room each piece of furniture occupied, and seldom knocking against
anything as she moved about her work.

She lived entirely alone and supported herself, not by any of the
special kinds of work which are supposed generally to be possible to the
blind, but by exactly the same means as other women of her age and
class. All the work in the house was done by herself, even to the making
of the toffee and bulls'-eyes, which she sold at the cricket-matches and
fairs of the districts. She kept hens and turkeys, and worked in her
garden, feeling her way about the beds and bushes with her feet. She
sold the vegetables and the currants and gooseberries which grew in the
little patch of garden, and her friend, Anne Hilton, carried her eggs to
the market-town for her every week, where she disposed of them to a
provision-dealer of the same denomination. Even the hen-run had been
made by the blind woman, who was a continual source of astonishment and
questioning from the neighbours. But in this wonder, she not unnaturally
found a pathetic pleasure.

"How do you know when you've got all your hens in?" asked a child once.

"I count them at night when they're asleep on their perches," answered
Mary, with a joyful little chuckle.

"But it's dark!" objected the child.

"So it is," replied Mary. "I didn't think of that."

She never referred to her blindness, and so complete a victory over
misfortune and circumstance gained its fit respect in the country. No
one considered that it was "doing a charity" to Mary to drive past her