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Page 20
"Now you can see," said the voice; "before you were blind. Now you
understand what I meant when I said the objects one sees are of
themselves nothing; it is what they represent that is grand and
glorious and beautiful. A flower is lovely, but it is not half so
lovely as the thing it suggests--but I can't expect you to understand
_that_. Even when you were blind you used to love the ocean. Now that
you can see, do you know why? It is because it is an emblem of God's
love, deep and mighty and strong and beautiful beyond words. And so
with the mountains, and so with the smallest weed that grows. But we
must look at other things before you go back--"
"Oh, dear!" faltered Marjorie, "when I go back shall I be blind again?
How does one see clear when one goes back?"
"Through truth," answered the beam, briefly.
But just then Marjorie found herself looking at some new sights. "What
are these?" she whispered tremblingly.
"The _proofs_ of some pictures you will remember to have half seen,"
replied the beam.
And sure enough! with a start of amaze and wonder she saw before her
eyes the people who had sat in the crowded gallery with her before she
had left it to journey here with her sunbeam guide; but, oh! with such
a difference.
The baby she had thought so ugly was in reality a white-winged angel,
mild-eyed and pitying; while the hump-backed boy represented a patience
so tender that it beautified everything upon which it shone. She
thought she recognized in one of the pictures a frock of filmy lace
that she remembered to have seen before; but the form it encased was
strange to her, so ill-shapen and unlovely it looked; while the face
was so repulsive that she shrank from it with horror.
"Is that what I thought was the pretty girl?" she murmured tremulously.
"Yes," replied the beam, simply.
The next portrait was that of the silver-haired old lady whom Marjorie
had thought so crooked and bowed. She saw now why her shoulders were
bent. It was because of the mass of memories she carried,--memories
gathered through a long and useful life. Her silver hair made a halo
about her head.
"The next is yours," breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will you
look?"
Marjorie gave a quick start, and her voice quivered sadly as she
cried,--
"Oh, blessed sunbeam, don't force me to see it! Let me go back and try
to be better before I see my likeness. I am afraid now. The outside
prettiness is n't anything, unless one's spirit is lovely too; and I--I
could not look, for I know--I know how hateful mine would be. I have
learned about it now, and it's like a book; if the story the book tells
is not beautiful, the pictures won't be good to see. I have learned
about it now, and I know better than I did. May I--oh, may I try
again?"
She waited in an agony of suspense for the answer; and when it came,
and the voice said gently, "It is your turn next," she cried aloud,--
"Not yet, oh, not yet! Let me wait. Let me try again."
And there she was, with her cheeks all flushed and tear-stained, her
hair in loose, damp curls about her temples, and her frock all rumpled
and crushed in her mother's arms; and her mother was saying,--
"Bad dreams, sweetheart? You have had a fine, long nap; but it is your
turn next, and I have had to wake you. Come, dear! Now we must see if
we cannot get a good likeness of you,--just as you really are."
WHAT HAPPENED TO LIONEL.
It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they
were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they
would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary
things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it
is-- But to go back.
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