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Not in the obscurity of midnight, but in the searching light of day, did<b=
r>
the supernatural influence assert itself. Neither revealed by a vision, no=
r <br>
announced bya voice, it reached mortal knowledge through the sense<br>
which is least easily self-deceived: the sense that feels. The record<br>
of this event will of necessity produce conflicting impressions. <br>
It will raise, in some minds, the doubt which reason asserts; it<br>
will invigorate, in other minds, the hope which faith justifies;<br>
and it will leave the terrible question of the destinies of man, <br>
where centuries of vain investigation have left it -- in the dark.<br>
Having only undertaken in the present narrative to lead the way along<br>
a succession of events, the writer declines to follow modern examples by<b=
r>
thrusting himself and his opinions on the public view.He returns to the <b=
r>
shadow from which he has emerged, and leaves the opposing forces of <br>
incredulity and belief to fight the old battle over <br>
again, on the old ground. The events happened soon after the first thirty =
<br>
years of the present century had come to an end.On a fine morning,<br>
early in the month of April, a gentleman of middle age (named Rayburn) <br=
took his little daughter Lucy out for a walk in the woodland pleasure-grou=
nd <br>
of Western London, called Kensington Gardens. The few friends whom he poss=
essed <br>
reported of Mr. Rayburn (not unkindly) that he was a reserved and solitary=
man.<br>
He might have been more accurately described as <br>
a widower devoted to his only surviving child. Although he was not <br>
more than forty years of age, the one pleasure which made life enjoyable t=
o<br>
Lucy's father was offered by Lucy herself.Playing with her ball, the child=
ran<br>
on to the southern limit of the Gardens, at that part of it which still re=
mains <br>
nearest to the old Palace of Kensington. Observing <br>
close at hand one of those spacious covered seats, called in England "alco=
ves,"<br>
Mr. Rayburn was reminded that he had the morning's newspaper in his pocket=
, and <br>
that he might do well to rest and read. At that early hour the place was a=
solitude.<br>
"Go on playing, my dear," he said; "but take care to keep where I can see =
you.<br>
"Lucy tossed up her ball; and Lucy's father opened his newspaper. He had n=
ot<br>
been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar little han=
d laid<br>
on his knee. "Tired of playing?" he inquired-- with his eyes still on the =
<br>
newspaper."I'm frightened, papa." He looked up directly. The child's pale<=
br>
face startled him. He took her on his knee and kissed her. "You oughtn't t=
o<br>
be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he said, gently."What is it?" <b=
r>
He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a little dog among the <b=
r>
trees. "Is it the dog?" he asked.Lucy answered: "It's not the dog -- it's<=
br>
the lady." The lady was not visible from the alcove. "Has she said <br>
anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired. "No." "What has she done to <br>
frighten you?" The child put her arms round her father's neck."Whisper, <b=
r>
papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think she's mad." <br>
"Why do you think so, Lucy?" "She came near to me. I thought she was<br>
going to say something. She seemed to be ill." "Well? And what then?"<br>
"She looked at me." There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express <br= what she had to say next -- and took refuge in silence."Nothin g very <br>
wonderful, so far," her father suggested. "Yes, papa -- but she didn't<br>=
seem to see me when she looked." "Well, and what happened then?" "The <br>=
lady was frightened -- and that frightened me. I think," the child <br>
repeated positively, "she's mad." It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the<br>
lady might be blind. He rose atonce to set the doubt at rest. <br>
"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."But Lucy clung<br>
to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by <br>
herself. They left the alcove together. The new point of view at once <br>=
revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was <br>
dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the <br>
glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child's terror --<br= it excused the alarming conclusion at which shehad arrived. "Go nearer to =
<br>
her," Lucy whispered. They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see th=
at <br>
the lady was young,and wasted by illness -- but (arriving at a doubtful co=
nclusion<br>
perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare pers=
onal <br>
attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little,=
<br>
she discovered them. After some hesitation,she left the tree; approached <=
br>
with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to<br= astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain <=
br>
before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature=
,<br>
deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was no=
t <br>
easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildere=
d, <br>
if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the=
place<br>
been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar little han=
d laid<br>
on his knee. "Tired of playing?" he inquired-- with his eyes still on the =
<br>
newspaper."I'm frightened, papa." He looked up directly. The child's pale<=
br>
face startled him. He took her on his knee and kissed her. "You oughtn't t=
o<br>
be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he said, gently."What is it?" <b=
r>
He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a little dog among the <b=
r>
trees. "Is it the dog?" he asked.Lucy answered: "It's not the dog -- it's<=
br>
the lady." The lady was not visible from the alcove. "Has she said <br>
anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired. "No." "What has she done to <br>
frighten you?" The child put her arms round her father's neck."Whisper, <b=
r>
papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think she's mad." <br>
"Why do you think so, Lucy?" "She came near to me. I thought she was<br>
going to say something. She seemed to be ill." "Well? And what then?"<br>
"She looked at me." There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express <br= what she had to say next -- and took refuge in silence."Nothin g very <br>
wonderful, so far," her father suggested. "Yes, papa -- but she didn't<br>=
seem to see me when she looked." "Well, and what happened then?" "The <br>=
lady was frightened -- and that frightened me. I think," the child <br>
repeated positively, "she's mad." It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the<br>
lady might be blind. He rose atonce to set the doubt at rest. <br>
"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."But Lucy clung<br>
to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by <br>
herself. They left the alcove together. The new point of view at once <br>=
revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was <br>
dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the <br>
glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child's terror --<br= it excused the alarming conclusion at which shehad arrived. "Go nearer to =
<br>
her," Lucy whispered. They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see th=
at <br>
the lady was young,and wasted by illness -- but (arriving at a doubtful co=
nclusion<br>
perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare pers=
onal <br>
attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little,=
<br>
she discovered them. After some hesitation,she left the tree; approached <=
br>
with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to<br=
astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain <=
br>
before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature=
,<br>
deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was no=
t <br>
easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildere=
d, <br>
if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the=
place<br>
in which they stand.
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