Three days had passed since the bridal, and James still lingered at
Laurel Hill, while not very many miles away his mother waited and
wondered why he did not come.
J.C. and Nellie were gone, but ere they had left the former sought an interview with Maude, whose
placid brow he kissed tenderly as he whispered in her ear: "Fate
decreed that you should not be my wife, but I have made you my
sister, and, if I mistake not, another wishes to make you my
cousin."
To James he had given back the ornaments intended for another bride
than Nellie, saying, as he did so, "Maude De Vere may wear them
yet."
"What do you mean?" asked James, and J.C. replied: "I mean that I,
and not you, will have a Cousin Maude."
Two days had elapsed since then, and it was night again--but to the
blind girl, drinking in the words of love which fell like music on
her ear, it was high noon-day, and the sky undimmed by a single
cloud.
"I once called you my cousin, Maude," the deep-toned voice said,
"and I thought it the sweetest name I had ever heard, but there is a
nearer, dearer name which I would give to you, even my wife--Maude--
shall it be?" and he looked into her sightless eyes to read her
answer.
She had listened eagerly to the story of his love born so long ago--
had held her breath lest she should lose a single word when he told
her how he had battled with that love, and how his heart had
thrilled with joy when he heard that she was free--but when he asked
her to be his wife the bright vision faded, and she answered
mournfully, "You know not what you say. You would not take a blind
girl in her helplessness."
"A thousandfold dearer to me for that very helplessness," he said,
and then he told her of the land beyond the sea, where the
physicians were well skilled in everything pertaining to the eye.
"Thither they would go," he said, "when the April winds were
blowing, and should the experiment not succeed, he would love and
cherish her all the more."
Maude knew he was in earnest, and was about to answer him, when
along the hall there came the sound of little crutches, and over her
face there flitted a shadow of pain. It was the sister-love warring
with the love of self, but James De Vere understood it all, and he
hastened to say, "Louis will go, too, my darling. I have never had a
thought of separating you. In Europe he will have a rare opportunity
for developing his taste. Shall it not be so?"