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“For yourself, you mean,” said Tiny, in an under tone, as he and the beggar girl went in.

“What’s that you carry?” said the physician. “Lay down your pack for a moment.”

But Tiny would not do that. He had taken up his harp in much the same spirit as if it had been a cross, and he was determined never to lay it down again until he came to his father’s house. So he merely said, “Don’t call it a pack; it was a harp once, but now it’s only some bits of wood and cord.”

“Broken!” said the doctor; and you would have been in doubt, if you had heard him, as to whether he meant Tiny’s harp or heart. “Broken! ah, …;” and he seemed to get a little new light on the subject when he looked again into Tiny’s face. “Ah,” he said again, and still more thoughtfully; “now! about those eyes. You went into a great rage just now when I told you that you were born blind. On a closer examination of them, I am still tempted to think that if you were not born blind, you never had the full use of your eyes. How are you going to prove to me that I’m mistaken? If you can prove that it came after your sickness,”–he hesitated a little–“I’m not so sure but that something might be done for you.”

At that Tiny’s anger was not much lessened; and he was in doubt as to what he should do, until the child said to him, “Sing to him about your mother.” The words had the effect of a broad ray of light streaming into a dark and dismal place, and without another word Tiny began to sing. His voice was faint and broken; it never once rose into a high strain of pride, as if he had his merits as a singer to support; he sung with tears, and such pathos as singer never did before, of his Mother and her Love. By the words of his song he brought her there into that very room, with her good and pleasant looks, her loving eyes and tender smile, so that they who heard could also behold her. He sung of all that she had been to him in his childhood, of the brightness she made in their home, of all that she had done for him, and concluded with the prayerful longing that his eyes might once more receive their sight, that so he might behold her.

“The doctor is weeping,” whispered the little girl in Tiny’s ear.

It was a long time before the doctor spoke; but at length he arose and laid some pieces of silver in Tiny’s hand; and he said, “I cannot help you. But what you have to do is to go to the Beautiful Gate, and there you will find a physician famous for the cure of such cases as yours. True enough you weren’t born blind–far from it. I ask your pardon for the mistake. I wish there were more blind in the way you were. Go your way to the Beautiful Gate.”

As the doctor spoke he arose and walked quickly towards the door, and the children followed him out. All at once Tiny recollected that they had yet one very important thing to learn, and he cried out–

“But, sir, which way shall we go in order to arrive at the Beautiful Gate?”

Too late! while he spoke the doctor stepped into his carriage, the coachman closed the door with a loud bang and drove away, and Tiny and the little girl were left quite in the dark as to what they should do next. For a long time they stood still in perfect silence. At last Tiny said, “Lead the way, little girl, for I am blind and cannot see. Come! we will go on, if you have an idea that we shall ever come to the BEAUTIFUL GATE.”