for some weeks josephine clung to the hope that the doctors had been mistaken and that her father might regain at any rate some glimmer of sight; but as time slipped by that hope died. it was july when captain basset was brought back to england to a london hospital. he remained there for six weeks, then, greatly to josephine's disappointment, went to spend a short while at brighton. there had been some talk of miss basset taking her little niece to london to see captain basset; but the old lady had become so nervous at the thought of zeppelins that the idea had been dropped.
soon after mr. basset's return from france mrs. ford had spent a week-end at the glen. her visit had been not only a great pleasure to josephine, but had cheered her wonderfully.
"you must keep a brave heart, my dear," she had said, "for your father will need help and encouragement. a heavy cross has been laid upon him, but many a cross brings a blessing with it, remember."
"i don't see how blindness could bring a blessing with it," josephine had answered, and mrs. ford had said no more.
it was a bright hot morning in late august when josephine, taking the letters from the postman in the garden, saw that there was one addressed to herself. her heart gave a throb of mingled surprise and joy; for, though the handwriting on the envelope was sprawling and uncertain, she recognized it at once as her father's. tearing open the envelope she read—
"my dear little daughter,—"
"if all's well i shall be with you to-morrow."
"your loving father,"
"paul basset."
she pressed her lips to the letter again and again; then darted into the house, and into the breakfast-room where the other members of the family were taking their seats at the table.
"oh, what do you think?" she cried, "i've heard from father! he's written to me himself! oh, isn't it wonderful? i never thought i should have a letter from him again! oh, look, look!"
she allowed every one to examine the precious letter; then suddenly remembered the other letters the postman had given her, and handed them to mr. basset. one of these was from captain basset's servant—warner he was called—whom the blind man had engaged in london. warner was now at brighton with his new master, who had instructed him to write to mr. basset.
"paul is coming to-morrow," mr. basset said, after he had glanced through warner's letter, "that is if we can make it convenient to have him—"
"why, of course we can!" miss basset interposed. "i've had his rooms ready for him for weeks, as you know!"
mr. basset nodded smilingly.
"we'll send him a wire after breakfast," he said; "who'll take the message into midbury for me?"
"i!" cried donald quickly, adding: "and the girls can go with me if they like!"
accordingly, directly after breakfast, the young people set off for the town. on the road they stopped at the blacksmith's for a few minutes to tell old dicker that captain basset was expected on the morrow.
"keep a good look out and you'll see him pass," donald said, "most probably in the evening."
"and, if all's well, i shall be with him," josephine said, "for uncle john has promised to take me to meet him."
the blacksmith gave her a sympathetic glance. he was thinking if josephine was his little daughter what he would feel if he was blind. never to see her face again! his kind heart was very sorry for the blind father.
"have you heard from your son lately?" may inquired.
"he was home last week, missie—his good-bye visit it was. he'll be off almost immediately—to the dardanelles, i expect. we—his mother and i—felt saying good-bye to him—he being our only one."
"yes, of course you did," josephine answered, "i—oh, i know just how you felt! but i'm sure you didn't want to keep him at home!"
"no, no! we wouldn't like our boy to be out of the battle when it's one for right against might. whether he comes back to us or not we shall know he's done his duty, and that's the great thing."
arrived at midbury, the young people went direct to the post office, where the telegram to captain basset was dispatched. on leaving there josephine said—
"do you think it's too early for us to call on miss cummings and her mother? i know they would be glad to hear when father's coming."
"it is rather early," may answered, "but we need not go in if they're busy."
early as it was, mrs. cummings had already gone to the hospital. but her daughter was at home and pleased to see the bright faces which smiled at her when, in response to a vigorous rat-tat given by donald, she opened the door. she insisted her visitors should come in; and in the sitting-room they found a little pale-faced belgian girl, of about eight years of age, who looked at them with shy, interested, dark eyes.
"she is going to the council school next term, so i'm having her here for a few hours every morning to teach her a little english so that things may be made easier for her," explained miss cummings.
"how kind of you!" said may. "and in your holidays, too!"
the young governess flushed.
"you see, i can't help the belgians with money," she remarked frankly, "so i'm glad to find any little thing to do for them that i can. this poor child's father was a soldier who was killed early in the war."
"has she a mother?" asked josephine.
"oh, yes! and there are two children younger than herself, and an old grandmother—all refugees from louvain."
the little belgian girl could not understand what was being said, but she understood the kind glances cast at her. donald gave her a packet of sweets he had bought in the town. she flushed with pleasure as she took it, and thanked him in english; then, turning to miss cummings, spoke a few quick words in her native tongue.
"what does she say?" asked donald, as the governess smiled and nodded.
"that she will share the sweets with her little sister and brother," was the reply.
"that's right!" said may. "oh, miss cummings, we haven't told you our news yet! captain basset's coming to-morrow! josephine and uncle john are going to meet him at the railway station! it's all arranged. his new servant—warner—is coming with him. warner is accustomed to look after blind people, for he used to be an attendant in a blind institution."
josephine winced. she was not yet able to think of her father as sightless without suffering a pang of pain. sudden tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away, and bit her quivering lip.
"he is going to teach captain basset to read braille," may continued, "and, oh, isn't it wonderful, josephine has actually had a few lines from her father himself?"
"i will show you the letter sometime, miss cummings, but i haven't it with me, i put it away safely before i left home," josephine said. she had quickly regained her composure. "i mean to keep it always," she added; "i shall treasure it as long as i live."
margaret cummings laid a kindly hand on her shoulder, and looked at her with an expression of great tenderness in her grey eyes. she did not speak; nevertheless josephine realized that she sympathized with her and understood her, and impulsively bestowed upon her a grateful, affectionate kiss.
"i wanted you to know father was coming," she whispered, "because i felt certain you'd care!"
"and now i think we'd better be going," said may, "for aunt ann will be expecting us—she didn't know we should call here."
on their way home donald, who had been unusually silent and thoughtful for some time, remarked—
"after all miss cummings is not such a very bad sort."
"a very bad sort!" echoed josephine rather indignantly; "i should say she is a very good sort indeed!"
"yes," agreed may, "but, somehow, before the war we didn't find it out."
"look, there is mrs. rumbelow seated in the sunshine in her garden!" exclaimed josephine as they approached vine cottage. "do let us speak to her!"
the others were quite willing to do so, so they drew up at the garden gate and wished the old woman "good morning." she was seated on a wooden chair, an open letter in her hand from which she had glanced up on hearing footsteps and voices.
"oh, please don't move," may said quickly, as mrs. rumbelow made a movement to rise, "we are only going to stop a minute or so. don't you find the sunshine very hot?"
"not too hot," mrs. rumbelow answered; "it's good for my poor old rheumaticy bones."
"i hope you get good news of your son?" questioned josephine kindly.
"yes, miss, thank you," was the answer, cheerfully spoken; "he's well and happy."
"happy?" echoed may. "why, he's in the trenches, isn't he?" she wondered how happiness could be possible under such circumstances.
mrs. rumbelow assented.
"i've a letter from him here," she said, "it came this morning. i've read it again and again. i'd like you to hear one part of it—then you'll understand maybe."
she took up the letter, which she had dropped on her lap, and read aloud—
"i feel i'm in the right place at last, mother, so don't you worry or fret. you know i never was religious, and i used to grow impatient with you when you'd beg me to repent of my sins and turn to god. well, i want to tell you this—here, facing death, a change has come to me. the other day my chief pal was killed, and the night afterwards i prayed—i hadn't done that for years before; and it seemed as though there was really some one here who heard me, who was very near, a presence i couldn't see yet could feel. i believe jesus came to me in answer to my prayers that night, and i believe he's with me still. so don't you trouble about me, mother."
mrs. rumbelow broke off, folded the letter carefully and put it in her pocket. her lips were quivering, but her expression was one of thankfulness and joy.
"there is no need for you to trouble about him now, is there?" josephine said gently.
"no, miss," the old woman answered, meeting her eyes in a look of understanding; "he may lose his life in the trenches, but, thank god, he has found his soul!"
"captain basset is coming to-morrow," remarked donald, after a brief silence.
"i shall bring him to see you—" josephine was beginning when she paused abruptly. "i was forgetting that he could not see you," she said, as the others looked at her inquiringly, adding, with a note of pain in her voice: "when i think of father it is difficult to picture him blind. and he will always be blind!"
"not always," the old woman reminded her; "his eyes shall see the king in his beauty, shall they not?"
"oh, yes!" josephine cried, her face brightening, "thank you for reminding me of that! and jesus has promised, 'he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness!'"
"he will keep his promise," mrs. rumbelow replied earnestly; "his word has never failed us and never will. no one is in darkness who has opened his heart to the patient, loving saviour, for he will be a light to lighten his darkness and will abide with him for ever and ever."
"yes," josephine said softly, "i know!—oh, i know!"
