"SIGHTLESS COURIERS OF THE AIR."

       Trouble had come to my dear wife Florence and me in the early days of our married life — terrible trouble, which this simple narrative will both explain and remove — but for a year past we had been living in calm felicity in an Eastern manufacturing town, where through the loyalty of my friend Bagley I had obtained work as bookkeeper in one of the mills. I make no pretensions to being strong-minded, and the lack is a lucky one, I think. Whatever is strong is apt to be stiff and rigid, and if overtried will break, since it cannot bend. My mind, such as it is, is elastic. When I am joyous, it never acts the skeleton at the feast by reminding; on the contrary, it urges: "Go ahead, old fellow, and have a good time. When there is nothing else to do, then make yourself miserable, if you like, with regrets and lamentations."

       Florence, naturally, is more pensive. I have often seen her, in those first days, when bitterness would recur, fairly forcing herself to be blithe, so as to be companionable with me. Such exertion is never wasted; it accumulates a reserve which develops into habit. Now she worries less than I do, and when I worry the weather must be gloomy, my feet wet, my pockets and my stomach empty, and something wrong with Florence. In a word, we love each other so dearly that common decency keeps us from noticing the specks which flit through our genial sunlight.

       Of course, in this town of our exile we had no friends; not that we craved any, but we couldn't have had any, however urgent our desire. I say, "of course," though the reason therefor must at present be taken on faith; it existed, and lustily, never fear. Evenings, then, after supper, it was our wont to sit down to a cozy game of cribbage, and, with the lamp on the stand between us sending a gentle glow over all the little comforts which were such great ones through Florence's taste, and with the many exciting and merry incidents of the game, it did seem as if time made a double spurt out of envy, because he had to stick to his scythe and glass and owl and all the other old curiosity shop odds and ends which he deems essential to his personality. One evening, when we had been overgay, for Florence had made a succession of false plays, to our mutual raillery, she rose from the table of a sudden and went somewhat unsteadily, I noticed, over to the little rocking chair by the window, in which she used to sew and watch for my home coming.

       "Come over here, Harry," she said. "Turn down the light and come over by me. I want to talk with you."

       Now, if I had been strong-minded, doubtless the strength would have sustained my heart; as it was, however, down it plumped to the stretching of its strings, for I felt that some evil was about to be revealed, not some evil to me — that I could face and withstand with a jest — but alas! some evil to Florence.

       I passed over and sat by my wife's side, holding her hand for a few moments in silence. Then something occurred which recalled a scene when she had sat by me in shameful confinement, administering comfort; a tear fell on my hand, and there burned like the blazon of love.

       "O Florence, Florence! what is it?" I cried. "Why did you wish the light turned low?"

       "I wanted to feel for the telling that we were alike in the darkness," Florence replied, "for, Harry, I am going blind."

       "Blind!" I repeated, mechanically, and then a thousand trifles thronged my memory, once disregarded and now avenged by the gibe, "I told you so"; the mistakes at cards, the uncertain steps, the groping after things mislaid. "It cannot be! It shall not be!" I shouted. And then — and then — ah! I cannot relate the soothings of which I was the object, the soft, submissive words of gratefulness for blessings vouchsafed in the midst or so awful a calamity! Her dear eyes, whose very light had been beneficence toward me! Even now, when the evil days are dead and buried, I cannot endure the possibility of her affliction, and so we never speak of it, and, if reference does occur, we merely smile at each other, though we smile through tears.

       I remember when the shadow of my own trouble first rested on me, the words of an old servant, with whom I had ever been a favorite. "Face it, Master Harry! she had said; "you must face it." And so, when at length Florence and I did face it, the fact seemed to be that day by day her eyesight was fading. Yesterday she could see but little, to-day less. To-morrow —?

       "It shall not be!" I vowed. "There is Dr. Duane in the very next street; the speech of people, the papers, are filled with his wondrous skill as an optician. I will stop and send him the first thing in the morning. He will prevent, he will cure, oh! I know he will!"

       And Florence was so confident, too, that we went to our rest comforted, though I knew in that secret conviction that never deludes through glamour, that she would willingly deceive herself, if haply she might deceive me.

       Yes, though shut out from the world, I had heard of Dr. Raymond Duane, and in the unanimous voice of praise. A young man still, he had enjoyed unusual advantages at home and abroad, and had profited by them. People never seemed to tire of telling of his ability, his nerve, his kindliness, which seemed to combine into a sort of spirit of adventure. Sorely, sorely, was I in need of three virtues when I called at his door. It was early, I was hurried; for when one in my position obtains employment, there can be no deviation from the line of faithfulness, whether through sickness or sorrow, or any other misfortune. My stringency stood me in good stead, however, for there were not patients awaiting, and I was shown at once into the breakfast room, where the doctor was taking such cheer as dares lurk in bachelor loneliness. He was a young man, as I have said, of middle height, spare, with a pale, impassive, clean-shaven face, and small eyes, which would have seemed mean, had they not been so bright and sharp.

       "Well?" he asked abruptly, never pausing from his roll and eggs.

       I told him my name and address, and Florence's stress. I had begun to state my moderate circumstances when he interrupted. "Not necessary," he said. "I'll call and do what I can. We will talk later, when we can talk understandingly. Good morning."

       Cool and abrupt, but not ill natured. there was a nimbus of power emanating from this man, which, if it didn't console, at least kept me so far removed from desperation that I was enabled to perform my daily task like the calculating machine I was expected to be. Home at last! And there was Florence watching in the little sewing chair by the window; there was Florence holding the door wide open before I reached the threshold. Less though her sight was than on the day before, still it was keen enough to see me!

       "I like him, Harry," she cried, before I could ask. "And he's going to help me. Remember this, dear, while I tell you all he said; he's going to help me, but — but — I shall be worse before I'm better. Only for a little while, you know; nothing more than if I had to stay in a dark room for a few days; and then light, and my boy's beloved face again! He's going to help me; never for one instant forget this, dear."

       "But what can we do?" I moaned, feeling as if the world had started a-twirling the wrong way. "I must work, and you can't be left alone and helpless in — in — that dark room! O my God! I must work or we'll starve; yet perhaps that would be the best ending!"

       "Hush, Harry," said Florence. "You forget he's going to help me. I've had time to make my plans, and I'm sure you'll think they're wise ones. Of course, mamma is out of the question. Poor, dear mamma, it's natural that she should be so vindictive. But there's Polly. And do you know I could see quite well enough to write her to come — just for a short visit, you know — which I did?"

       I think this fact brightened me a little: at least, Florence could still see. Perhaps the doctor might help her to be better before she was worse. The most skillful physician looks on the dark side, and reasonably so, since his point of attack so often lies in the shadow of death. I little reckoned the infinite pain and difficulty under which that letter had been written. So I have ever been childishly tossed by hope, as if the strength of a nurse could send one to the stars.

       And there was Polly, truly. Pretty Polly Chester, my wife's cousin, who was still living at our old home. I liked Polly, she was so bright, sweet-tempered, and capable. She had not been irreconcilable nor bitter; she had seem to trust, when all the others had doubted. Of course she would come and be light to that dark room for that little while, which might not even be a little while.

       "Oh, the doctor wishes to see you at 8 o'clock," said Florence suddenly, after I had eaten my supper. "Suddenly," as if I did not realize as I hurried to the appointment that her forgetfulness had been a preventive to my worrying.

       Certainly the doctor was friendly for a stranger. He brought me up into his study and sat me in a comfortable chair by the grate, with as good a cigar as an ally as I ever smoked in my best days. It was not until long after that I appreciated that the light must have shone full and strong on my face.

       "I am deeply interested in your wife's case," Dr. Duane began. "It is mysterious, and I'm a student; hence the interest. There is no growth or blemish or degeneration. Her eyes are functionally sound and strong; but their nerves are affected through the reflex action of some shock, I should judge. I believe I can tone and restore them, though there's certain to be a period of absolute disability. In order that this may be as brief as possible, I must ask your confidence."

       "I told you my name," I replied.

       "Yes: Henry Hilton, formerly of Oldenburg. Well?"

       "Well?" I repeated gloomily.

       "Oh, I see," he mused. "There is some notoriety of which you think I must have heard. My good Sir, as I said before, I'm a student and my time is valuable. When I read I seek reliable information. Hence I never read the newspapers."

       "Well, then," I declared, "a year ago I was a prisoner in the jail at Oldenburg, awaiting trial for the murder of Zenas Prime, my wife's father, at whose house we lived, and with whom I had been in business."

       "Yes?" said the doctor, with polite attention, as if I had stated that a year ago I took a trip down the St. Lawrence and thence through the White Mountains. "Yes?"

       "I was tried and the jury disagreed, standing ten to two for acquittal, I believe. The District Attorney finally concluded that the proof was not strong enough to justify him in putting the county to the expense of a second trial, and consented that I should be let go on bail. Through the offices of a friend I obtained employment in this place, and here I am. From all this, can you deduct a sufficient shock to a loving and loyal wife?"

       The doctor whistled softly, and then remained for a space in silence.

       "You don't protest your innocence," at length he remarked.

       "Protest? When I was first arrested I couldn't find words or time enough for the purpose. But I'm sick and tired of protesting. People listened eagerly just as they read with avidity whatever the papers are pleased to publish about the ancestry, birth, education, disposition, signs of degeneracy, and former crimes of an accused. But as for making any impression upon what coalesced into one impassive, cynical face, with rather an amused expression, too. I might just as well have wasted my breath in trying to blow away a mountain. After all, there were suspicious circumstances against me, and not against any one else. My father-in-law was a hard, avaricious man, who, as it was proved, had cheated me, and with whom I had quarreled. Naturally then, I administered the dose of poison from which he died."

       "You're a queer fellow," observed the doctor.

       "Go through a similar experience, and see if you're not queer yourself."

       "Oh, I'm queer enough, already. For instance, I don't believe you are guilty."

       "Why don't you?" I asked, rather defiantly, I fear.

       "Well, for one thing, it's the man who has injured rather than he who has been wronged who is apt to commit a cowardly murder. Of course, the latter might strike down the former in a sudden burst of passion, but to sneak, to lie in wait, no, no! Besides, poisoning is essentially a feminine crime — women, I think, are braver than men, but their bravery is passive, not active. They dare, but they shrink from perceiving what they would do. Now, poison is an agent; hence a murderous woman would naturally choose it, and hide her face and have hysterics while it was performing its deadly mission. If you had made this subject a study, you might retort that slaves have ever been addicted to poisoning. Most true; but the essential of slavery is dependence, and women are our dependent class. What sort of poison was used, by the way?"

       "Oh, the commonest sort, which is sold every day to everybody for the destruction of vermin. Do you know, the District Attorney made a point out of this against me, arguing that a shrewd man would select some such ordinary household stuff to avoid tracing. I couldn't help from agreeing with him, though I'm not a shrewd man, however much people insisted to the contrary directly I was charged."

       "You're not sore, you're not sensitive, you're quite indifferent, now aren't you?" reflected the doctor, with a pleasant little laugh. "By the way, who composed Mr. Prime's family?"

       "My mother-in-law, Mrs. Prime, a sedate, severe old lady; Miss Chester, her niece; my wife, and myself; several prim, old-fashioned maid servants; a prim, old-fashioned butler; these have been in service for years, and still remain there; good, faithful souls, without wants or grievance — no one could suspect them."

       "Perhaps not, perhaps not. And Miss Chester, she is the cousin for whom your wife has written, I suppose. I heartily approve of the plan."

       "Yes; Polly is a bright, merry girl, thoughtless, yet unselfish, and never so happy as when doing a kindness. Her uncle used to call her his sunbeam. But I must hurry away, my poor wife is waiting —"

       "Don't be so impatient, my friend," rejoined the doctor. "Perhaps you will best serve your wife by abiding my time, which is too valuable for me to waste. What friends were in the habit of coming to Mr. Prime's house?"

       "Oh, the Mackinnans, the Murrays, the Dunbars — sober, respectable folks, belonging to the Scotch Church, which the Primes attended. The stupidest detective in the world, and I employ the ultimate example of crassness, wouldn't have wasted a thought on any of them."

       "It is a far cry from a claymore to a poison," agreed the doctor; "and so, according to our socratic method, you seem the most likely object of suspicion."

       "That's what I told you in the first place," I interrupted, "and I'm well content to remain so. I have been behind the scenes, and I know the value of the puppets of honor and esteem and friendship for which men strive. Never, never would I have submitted to your questioning, except for the reason you gave. And now, I trust you are fully informed. Of course, my wife has been shocked. My disgrace and peril nearly killed her! But love is stronger than death; we live for each other; and, oh, if you can only remove this affliction from her, there won't be a flaw or blemish to my thanksgiving, I assure you."

       "With your pride, impatience, and indignation, you're a rare specimen of a thoroughly self-satisfied man, Mr. Hilton," said the doctor, mockingly. "There, there, don't be angry; I am all the more sympathetic for veiling my sympathy. I thank you for your confidence, which has not been idly sought. Whatever skill and cunning I have of brain and hand shall be devoted to your wife's cure, which, believe me, will be achieved in time. And so good-night, and may courage and persistence attend you?"

       A queer fellow, truly; queerer than ever I had been in my queerest days; and yet, as I hastened home to Florence, I could but repeat her words, "I like him; oh! I like him!"

       And so, though those dark days came with a rush and settled, oh! so tediously, Florence and I were kept from despair by the belief that it would be only for a little while. Then, too, Polly was prompt in her arrival, and, though I never had cared for Mr. Prime's views on any subject, I found even more than truth hi that "sunbeam" simile. She was so blithe and entertaining, so assiduous toward Florence, so charmingly saucy to me; she removed the gloom of the present and brought back all the joys of the past. At first we had tried to stick to cribbage, I against the two girls; but soon, ah! so soon, Florence had to shun all light and chose to sit in her little sewing chair in the shadowy window nook. So there was no recourse but in talking, and there Polly led us a merry dance. She suggested and revived the thousand and one trifles which go to make up folklore. The misadventures, slips, puns, jokes, secret comments on friends, defects in acquaintances, trials, even, converted by time into pleasantry, which, in every family not constituted of stone and putty, form a deliciously private and personal language, untranslatable, well-nigh inexplainable. "Coterie talk," so the Germans, those experts in domesticity, call it, which so often is the blend into affection of inharmonious and discordant elements.

       I must confess that Polly and I did most of the chattering. Still, if Florence was more silent, she appreciated just as vividly and laughed, oh, so unrestrainedly. It did my heart good to hear her, though I throttled many a sob in my throat which rose responsive to her unselfish mirth. Little wonder, indeed, that the blind should be taciturn. A sleepless vigil through the watches of the night will say: "Hush, for voices unheard and inarticulate now are calling!"

       But one evening, Florence fairly vied with me in jocund remembrances. The faithful doctor, cautious even in his promises, had been undeniably sanguine that morning; already her dear spirit was preparing to forget and to rejoice.

       "And is old Mrs. Murray still alive, Polly?" I was asking; "and does she wear that same bird's-nest bonnet perched on her false hair?"

       "She is not dead, but she sleepeth as usual right through the service from long prayer to her namesake, 'The Old Hundredth,'" retorted Polly. "But her false hair is gradually perching on top of her bird's-nest bonnet —"

       "Oh, dear, oh, dear," laughed Florence. "Such comical people as we have known! Tell me, Polly, is Sandy Mackinnon as devoted as ever. You remember Sandy, don't you, Harry? That great lump of an innocent, with bulging watery eyes, and a hyena's grin."

       "And two teeth, 'arcades ambo' — that is, both yellow?" I interrupted. "I should say I did. He was always clinging to Polly's skirts like an overgrown baby. Really, Polly, such infatuation is dangerous — supposing he should become jealous! Why, he could destroy the entire community with perfect impunity!"

       "Oh, an idiot is always harmless," said Polly. "Sandy wouldn't hurt a fly. I couldn't imagine his killing anybody."

       I could have bitten off my tongue for having provoked such a heedless answer and have shaken this frivolous girl for having made it. I glanced over to Florence. She had drawn her chair further into the recess and was resting her head on her hand in a weary way. So I made haste to change the subject.

       "And the Dudleys," I exclaimed, with enforced gayety. "Those five long superannuated girls, and the one forlorn little boy who drew pictures of his father in the hymn book! You surely must remember, Florence. My God! child, what is the matter?" And I sprang to her side, for as I had bent forward, I had caught a glimpse of her face and it was ghastly as if from horror!

       "I am so very tired," said Florence, feebly. "I wish you would help me to my room, Harry," and as I bore her away her hands clung to my coat, as the hands of a little child will cling from sudden fright. And when we were together in her room she gave way unto a burst of tears, hysterical, broken, gasping; piteous to hear, and piteous to behold!

       "My darling, what is it? what is it?" I entreated. "Surely our silly talk didn't distress you. Have I hurt your feelings in any way?"

       "You!" Florence cried, with a vehemence which seemed to stay her agitation. "I thank God for one thing, Harry. I appreciate more clearly than I ever did before how absolutely you love me. But, but," and then the tremors, the sobs, the strivings for breath returned like a legion of devils reinforced.

       I own I had exhausted my powers of soothing, of expostulation, of command, when from below came the tones of a welcome voice. Our faithful doctor had called as apt in his faithfulness as in all his other good qualities.

       "Go! send him to me at once, at once," begged Florence, "and don't you come, Harry. I must see him alone."

       I tried to explain this inexplicable distraction in a few incoherent words to the doctor, and then he left Polly and me to our wonderment. I must admit the girl was subtle in her powers of sympathy, subtle and, I believe, sincere. She pooh-poohed and belittled the scene. Was an old married man such as I still so ignorant of the ways of women? She must say that Florence had shown unusual self-control. Had she herself been doomed to sit day after day in total darkness, not knowing, too, but it might outlast life, she would have long since screamed the roof off. As for me, well, she would just like to see me after twenty-four hours of blindness! St. Vitus's dance would be inertia to my twitchings. Oh, the men, they were all alike; and she did despise them for poor creatures without any stamina or endurance!

       And so I was already half comforted, when at length the doctor came down with comforting news. Florence was quiet once more and he didn't think the perturbations would recur. As for her eyes, they were distinctly better. He could assert now, what he had believed all along, that their sight would soon be restored unimpaired. Let her sleep as much as possible; and by no means question her regarding her nervous fears. Oh, how thankful I felt as I sought my poor darling. She lay, whiter than the snowy coverlet spread over her, with face still betraying the lines and the blurs of emotion, yet calm, with a serenity including but beyond that of exhaustion. Her lips trembled as she spoke, yet they smiled to the vanquishment of that trembling. "I thought I was going mad, dear," she whispered, and then fell asleep, clinging like a little child to my hand.

       The next few weeks brought wondrous, rapturous changes, for the doctor's prophecy came true, and Florence saw once more; and curious trivial changes, for, though we were one in rejoicing, she had very little to say regarding her recovery, or, indeed, anything else. I noticed, too, that, especially toward Polly, Florence acted peculiarly — not that she was positively unkind, but somewhat indifferent and at times somewhat severe. Her whole bearing also had altered; she carried herself almost haughtily, and again and again I noticed her dear eyes flashing and an excitable color rising in her cheeks. But I was too happy to be critical or captious. I readily accepted Polly's explanation that no one could act naturally at once after such a strain.

       The doctor's calls became briefer and less frequent; and at length ceased for a full fortnight. Then, one evening, while Florence and I were at our old game of cribbage and Polly sat at one side reading, he entered the room without ceremony. I saw that bright, almost fierce light shine in Florence's eyes; I saw that burning flush flash through her cheeks; and I expected something, I knew not what.

       "You are quite a stranger, doctor," I began.

       "Yes," he said, calmly; "I've been doing a little detective work as a vacation. I've been busied at your native town, Mr. Hilton, with the result that the murderer of Mr. Prime has been apprehended and has confessed. He turned out to be that imbecile Sandy Mackinnon. You remember our conversation? A curious verification of my theory that a poisoner is likely to be a dependent —"

       Here there was a sweep and a fall, and Polly Chester lay prone at our feet moaning, "Mercy, mercy!"

       Pretty, blithe, good-natured Polly, what had she to do with such a humiliating posture, with such shameful words?

       "Yes, dear Harry," said Florence, softly, "as we have suffered, so we must be merciful."

       "Since you are well again, I don't care anything about the affair," I protested. "But I don't understand —"

       "You needn't exert your powers, Miss Chester," said the doctor, raising Polly and leading her to her chair, where she crouched rather sullenly. "Your silly admirer never mentioned your name. He merely avowed the deed and told where he had procured the poison, and where he had hidden the part not used, and then went off into a succession of convulsions which landed him in an asylum, and will shortly send him into his grave; but for the future I would advise you to reserve your fascinations for more rational objects —"

       "I had no connection with it," cried Polly, boldly; "I merely suspected that he might have done it, for he was very angry one day when uncle scolded me. And, if Harry had ever been in real danger I would have told the little I knew. As it was, it wasn't at all necessary, and such a fuss is ridiculous; as for fascinating him, I never did. I can't help it if I'm attractive to men. They are all fools in that respect." And pretty Polly, tossing her head, went to her room, and the next day departed for home; and never vouchsafed further explanation. There are some pretty, blithe, good-natured women who would flirt with a mummy rather than not flirt at all.

       "But how," I asked, "how was it discovered?"

       "Don't you remember, dear," said Florence, solemnly; "that evening when I became so excited? I thought I was losing my reason. For, when Polly spoke of that poor Sandy Mackinnon, and how he could not kill anybody, I seemed to hear falsity in her tones — yes, and very knowledge that he had killed some one, too. And, oh, I was so terrified. But then the doctor came, and explained —"

       "I explained," continued the doctor, didactically, "that an abnormal acuteness of the remaining senses during the temporary loss of one. is a well-authenticated phenomenon. And more, that there sometimes comes to the afflicted an intuition for truth far beyond sight or reason. And so I acted on the clue — but you don't care about the affair, Mr. Hilton?"

       "Oh, that is only Harry's way," protested Florence, "of showing his devotion to me."

(THE END)