There had been a scene of unspeakable solemnity when Anthony first
told Lyddy that he loved her, and asked her to be his wife. He had
heard all her sad history by this time, though not from her own lips,
and his heart went out to her all the more for the heavy cross that
had been laid upon her. He had the wit and wisdom to put her
affliction quite out of the question, and allude only to her
sacrifice in marrying a blind man, hopelessly and helplessly
dependent on her sweet offices for the rest of his life, if she, in
her womanly mercy, would love him and help him bear his burdens.
When his tender words fell upon Lyddy's dazed brain she sank beside
his chair, and, clasping his knees, sobbed: "I love you, I cannot
help loving you, I cannot help telling you I love you! But you must
hear the truth, you have heard it from others, but perhaps they
softened it. If I marry you, people will always blame me and pity
you. You would never ask me to be your wife if you could see my
face; you could not love me an instant if you were not blind."
"Then I thank God unceasingly for my infirmity," said Anthony Croft,
as he raised her to her feet.
Anthony and Lyddy Croft sat in the apple orchard, one warm day in
late spring.
Anthony's work would have puzzled a casual on-looker. Ten stout
wires were stretched between two trees, fifteen or twenty feet apart,
and each group of five represented the lines of the musical staff.
Wooden bars crossed the wires at regular intervals, dividing the
staff into measures.
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