timid eagerness. "Do you have a feeling that you want to see the sun
go down behind them tonight and that you want to see the darkness
come stealing up to the tops?"

The girl half turned away, but she pressed the woman's hand tightly
in hers. "I know what you mean," she murmured.

"I wanted to see it so bad," continued the woman, tremulously, "that
something just drove me here to this paper. I knowed it was here
because my nephew's wife brought me here one day and we come across
it. We took this paper at home for more 'an twenty years. That's why
I come. 'Twas the closest I could get."

"I know what you mean," said the girl again, unsteadily.

"And it's the closest I will ever get!" sobbed the woman.

"Oh, don't say that," protested the girl, brushing away her own
tears, and trying to smile; "you'll go back home some day."

The woman shook her head. "And if I should," she said, "even if I
should, 'twill be too late."

"But it couldn't be too late," insisted the girl. "The mountains,
you know, will be there forever."

"The mountains will be there forever," repeated the woman, musingly;
"yes, but not for me to see." There was a pause. "You see,"--she
said it quietly--"I'm going blind."