Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1876-11-08

seemed to surround all things The
houses looked spectral through it; the
very people he met seemed like ghosts.
He had not realized his defective vision
so much at home where it had come Oh
him gradually; and all objects were SO
familiar. Still, with an effort he could
see the signs on the street corners, and
find his way.
He reached at last the residence Of
the distinguished oculist for whose ver-
dict he had come. He found the par
lor half filled with people waiting like
himself. He was asked for his name,
and sent in card on which was writ
ten, "Rev. VIM. Spencer, Montclair.' y
Then he waited his turn. lie 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 with
green, with green furniture, and on a
table a 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, with a
kind face and quiet manners, who adj
dressed him by name, invited him to
sit down, and then inquired into his
symptoms with such tact and sympa-
by that he felt as if he were talking
with q friend. At last the doctor ask
ed him to take..a seat by the window and
have his eyes examined. His heart
beat chokingly, and he whispered I'M
Ger his breath:
"Thy will, Q God, be done; only
give me strength"
DR.. Gordon was silent for a moment
or two--it seemed ages to Mr.. Spencer.
Then he said with the tenderest and
saddest voice, as if he felt to the utter
most the pain he was indicting:
Is cannot give you any hope. The
malady is incurable. You will not lose
your sight entirely, just yet; but it
must come.
The minister tried to ask how long it
would be before he should be blind
but his tongue seemed to cleave to the
roof of his mouth, and he could only
gasp.
DR.. Gordon understood; and answer
ed very kindly that it might be a month,
possibly two.
He stood up, then to go. He knew
all hope was over. He paid his fee and
went out of the room, and out Of the
house. It seemed to him things had
grown darker since he went in. He
hardly knew how he found his way to
the cars. 1t was two hours past his
dinner time, and he was faint for lack
of food, but he did not know it. He
got to the station somehow, and waited
for the train to start for Montclair.
All the way home he kept whispering
to himself" One month, possibly two
=" as if it were lesson on the getting
by heart of which his life depended.
He heard the conductor call out Mont
clair, at last, and got out Of the cars
mechanically. His wife stood the wait
ing for him. She had been anxious
about him all day.
"Oh, William!" she cried, and then
she saw his face and stopped. There
was a look on it of one over whom
some awful doom is pending; white
fixed look that chilled. She took his
arm and they walked On silently,
through the simmer afternoon. When
they reached home, and she had taken
Off her bonnet, he spoke at last:
"Mary, come here and let me look
at you. [ want to learn your face by
heart"
She came and knelt by him, while he
took her cheeks between his hands, and
studied every Gneament,
care you going away?" she asked,
after awhile, for his fixed, silent, mys-
terious gaze began to torture her.
eyes, dear, am going; going into
the dark"
"To die?" she gasped.
eyes, to die to everything that
makes up a mans life in this world"
he answered bitterly.
Mary l am going blind. Think what
l shall never see you again or our chill
dren, or this dear beautiful world
where we have lived and loved each
other. The whole creation is only an
empty sound forevermore 0 God how
can l bear it ?"
"Is there no hope?" she asked, with a
curious calmness, at which she herself
was amazed.
"None. It was my errand to town
to-day to find out. I have felt it com
ing on for months, but hoped against
hope, and now / know. 0 Mary, to sit
in the darkness until my death day,
striving for a sight of your dear face.
It is too bitter; and yet what am I say
ing? Shall my Father not choose His
own way to bring me to the light OF
Heaven? Unjust say, I will say, His
will be done"
Just then the chileren came running
in; boyish, romping Will; shy, yet mer-
ry little May.
"Hush dears," the mother said softly;
"papa's tired. You had better run out
again.
"No, Mary, let them stay" inter
posed he; and Their he said SO low that
his wife's ears just caught the whis-
per, I cannot sec them too much III
this little while" v
80 how the days went on after that!
Every day the world looked DINNER to
the minister's darkened eyes. He
spent almost all Of his time trying to
fiy tho thinoc he 90 loved in his m pnc.