The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1884-03-13
THE BLIND SINGER.

AAD DU1lyU NAOVG0s
A stranger stood within the cathedral
1t Rheims. He was leaning against q
pillar perfectly moticnless except &C.
.asionly drawing glove, which he held
m one hand idly through the other.
His: attitude YVES expressive of graceful
ness, and his face was calculated to
make one turn and look at it again, oven
in casually meeting him on the street.
It was youthful face, and, to certain
degree, childish; and yet there was
something about the thin lips expressive
of will and energy. His forehead was
high and white, cleaning out from q
mass Of raven hair; his eyes were
dark, believed with sort of langour;
such eyes as always speak the truth,
and deepen into warmer glow when
they meet your own. Though richly
dressed. there was nothing of tho fop
about him. He wore no jewelry beyond
the small diamond ring that shone upon
the ungloved hand.
His eye was drinking in the scene
around him. The paintings, the work
Of the famous artists of the olden time
the massive doric pillars, the richly
frescoed ceiling, tessellated a;sles, the
narrow pews of polished walnut, the
pulpit of porphyry, ornamented with
Latin inscriptions and cherub faces
the windows of stained glass, the SOM
Der organ with its high-huted front; as
he calmly surveyed these and felt the
holy presence that filled the place, a
beautiful placidness rested upon his
features, and more than ono girlish face
was turned at furtive moments towards
his.
The ceremony was drawing to close,
and the deep, solemn tones of the Or
gan floated through the church. It was
a master hand that touched the keys.
Music seemed to assume personifcation
in that dim old room. Now the tones
are loud, reverberating-then low, soft,
autc-like-and ever and anon the
changing from allegro to andante, III
which the impoverished introductories
seemed more enchanting than either.
The playing was superb-and yet it
was not that which made him bend his
head more attentively, and a brighter
light to irradiate his face. It was the
soprano voice in the choir that was
touching his heart with it's exquisite
sweetness. He seemed to hold his
breath lest the smallest information
should be lost. And clear,
distinct, melodious voice it was. Others
had listened to its witchery, and had felt
their worship touched by better in
SEPARATION. It rose and fell in sort of
righteousness. When it trembled, it
was the tremor of pathos, and when it
changed to rigidness, it was the assur-
ance, the positiveness of faith.
The young man looked up at the
choir, and among the array of beauty
there his keen eye detected the singer.
Her face was upturned, her eyes were
closed and the light from the window
overhead seemed to change into spirit
ual radiance as it fell around her.
After the closing of tho ceremony the
young man waited at the foot of the
narrow stairs leading from the gallery.
The singer was leaning upon her fathers
arm, and her eyes were still closed.
She was blind!
The young man started atn4irst when
this fact dawnel upon his mind, but as
he took glance at that sweet face his
heart went out toward her with vet q
warmer glow.
1t was an oval face and spiritually
fair; the skin was almost transparent
and the velvet lips were tinged with
vermillion. Her form was we'll devel-
oped, very motion expressive of grace,
and the beauty of her attire consis-
ted in its simplicity alone; al
most any other fabric or arrangement
would have been at antagonism with
that trusting, child Like face. Her dress
was of plain calico, unadorned by
jewelry, while shawl of sort of neu-
trail tint was thrown negligently over
her shoulders, partly concealing her
full bust and covering but to the elbow
the plump, snowy arm that rested with
in her fathers.
Ernest Harcourt, the young stranger,
was seated beside the blind singer of
the cathedral. One arm was thrown
confidingly around his neck, while the
face upturned to his was lightened with
the new life that had been born in her
soul. They were in an artists studio,
and face, very prototype of the blind
girls, that rested against the easel, told
the story of hours of such communion.
Miriam, my beloved" spoke the
young man, ''you must be my wife.
You must come to my home"
''And my father, Ernest? O! I can
not leave him!"
He shall come too. Ny home shall
be your home and his
Ernest, know I love you. can
not see your face; cannot see your
eye kindle when you speak; but can
hear your voice and feel your warm
caress. There is, too, a spiritual es-
sence about you that draws me toward
you, and that tells my instinct, and as
sures my reason, that you are all that
is noble and true. But think of it
Ernest but poor, ignorant blind
girl--a very child!'
"For this do love YOU above aught
else. You are not ignorant. I have
sat ut your feet for hours, a quiet, lis
tening pupil. You have revealed to me
how beautiful can make my life. You
have turned my aspirations toward all
that is noble and grand. Floating idly
on the sea of life, a reckless voyager,
ibid you not come to me and direct me
into the beaten channel-becoming to
me compass, chart and guide? You are
blind! Should not love you all the
more for that? Let my eyes be your
eyes. I will be sight unto you, the