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.'
[Illustration: EVA PRAYING FOR STRENGTH TO SAY THE WORDS.]
"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.
"'My hair is stiff with the hateful soap,
That behind my ears is dripping;
My smarting eyes, I'm afraid to ope,
And my lips the suds are sipping.
"'They're down my throat, and they're up my nose,
And to choke me you seem to be trying,
That I'll shut my mouth, you needn't suppose,
For how can I keep from crying?
"'And you rub as hard as ever you can,
And your hands are hard, to my sorrow;
No woman shall wash me, when I'm a man,
And I wish I was one to-morrow.'
"But at last Arthur went sulking down to breakfast, _forgetting to say
his prayers_; and taking his seat at the table, whined out, the very
first thing--'Just look at this piece of toast; it is all burnt, and as
hard as a stone. I won't have it!' Then he tasted his coffee, and
exclaimed--'Pooh! what coffee! perfect slops!'
"His mother was grieved to see him acting so naughtily, and said,
gently--'I am sorry, Arthur, you are not pleased; will you have an egg?'
"Arthur cracked an egg with his teaspoon, looked at it, threw it down,
and turning up his nose with disdain, said--'Eggs! Brickbats you mean!
they have been boiling all night.'
"This exhibition of ill temper distressed his mother exceedingly, but
she did not say any thing to him then; being a woman of excellent sense,
she formed a plan in her mind which she hoped would effect a cure.
"Arthur was an only child. His parents were rich, and they preferred
that he should be educated at home; they feared his learning evil as
well as good at a large school. Hitherto this plan had been very
successful, for Arthur was as studious and obedient as his tutors could
possibly wish; and this sudden and sad change made all around him
unhappy. I will give you a history of one of these miserable days.
"On this morning, his tutor arrived, as usual, at nine o'clock; and
commenced by giving his pupil a lesson in penmanship. There was an
ominous scowl on Arthur's face. He twitched his copy-book before him,
pretended he could not find a good pen, scratched and blotted the paper
from top to bottom, and so, when the lesson was finished, the page was
a sight to behold.
"'You have not tried to write well,' said his master, mildly.
"'My pen was abominable, and the paper was greasy,' said Arthur,
sulkily.
"'A bad workman always pretends that his _tools_ are to blame,' said the
master.
"'Oh, dear me! you are never satisfied! If I write too lightly, you say
it looks as if a spider had scampered over the paper with inky legs; if
I bear on harder, you ask me how much horse power I have put on to make
such heavy strokes. I don't know what to do! I don't! You are always
grumbling.'
"'Oh, no! not always, for here are a great many pages on which I have
written, "Very well; very well, indeed."'
"'That was only by chance,' said Arthur.