The flood of her vital energy had for so many years been directed toward her hands as a substitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness showed itself not only in an infinite variety of delicate gestures and movements, changing with her changing moods, but they had an expression of their own, such as we look for in the eyes.

I had gazed upon her hands so often, and had studied so carefully their varying expression, discernible both to my sight and to my touch, that I could read her mind through them as we read the emotions of others through the countenance.

The "feel" of her hands, if I may use the word, I can in no way describe.

Its effect on me was magical.

The happiest moments I have ever known were those when I held the fair blind girl by the hand and strolled upon the great terrace or followed the babbling winding course of dear old Wye, and drank in the elixir of all that is good and pure from the cup of her sweet, unconscious influence.
Madge, too, had found happiness in our strolling.