it."

"And you don't think I'm just notional," she asked wistfully, "in
pinin' to get back while--whilst I can look at them?"

The girl held the old hand tightly in hers with a clasp more
responsive than words.

"It ain't but I'd know they was there. I could feel they was there
all right, but"--her voice sank with the horror of it--"I'm 'fraid
I might forget just how they look!"

"Oh, but you won't," the girl assured her. "You'll remember just how
they look."

"I'm scared of it. I'm scared there might be something I'd forget.
And so I just torment myself thinkin'--'Now do I remember this? Can
I see just how that looks?' That's the way I got to thinkin' up in
the doctor's office, when he told me there was nothing to do, and I
was so worked up it seemed I must get up and start!"

"You must try not to worry about it," murmured the girl. "You'll
remember."

"Well, maybe so. Maybe I will. But that's why I want just one more
look. If I could look once more I'd remember it forever. You see I'd
look to remember it, and I would. And do you know--seems like I
wouldn't mind going blind so much then? When I'd sit facin' them I'd
just say to myself: 'Now I know just how they look. I'm seeing them
just as if I had my eyes!' The doctor says my sight'll just kind of