Part 22 (1/2)

”Mother, I shall be very miserable,” said Edward, sobbing.

”Oh, no, my dear child!” replied his mother, cheerfully. ”Your eyesight was a precious gift of Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it. There are other enjoyments, besides what come to us through our eyes.”

”None that are worth having,” said Edward.

”Ah! but you will not think so long,” rejoined Mrs. Temple, with tenderness. ”All of us-your father, and myself, and George, and our sweet Emily-will try to find occupation and amus.e.m.e.nt for you. We will use all our eyes to make you happy. Will not they be better than a single pair?”

”I will sit by you all day long,” said Emily, in her low, sweet voice, putting her hand into that of Edward.

”And so will I, Ned,” said George, his elder brother,-”school time and all, if my father will permit me.”

Edward's brother George was three or four years older than himself, a fine, hardy lad, of a bold and ardent temper. He was the leader of his comrades in all their enterprises and amus.e.m.e.nts. As to his proficiency at study, there was not much to be said. He had sense and ability enough to have made himself a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to do, that he seldom took hold of a book with his whole heart. So fond was George of boisterous sports and exercises, that it was really a great token of affection and sympathy, when he offered to sit all day long in a dark chamber, with his poor brother Edward.

As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter of one of Mr. Temple's dearest friends. Ever since her mother went to Heaven, (which was soon after Emily's birth,) the little girl had dwelt in the household where we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed to love her as well as their own children; for they had no daughter except Emily; nor would the boys have known the blessing of a sister, had not this gentle stranger come to teach them what it was. If I could show you Emily's face, with her dark hair smoothed away from her forehead, you would be pleased with her look of simplicity and loving-kindness, but might think that she was somewhat too grave for a child of seven years old. But you would not love her the less for that.

So brother George, and this loving little girl, were to be Edward's companions and playmates, while he should be kept prisoner in the dark chamber. When the first bitterness of his grief was over, he began to feel that there might be some comforts and enjoyments in life, even for a boy whose eyes were covered with a bandage.

”I thank you, dear mother,” said he, with only a few sobs, ”and you, Emily; and you too, George. You will all be very kind to me, I know. And my father-will not he come and see me, every day?”

”Yes, my dear boy,” said Mr. Temple; for, though invisible to Edward, he was standing close beside him. ”I will spend some hours of every day with you. And as I have often amused you by relating stories and adventures, while you had the use of your eyes, I can do the same, now that you are unable to read. Will this please you, Edward?”

”Oh, very much!” replied Edward.

”Well then,” said his father, ”this evening we will begin the series of Biographical Stories, which I promised you some time ago.”

Chapter II

When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward considerably revived in spirits, and disposed to be resigned to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of the boy, as it was dimly seen by the fire-light, reclining in a well stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable that many people might have envied him. When a man's eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of the world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune to have them bandaged.

Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward's side, with the air of an accomplished nurse. As well as the duskiness of the chamber would permit, she watched all his motions, and each varying expression of his face, and tried to antic.i.p.ate her patient's wishes, before his tongue could utter them. Yet it was noticeable, that the child manifested an indescribable awe and disquietude, whenever she fixed her eyes on the bandage; for to her simple and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her dear friend Edward was separated from her, because she could not see his eyes. A friend's eyes tell us many things, which could never be spoken by the tongue.

George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as stout and healthy boys are accustomed to do, in the society of the sick or afflicted. Never having felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to sympathize with the sufferings of others.

”Well, my dear Edward,” inquired Mrs. Temple, ”is your chair quite comfortable? and has your little nurse provided for all your wants? If so, your father is ready to begin his stories.”

”Oh, I am very well now,” answered Edward, with a faint smile. ”And my ears have not forsaken me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So, pray, dear father, begin!”

It was Mr. Temple's design to tell the children a series of true stories, the incidents of which should be taken from the childhood and early life of eminent people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward, and Emily, into closer acquaintance with the famous persons who have lived in other times, by showing that they also had been children once. Although Mr.

Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was founded on fact, yet he felt himself at liberty to clothe the incidents of his narrative in a new coloring, so that his auditors might understand them the better.

”My first story,” said he, ”shall be about a painter of pictures.”

”Dear me!” cried Edward, with a sigh. ”I am afraid I shall never look at pictures any more.”

”We will hope for the best,” answered his father. ”In the mean time, you must try to see things within your own mind.”

Mr. Temple then began the following story: