Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1867-06-07
The Minister of Montclair.
BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

before his eyes, the whole world seem.
ed waving and uncertain, in these days.
He laid his book down, and began 70
think of the great trouble which was
shutting him in. When the black
specks first began to dance between
him and his paper, months ago, he had
no thought about the matter. 1t was
annoying, to be sure, but he must have
taxed his eyes too severely. He would
work a little less by lamplight-spare
them awhile-and he should be all
right. So he spared them more and
more, and yet the black specks kept
up their elfn dance; and now for
weeks the conviction had been grow
ing on him slowly that he was going
to be blind. He had not told his
wife yet-how could he lay on her
shoulders the burden of his awful Ca
lamity? Q, it was too bad
And yet was it too hard =? Dared
he say so-he, Gods minister-who
had told other sufferers so many times
that their chastenings were dealt out
to them by Fathers hand, and that
they should count all that brought
them nearer to Him as joyous, not
grievous ?
Yet speaking after the manner of
this world, his burden seemed greater
than he could bear. What could he
do-a blind helpless man? He must
give up his work in life-let another
take his ministry-sit hel plesS in the
darkness. Heaven only knew for
how long. Gould he be resigned
Then, suddenly, a fash of hope
kindIed his sky. There might be help
for him; this gathering darkness be
something which science can remove.
He would be sure of that at least, be-
fore he told Mary. And then he be-
came feverishly impatient. He must
know at once, it seemed to him-he
could not wait He called his wife
and told her, with a manner which he
tried hard to make calm, that he was
going out of town the next morning
on little business. She wondered
that he was so incommunicative-it
was not like him-but she would not
trouble him with any questions. She
should understand it all sometime,
she knew-still she thought there
was something strange in his way of
speaking.
The minister strove hard for the
mastery of his own spirit as the cars
whirled him along the next morning
toward the tribunal at which he was
to receive his sentence. He tried to
think of something else but found the
effort vain; so he said, over and over,
as simply as a child, one form OF
Words
Either, whichever way it turns, 0
give me strength to bear it p
Holding fast to this prayer, as to
an anchor, he got out Of the cars and
went into the streets. What a curl
ous mist seemed to surround all
things! The houses looked high and
spectral through 1.-THE people he
met seemed like ghosts. He had not
realized his defective visions so much
at home, where it had come on him
gradually-and all objects were so
familiar. Still, with an effort, he could
read the signs on the street corners
and find his way.
He reached, at last, the residence
of the distinguished oculist for whose
verdict he had come. He found the
! parlor half filled with people, waiting
| like himself. He was asked his name
and sent in card on which was writ
ten, "Rev. William Spencer, Mont
clair" Then he waited his turn
He dared not think how long the
time was or what suspense he was in
He just kept his simple child's prayer
in his heart, and steadied himself with
it.
The time came for him, at last, and
he followed the boy who summoned
him into a little room shaded will
green, with green furniture, and on {
table vase Of flowers. The stiffness
and the cool scented air refreshed him
He saw dimly as he saw everything
that morning, a tall, slight man, will
kind face and quiet manners, who ad
dressed him by name, invited him t
sit down, and then enquired into hi.
symptoms with such tact and sympa
thy that he thought he was talking tt
a friend. At last the doctor asked
him to take a seat by the window ant
have his eyes examined. His hear
beat shockingly, but he whispered
under his breath
Thy will, o God, be done; onl
give me strength! J"
DIR. Gordon was silent for momen
or two-it seemed ages to Mr.. Sper
Ger. Then he said, with the tender
est, saddest voice as he felt to the vi
termost all the pain he was inficting-
Il cannot give you any hope. Th
| malady is incurable. You will nc
lose your sight entirely, just yet; bu
his tongue seemed to cleave to tn
roof Of his mouth, and he could onl
gasp
DR.. Gordon understood; and al
swered, kindly, that it might be
month, possibly two.
He stood up then, to go. He kne'
$ all hope was over. He paid his fe'
e and went out of the room-out of I'll
0 house. 1t seemed to him things ha
5 grown darker since he went in. H
= hardly knew how he found his way
i the cars.
S 1t was two hours past his Dime
n time, and he was faint for lack of foo
e but he did not know it. He got