the garden below the terrace at the corner postern. We remained for an
hour resting upon the terrace balustrade, and before we went indoors Madge
again spoke of Dorothy.

"I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed this walk, nor how thankful I
am to you for taking me," she said.

I did not interrupt her by replying, for I loved to hear her talk.

"Dorothy sometimes takes me with her for a short walk, but I seldom have
that pleasure. Walking is too slow for Dorothy. She is so strong and full
of life. She delights to ride her mare Dolcy. Have you seen Dolcy?"

"No," I responded.

"You must see her at once. She is the most beautiful animal in the world.
Though small of limb, she is swift as the wind, and as easy as a cradle in
her gaits. She is mettlesome and fiery, but full of affection. She often
kisses Dorothy. Mare and rider are finely mated. Dorothy is the most
perfect woman, and Dolcy is the most perfect mare. 'The two D's,' we call
them. But Dorothy says we must be careful not to put a--a dash between
them," she said with a laugh and a blush.

Then I led Madge into the hall, and she was blithe and happy as if the
blessed light of day were in her eyes. It was in her soul, and that, after
all, is where it brings the greatest good.

After that morning, Madge and I frequently walked out when the days were
pleasant. The autumn was mild, well into winter time, and by the end of
November the transparent cheeks of the blind girl held an exquisite tinge