She played a little Nevin, played it with a lightness,
gladsomeness, he had never felt in her touch before. He said Nevin helped
him to see things, that he could see leaves moving on their branches,
could see the shadows falling on the hillsides where the cattle were
grazing, as he listened to Nevin. But it did not bring the pictures
to-night. It opened up new fears.
"Ernestine," he said abruptly, "come here."
"Are you ever frightened, Ernestine?" he asked of her, still in that
abrupt, strange manner.
"Frightened--about what?"
"Frightened about having to live all your life with me!"
For a moment she did not answer. Then, her voice quiet with the quiet
that would hold back anger: "Karl, do you think you are treating me very
kindly to-night? Saying these strange things I cannot understand?"
"But, Ernestine--look here! You're young--beautiful--love life. Doesn't
it ever occur to you that you're not getting enough fun out of things?"
"Karl,"--and there was a quivering in the voice now--"do you think I have
been thinking lately about 'getting fun out of things'?"
"No, but that's just it! You _ought_ to be thinking about it!
Ernestine--_think_ of it! How are you going to go on forever loving a
blind man?"
For answer, she knelt down beside him, her arms about his neck, her cheek
against his.
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