He was a
stranger in the dark. She did not know him. She heard his voice, knew
his tenderness, felt the touch of him,--the unseen lover. But there
remained for her the revelation of sight. He was still the mysterious,
the unknown, about which her fancies played.
How could he know what image of him, what ideal, resided tenaciously
in her mind, and whether it would survive the shock of reality? That
was the root of Hollister's fear, a definite well-grounded fear. He
found himself hoping that promise of sight would never be fulfilled,
that the veil would not be lifted, that they would go on as they were.
And he would feel ashamed of such a thought. Sight was precious. Who
was he to deny her that mercy,--she who loved the sun and the hills
and the sea; all the sights of earth and sky which had been shut away
so long; she who had crept into his arms many a time, weeping
passionate tears because all the things she loved were forever wrapped
in darkness?
If upon Hollister had been bestowed the power to grant her sight or to
withhold it, he would have shrunk from a decision.
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