"Yes, when she--died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was
because I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there has
been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my
blindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tender
and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that
she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could--?"

"Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "That
would only have made her love you more."

"Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But,
after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the
books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it
into the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by
a gulf that is never bridged again."

"Daddy!" cried Barbara, in pain. "Didn't you want me?"

"Want you?" he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. "I
wanted you always, and every day I want you more. I am only trying to
say that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on.
If I could know that she died loving me, I would not ask why. If I could
know that she died loving me--if I were sure she loved me still--"

"She did, Daddy--I know she did."

"If I might only be so sure! But the ways of the Everlasting are not our
ways, and life is made up of waiting."