“But, doctor, don’t you bandage the eye? And my room was kept dark after the other operation was performed.”
“No, madam, the room must be light, and I do not bandage the eye.”
The days went by, each new one revealing some half-forgotten picture to the patient. She already loved Dr. Douglas as a son, and her bodily infirmities, real or fancied, were fast vanishing away. Ralph had been found, and a telegram said he was coming. Easter eve was here, and as the doctor took leave his grateful patient bade him good-night with unusual feeling,
“Through you,” she said, “I am made to realize the precious promise, ’At evening time it shall be light.’ Think what this anniversary must be to me! The morning will celebrate the resurrection of Him who was the Light of the world. Light, light, everywhere! How can I be thankful enough!”
“To-morrow I will set you free, my dear madam, and if you feel that I have done you a service, perhaps I may show you how to repay me.” And with a warm pressure of her hand, and an unspoken good-night to Doris, he went away.
At the dawn of the morning Doris stood beside her mother when she awoke, and said lightly: “Whom do you want to see besides your grumpy old Doris, this bright morning?”
“Is he here? Ralph—my boy—has he come?” And his fond arms enwrapped her in joy too deep for words. She could not look at him enough—her bronzed and bearded baby boy.
Later on the doctor called, but he did not at once interrupt the mother and son. When at last he walked into the cheerful family room it was with Doris by his side.
“My dear Mrs. Hadyn,” he began, “do you want to make me as grateful as you say you are? If so, only look!”
With the uncertain timidity she had not yet learned to overcome, she directed her once sightless eyes toward him. He stood with Doris clasped in his arms. The mother had not heeded his words of the previous evening, for they bore no hidden meaning to her. A light now broke over her features, while Ralph smilingly watched her.
“Doris, my child, how long have you loved this man?” were the only words she found to say.
“So long, mother, that I shall not try to remember.”
WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY
NOTE—This story is built upon a legend of Mammoth Cave.
The open mouth of Kentucky’s far-famed cavern yawned huge and black. On the brow of the hill, ready to descend the winding rock stairway, stood a group of young people picturesquely attired in the bloomer costume of cave-explorers. They were disputing as to whether to take the long or short route first, unmindful of the guide, who ventured to hint that time was slipping away.
“If we take the long route first we will be too tired for the short one,” said one.
“Oh, that will never do!” exclaimed another, “I must see the Chapel and the Star Chamber. That is about all I came for.”