages.  Horace said it was “a touching sight.”

“I wonder,” went on Dotty to herself, “if they should tease God very hard, would he let their eyes come again?  No, I s’pose not.”

Then she reflected further that perhaps they were glad to be blind; she hoped so.  The teacher now called out a class in geography, and began to ask questions.

“What can you tell me about the inhabitants of Utah?” said she.

“I know,” spoke up a little boy with black hair, and eyes which would have been bright if the lids had not shut them out of sight, ­“I know; Utah is inhabited by a religious insect called Mormons.”

The superintendent and visitors knew that he meant sect and they laughed at the mistake; all but Dotty and Flyaway, who did not consider it funny at all.  Flyaway was seated in a chair, busily engaged in picking dirt out of the heels of her boots with a pin.

Horace was much interested in the atlases and globes, upon the surface of which the land rose up higher than the water, and the deserts were powdered with sand.  These blind children could travel all about the world with their fingers as well as he could with eyes and a pointer.

The teacher ­a kind-looking young lady ­was quite pleased when Mr. Parlin said to her, ­

“I see very little difference between this and the Portland schools for small children.”

She wished, and so did the teachers in the other three divisions, to have the pupils almost forget they were blind.

She allowed them to sing and recite poetry for the entertainment of their visitors.  Some of them had very sweet voices, and Mrs. Clifford listened with tears.  Their singing recalled to her mind the memory of beautiful things, as music always does; and then she remembered that through their whole lives these children must grope in darkness.  She felt more sorrowful for them than they felt for themselves.  These dear little souls, who would never see the sun, were very happy, and some of them really supposed it was delightful to be blind.

Their teacher desired them to come forward, if they chose, and repeat sentences of their own composing.  Some things they said were very odd.  One bright little girl remarked very gravely, ­

“Happy are the blind, for they see no ghosts.”

This made her companions all laugh.  “Yes, that’s true,” thought Dotty.  “If people should come in here with ever so many pumpkins and candles inside, these blind children wouldn’t know it; they couldn’t be frightened.  I wonder where they ever heard of ghosts.  There must have been some naughty girl here, like Angeline.”