So read them. Please read them."
Calder tore open the envelopes and read the letters through and was
satisfied. They gave a record of the simple doings of her mountain
village in Donegal, and in the simplest terms. But the girl's nature
shone out in the telling. Her love of the country-side and of the people
who dwelt there was manifest. She could see the humour and the tragedy
of the small village troubles. There was a warm friendliness for
Durrance moreover expressed, not so much in a sentence as in the whole
spirit of the letters. It was evident that she was most keenly
interested in all that he did; that, in a way, she looked upon his
career as a thing in which she had a share, even if it was only a
friend's share. And when Calder had ended he looked again at Durrance,
but now with a face of relief. It seemed, too, that Durrance was
relieved.
"After all, one has something to be thankful for," he cried. "Think!
Suppose that I had been engaged to her! She would never have allowed me
to break it off, once I had gone blind. What an escape!"
"An escape?" exclaimed Calder.
"You don't understand. But I knew a man who went blind; a good fellow,
too, before--mind that, before! But a year after! You couldn't have
recognised him.
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