“SHALL we ask Aunt Ella to tell us a story, Maudie, about the time when she was a little girl? for mother told me only last evening that auntie was not born blind, but used to go to day-school and run about and play games just as we do and I cannot remember quite all mother said about it, but (Flora's voice grew low, and sounded as if she was just ready to cry) when she was eight years old she met with such a dreadful accident and was so badly hurt that she has been blind nearly ever since.
“Would not you like to hear all about it, Maudie?”
Maud, who is two years older than her sister, thought for a moment, then said “Yes, I should like to hear the whole story, though I think I know little bits of it, but perhaps it might hurt auntie to tell it, and you know, Flora, we both love her dearly, and mother always tells us we can show our love to her in two ways—by doing things that we know will please her, and by being careful not to do or say things that might give her pain.”
But the children's voices had reached the ear of their aunt, who had not been so far off during their conversation as they thought.
Calling them to her, she said, pleasantly, "Yes, dear ones, you shall have the story you wish so much to hear. It will not hurt me to tell it, for though I remember quite well how long and bitterly I cried when I heard the doctors tell my mother that though I had lain for many weeks in a little white bed in M— Hospital, and they had done all that lay in their power to preserve the little sight that remained after the accident of which Flora was talking just now, my eyes had been so badly injured that nothing lay before me but a darkened life, as in less than two years I should be quite blind, and they thought the very best thing would be for me to be admitted to a school where, in company with other blind children, I should be taught to read and work.
“But the trial has lost all its bitterness now, and my life is not a sad or dark one, for light—the light of another world—is shining brightly in my soul, and I own in my blindness a Father's loving hand in closing my eyes to the things of earth that He might attract my wayward heart to Himself. But Flora is getting impatient for my promised story.
“When I was a little girl, your grandpapa's hair was not gray, but quite black; he walked with a quick firm step and looked, I believe, taller than he does now. He was, as I think you know, a soldier, and his duties were always at headquarters, so my childhood was spent in several garrison towns.
“I loved my father dearly, and would, even when a tiny child, watch for his return, and scamper across the castle yard to meet him. My sight was good, and I liked going to day-school, for as I learned quickly, lessons were not any trouble to me. But perhaps my greatest delight was in play, and when, as was sometimes the case, my father was stationed at a sea-port town nothing gave me more pleasure than on half-holidays, or when school was over, to run down to the beach with my playmates, where we found never-failing amusement till lengthening shadows and sharpened appetites reminded us it was time to go home.
“But all our plays were not safe ones, and I think at the time of which I am telling you our favorite playground was one of the quays, or wharves, not far from the harbor, on which was a very large and powerful steam crane worked by machinery.
“We never seemed to tire of watching as it dipped into the holds of the different vessels, which were brought to the side of the quay to be unloaded, bringing up enormous bales and packages of great weight with as much ease as if they had only weighed a few pounds.
“We were not, however, content to be merely onlookers.
“The man who had charge of the engine, when the crane was not in actual use, spent much of his time in a small wooden house on the quay, and we children were not long in finding out that at certain hours the house was empty, the caretaker having, we supposed, gone home to his meals.
“Then we used to climb on to the platform of the crane and take turns in jumping off. I do not now think that it could have been so very amusing, but we thought it great fun.
“We had been warned that our play-place was far from being a safe one, but I do not remember that we had ever been forbidden to amuse ourselves there.” It was a lovely afternoon in the early summer of 18—when we started, a merry little party of five or six, for the shore.
“The sea shone and glittered like a polished mirror as the sunbeams danced upon its surface, and my eyes drank in a scene of such beauty as I have never since beheld, nor do I expect to see upon earth again.
“We were in high spirits, and quite intended having a good time. How little we thought that that bright day would end in tears for all, in weeks of suffering to be followed by a life-long affliction for one of those happy children.
“We played for some time on the pebbly beach, then went off to the quay. The crane was not in motion, and one of my brothers, after peeping through the window of the wooden house, reported it tenantless, so we were soon in high glee, jumping off the platform of the crane.
“I do not know how long our play continued, but I was upon the crane, and it was my turn to jump, when without a moment's warning, the machinery was set going, and the crane began to work." All was so sudden and unlooked-for that I had not time to jump. The handle of the crane struck me violently on the head, the force of the blow throwing me, I' was afterward told, to a considerable distance.
“I do not remember feeling any pain at the time, for I had been stunned, and it was some time before I regained consciousness; when at last I did so, it was to find my head and face covered with bandages. I tried to remember what had happened, but could not do so. I asked feebly, 'Where am I?'
“It was my mother's voice that answered, 'At home, my precious child, my darling Ella. Thank God! you are still spared to us, but you must be very quiet now, and we hope you will soon be quite well.' But I did not get well quickly; it was quite a long time before I was able to walk, and many weeks before I was strong enough to run about, and then to my great surprise and sorrow I found that I could not see clearly. When I tried to read my favorite story-books the letters seemed to dance about upon the white paper, or floated away in a mist. Father brought me home a new doll with flaxen hair and blue eyes, almost as large as a real baby. I wanted to help mother to dress it, but could not thread my needle, and after taking a few not very neat stitches my eyes became so red and painful that I was obliged to give it up.
“That night I cried myself to sleep. I often heard the neighbors speak of me as ‘poor little Ella.' I sometimes wondered why they pitied me; the thought that I was losing my sight never for a moment crossed my mind.
“For a long, long time, my mother too refused to believe the truth about her much-loved child. She took me from doctor to doctor, and to every hospital within her reach. Doctors told her as gently as they could that the injuries to my eyes were such as must end in total blindness, but she clung to the hope that time and a change of air and treatment might still do my eyes some good.
“A doctor who had been very kind, and taken a great interest in my case, offered to write to a gentleman whose influence would, he thought, be sufficient to secure my admission to a school for blind children, but the proposal distressed my dear mother so deeply, that my father, after a time, ceased to urge it. I was not, the doctor said, to be sent to a day-school, so for a year or so I was allowed to do pretty much as I pleased, my sight getting slowly worse all the time.
“You must have wondered as you listened to my story, dear little girls, why I have not said anything about the Lord in it. I did not know Him then as my own trusted Savior. I liked to listen to Bible stories. I knelt every night by my little bed and repeated a form of words, but it was not prayer at all, for all true prayer is telling out some need to God, and as I did not even know myself to be a lost and sinful child, I did not desire or ask for salvation.
“It was not till some years after that I was through grace enabled rejoicingly to say: ‘For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.’" (2 Cor. 4:66For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. (2 Corinthians 4:6).)