is not fun—this is what the doctors tell me—
the doctors, my child, who have been searching
my Apparatus through and through, for
thirty years past, with little pills, and have
not found out where my wheels are clogged
yet. Think of that, Amelia—think of Mr.
Phippen's clogged Apparatus—and say 'No,
thank you,' next time. Miss Sturch, I beg
a thousand pardons for intruding on your
province; but my interest in that sweet
child, my own sad experience of the hydra-
headed tortures—Chennery, you dear good
soul, what were we talking about? Ah!
the bride—the interesting bride! And so,
she is one of the Cornish Trevertons? I
knew something of Andrew, years ago.
Eccentric and misanthropical. Bachelor, like
myself, Miss Sturch. Dyspeptic, like myself,
dear Amelia. Not at all like his brother,
the captain, I should suppose? And so, she
is married? A charming girl, I have no
doubt. A charming girl!"

"No better, truer, prettier girl in the
world," said the vicar.

"A very lively, energetic person," said
Miss Sturch.

"How I shall miss her!" said Miss Louisa.
"Nobody else amused me as Rosamond did,
when I was laid up with that last bad cold
of mine."

"She used to give us such nice little early
supper-parties," said Miss Amelia.

"She was the only girl I ever saw who was
fit to play with boys," said Master Robert.
"She could catch a ball, Mr. Phippen, sir,
with one hand, and go down a slide with both
her legs together."

"Bless me! " said Mr. Phippen. " What
an extraordinary wife for a blind man! You
said he was blind, my dear doctor, did you
not? Let me see, what was his name? You
will not bear too hardly on my loss of
memory, Miss Sturch? When indigestion
has ravaged the body, it begins to prey on
the mind. Mr. Frank Something, was it
not? Blind, too, from his birth? Sad!
sad!"

"No, no—Frankland," answered the vicar.
"Leonard Frankland. And not blind from
his birth by any means. It is not much more
than a year ago since he could see almost as
well as any of us."

"An accident, I suppose!" said Mr. Phippen.
"You will excuse me if I take the
armchair?—a partially reclining posture is of
great assistance to me, after meals. So an
accident happened to his eyes? Ah, what a
delightfully easy chair to sit in!"

"Scarcely an accident," said Dr. Chennery.
"Leonard Frankland was a difficult child to
bring up: great constitutional weakness, you
know, at first. He seemed to get over that
with time, and grew into a quiet sedate,
orderly sort of boy—as unlike my son there
as possible—very amiable, and what you call
easy to deal with. Well, he had a turn for
mechanics (I am telling you all this to make
you understand about his blindness), and
after veering about from one occupation of
that sort to another, he took at last to
watchmaking. Curious amusement for a boy, but
anything that required delicacy of touch and
plenty ot patience and perseverance, was just
the thing to amuse and occupy Leonard. I
always said to his father and mother, 'Get
him off that stool, break his magnifying-
glasses, send him to me, and I'll give him a
back at Leap Frog, and teach him the use of
a bat.' But it was no use. His parents knew
best, I suppose, and they said he must be
humoured. Well, things went on smoothly
enough for some time, till he got another
long illness—as I believe, from not taking
exercise enough. As soon as he began to get
round, back he went to his old watchmaking
occupations again. But the bad end of it all
was coming. About the last work he did,
poor fellow, was the repairing of my watch—
here it is; goes as regular as a steam-engine.
I hadn't got it back into my fob very long
before I heard that he was getting a bad pain
at the back of his head, and that he saw all
sorts of moving spots before his eyes. String
him up with lots of port wine, and give him
three hours a-day on the back of a quiet
pony—that was my advice. Instead of taking
it, they sent for doctors from London, and
blistered him behind the ears, and between
the shoulders, and drenched the lad with
mercury, and moped him up in a dark room.
No use. The sight got worse and worse,
flickered and flickered, and went out at last
like the flame of a candle. His mother died
—luckily for her, poor soul—before that
happened. His father was half out of his
mind: took him to oculists in London, and
oculists in Paris. All they did was to call
the blindness by a long Latin name, and to
say that it was hopeless and useless to try an
operation. Some of them said it was the
result of the long weaknesses from which
he had twice suffered after illness. Some
said it was an apoplectic effusion in his brain.
All of them shook their heads when they
heard of the watchmaking. So they brought
him back home blind; blind he is now; and
blind he will remain, poor dear fellow, for
the rest of his life."

"You shock me; my dear Chennery, you
shock me dreadfully," said Mr. Phippen.
"Especially when you state that theory about
long weakness after illness. Good Heavens!
Why, I have had long weaknesses—I have
got them now. Spots did he see before his
eyes? I see spots, black spots, dancing black
spots, dancing black bilious spots. Upon my
word of honour, Chennery, this comes home
to me—my sympathies are painfully acute—
I feel this blind story in every nerve of my
body; I do indeed!"

"You would hardly know that Leonard
was blind, to look at him," said Miss Louisa,
striking into the conversation with a view of
restoring Mr. Phippen's equanimity. "Except