They said that no one before had painted the kind of light
which could make a blind man see. For he was blind--the picture told
that, but it seemed no one had ever had light quite as understandingly as
he had it there.
"You feel it, doctor?" she asked at last, timidly. "You see it all?"
He nodded. It seemed so far beyond any word of his.
But she wanted to talk to him about it. "You see what it has meant to me?
Why I loved it and lived for it? Oh doctor--I wanted to show that he was
greater than all the great things he sought to do! The night this picture
came to me it set my blood on fire, and at no moment since, no matter how
tired or lonely or discouraged--have I lost my love for it--belief in it.
It seems so right. It seems to stand for so many things. They call it a
masterpiece of light--and isn't it fine--great--right, that Karl's
portrait should be a masterpiece of light?"
For a long time he was lost to it. It was as she said--right. To the
blind man had come the light; to the man of science the light of truth,
and to the human soul, about to set out on another journey, had come the
perfect understanding of what had lighted the way for him here.
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