"i wonder if i shall find that they have heard i from mr. basset," thought margaret cummings, as she entered the grounds of the glen one fine june morning, some few days after the master of the house had set out on his journey to boulogne; "i hope so i am sure—whatever news he may have had to send. anything is better than suspense. poor josephine! she's very brave, but the sight of her white, set face shows what she's enduring. ah, there she is beneath the porch, on the look out for me! then there's news! now, what is it?"
from under the porch a slim figure, clad in a blue cotton dress, darted forth into the brilliant june sunshine to meet her, with a radiant countenance eloquent of happiness and joy. gone were the white, set features of the previous day! the governess paused, a feeling of intense relief filling her heart, and cried—
"oh, my dear, you have had good news then?"
"yes!" josephine replied, "the best of news! father is going to recover! the doctors say so! his life is out of danger! and before long he will be brought back to a hospital in england, and—and, oh, hasn't god been merciful to me?"
though generally one of the most undemonstrative of people, margaret cummings threw her arms around josephine and kissed her. her caress was returned warmly and gratefully.
"we've not had a very long letter from uncle john," josephine continued, "because he's coming home almost immediately, and he'll be able to explain all about father then. he says he can do no good by staying at boulogne; but he's glad he went, for he wouldn't have been satisfied if he hadn't seen father. do you know, he had to have his photograph taken in different positions, and there were other delays before he could leave england? but when, at last, he reached boulogne all his difficulties were over, for there he fell in with a french gentleman who could speak english and helped him in every way he could. wasn't that kind and good of the french gentleman? and he and uncle john were strangers to each other, too!"
"it seems to me that in these days kindness and goodness are constantly appearing unexpectedly! i am glad mr. basset was so fortunate as to meet a friend in need. i suppose miss basset is less uneasy about her brother now?"
"yes, i think so. and, oh, she is so delighted that father is going on well! fancy! father was well enough to talk to uncle john, and he sent me his love and a message which uncle john didn't write but is keeping to tell me when he gets home."
as governess and pupil entered the house together miss basset came out of the dining-room, her face wreathed in smiles; she said that as it was most certainly a red-letter day for them all she hoped miss cummings would have no objection to taking a holiday, and added that she was going into midbury herself and would drive her home.
"thank you, miss basset, that will be very kind of you," the governess answered, adding earnestly: "i cannot tell you how deeply glad i am that you have had such cheering news."
oh, that was a happy holiday! josephine and may spent the morning in the garden amongst the roses; and in the afternoon they went for a long walk, returning through durley dell, where they sat for an hour on a mossy bank in the shade of a beech tree, and talked.
"perhaps i may bring father here one day before long," josephine said softly, "for aunt ann says of course he will come to the glen as soon as he is convalescent. oh, i hope he will come before the roses are gone! he will so love to see them! i remember his telling me once that the glen roses were the most beautiful he had ever seen."
on their way home from durley dell they called for a few minutes at vine cottage to inquire for mrs. rumbelow. the old women had heard from jane that captain basset had been wounded, and received the news that he was doing well with so much pleasure that josephine was deeply touched by the feeling she showed, and determined that, if all went well, some time she would take her father to see her.
next day mr. basset arrived at home. he reached the glen in a cab from midbury railway station about six o'clock in the evening. miss basset had received a telegram in the morning saying at what time she was to expect him, so she was waiting at the front door with may and josephine to greet him on his arrival.
"oh, john, i'm so rejoiced you've come back safely!" she cried, as she kissed him, adding quickly: "and dear paul's really better?"
"yes," he answered, "really better, thank god!"
he turned to the little girls and kissed them affectionately, then, taking josephine by the hand, led her into the drawing-room, the others following. josephine, searching his face with eager, anxious eyes, saw that it looked pale and weary, and very sad.
"please tell me all about father," she said tremulously, "i want to know all. oh, please, please, don't keep anything back!"
"i will not," he assured her. he seated himself on a sofa and drew her down by his side. "as you know your father was injured in the face and head," he continued, "and he had not long regained consciousness before i saw him. he is in a large hotel at boulogne, which is being used as a hospital. my dear—" his voice faltered with deep emotion— "i shall never forget the cry of pleasure paul gave when he heard my voice, and i shall always be thankful that i obeyed the impulse which prompted me to go to him at once! i saw him twice. on the second occasion he said he did not wish me to remain longer—you see i could do no good there and was only in the way. poor dear fellow! the doctors say his face will not be much disfigured—"
"oh, i am glad of that!" josephine broke in joyfully, "i've been thinking that it would be, and i know aunt ann has too!"
"and they say also that in their opinion in a few months he will be quite restored to health," mr. basset proceeded, taking no apparent heed of the interruption, "for he has a splendid constitution. the trouble is about his sight."
the old man's clasp on the little hand he held tightened as he spoke. he glanced significantly at his sister, who had sank into an easy chair, and shook his head slightly. josephine noted the gesture, and a sudden chill feeling of dread fell upon her heart. she shivered as she asked—
"do you mean that his eyes are hurt, uncle john?"
"yes, my dear," mr. basset admitted sadly, "and badly hurt. he knows it himself—spoke of it, in fact. it is a great blow to him, of course, but your father is a brave man and a christian. he bade me tell you the truth—that he will never see again—"
"oh, john!" interrupted miss basset, "how shocking! oh, poor, poor paul! what a terrible affliction to fall upon him! oh, i never thought of this! dear me, oh, dear me!" she sat wringing her hands, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
"do you mean that my father is blind?" asked josephine slowly, as though her mind was incapable of grasping the truth, plainly though mr. basset had spoken. there was an expression of horror on her face. "yes!" she cried, as her uncle bowed his head silently, "he is blind! oh, father, father, father!"
she snatched her hand from mr. basset's and rose to her feet. may, full of sympathy, hastened to her; but she put her aside, and ran out of the room.
"don't follow her—you'd better not," advised mr. basset, as may stood hesitating; "for the time, at any rate, she will be best alone. i've so dreaded telling her, poor little soul!"
josephine had run out into the rose-scented garden and hidden herself in a summerhouse which occupied a secluded corner. she cast herself on the ground on her knees, in an agony of grief, her head bowed on her arms which she rested on one of the two wooden chairs she and may used when—as they often did—they came there to do their war work. heavy sobs shook her slender form; but it was some minutes before tears came to her relief, then it seemed as though they would never stop.
"oh, father, poor, poor father!" she moaned over and over again; "oh, what will he do?—what will he do?"
her heart bled with pity for her father. she pictured him as she had seen him last, looking back at her from the departing train at midbury railway station. what a splendid soldier he had been! so full of strength and courage! she recalled how longingly his eyes had smiled at her! beautiful eyes, so bright and brave! now their light was quenched for ever!
by and by her tears ceased to flow, and she raised her head. over the doorway of the summerhouse hung festoons of pink and white cluster roses, swaying gently in the summer breeze and making the air fragrant with their scent. josephine noticed them with deepening pain.
"father will never see them now," she thought, "never—never! and he will never more see the sunshine, or the starlight, or any of the beautiful sights he loved! oh, poor father!"
she bowed her head once more on her arms, but she did not weep again; her passion of grief had spent itself. and so mr. basset found her, a picture of utter dejection, when, guessing where she had hidden, he, by and by, came to seek her.
"josephine," he said, touching her lightly on the shoulder, "get up, my dear!" then, as she obeyed, he made her take one chair, and seated himself on the other. "god has spared your dear father's life," he continued, "and thankfulness for that ought to soften this blow—"
"oh, uncle john, indeed i am thankful!" josephine interposed; "but—but—oh, think what life will be to father without sight? he has always been so active and busy in every way! he isn't a man who likes to take things easily and let others work! and now—and now—oh, it will be dreadful for him!"
"my dear, don't say so! and don't think it! we will pray god to lighten your father's darkness, and i am sure he will. now, i have not given you your father's message—almost the last words he said to me before i came away. it was this, 'tell my little girl to remember that all things work together for good to them that love god, and so she mustn't grieve about me more than she can help.' you see, he realized the news of his loss of sight would be a sore blow to you."
"oh, it has been, uncle john! i—i haven't been a bit brave—father would be disappointed in me if he knew. but, oh, blindness seems so terrible! it is so hard to think of father—blind!"
mr. basset sighed.
"very hard," he agreed. "but, now," he continued, "we mustn't stay here any longer, for supper's to be early to-night on my account, and you'll want to bathe your face, won't you?"
the two returned to the house together. miss basset and may saw them coming from the drawing-room window; and the latter hurried into the hall and went upstairs with josephine.
"dear," she whispered, her blue eyes tender with sympathy, "i'm so sorry—so very, very sorry for your father! donald will be, too, when i write and tell him! oh, it must be terrible to be blind!"
josephine drew a quick breath, and assented. then she told may the message her father had sent her, adding: "i'm going to try to do as he says and not grieve about him more than i can help. perhaps, after all, the doctors have made a mistake and he may get his sight back after a time. if he doesn't—if it is god's will he should remain blind, then i know god will be with him."
"it is a great thing to feel that," may answered.
"yes," josephine agreed, "and the greatest comfort. just for a little while i forgot it, though every day i pray—
"jesus saviour, let thy presence
be his light and guide,
keep, oh keep him, in his weakness,
at thy side."
"but, now i've had time to think and uncle john has given me father's message, i know father's all right. he loves jesus, and jesus is at his side."
