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THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
her father's face, never looked at the beauties of nature, tho she loved them so fondly.
Sometimes, looking at her lovely, animated face, where the color came and went constantly; at the red lips, curving: so easily into laughter, John MacLane was filled with sudden, impotent rage at the thought of his child's affliction. At other times he was filled with deep thankfulness that, in spite of her sightless eyes, her life was full of happiness. Everything that money and affection could do to bring pleasure into this blind girl's life had been done. Her library contained hundreds of volumes in the Braille type, which she read with ease ; games, music, flowers and pets were hers ; no wish was ungratified ; yet she remained a simple, unspoiled girl, radiating sunshine and hopefulness as naturally as a flower emits perfume.
It was later than usual, one night in the early autumn, when
Nora heard the long-expected click of the lock, and ran into the hall, joyfully.
''I've been waiting such a long time," she cried; "what makes you so late tonight?"
"Oh, things were a little bothersome at the office. I had to talk to a lot of men, when I wanted to be home with my little girl," he answered, drawing her to him.
"But never mind ; I've brought you something nice. You shall have it as soon as we've had dinner — I'm nearly starved."
Dinner over, the package was opened. It contained an exquisite little piece of statuary, done by one of New York's younger sculptors — a youth whom all the city was praising. "I heard Miss Slade reading that article to you about that young fellow's work, so I knew you were interested, ' ' MacLane explained, smiling at her pleasure. "I thought you'd like to have a sample for your very own."
' ' You 're so good to me, ' ' murmured Nora. "It is just lovely. Isn't it wonderful how any one can make such beautiful figures out of a bit of cold marble?" Her deft fingers were feeling the statue, inch by inch, tracing all its delicate lines understand ingly , and her face was glowing with pleasure.
"If she only could see it," thought her father, with one of those sudden pangs of rebellion which swept over him so frequently; "if only she could look at all these things she loves so well ! ' ' Intuitively, she seemed to read his thought, and she came close to. him, laying her dark head against his shoulder, while her fingers were still busy with her new treasure.
"Are you wishing that I could see, father? I wish you wouldn't worry about that. You dont realize what a clear picture my fingers give to my brain. It's just seeing in a different way from yours, that's all. And I think my mental images stay longer. I never forget a face I've touched, and you're always saying you cant remember faces, dont you know?"
YOU DONT REALIZE WHAT A CLEAR PICTURE MY FINGERS GIVE TO MY BRAIN"