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“So you help a blind poet? How wonderfully beautiful,” said Miss Carrington, gently. “You are not half known; we all took you for his paid secretary.”

“Oh, so I am, I am!” cried Anne, distressed. “Did I convey anything else? Mr. Latham is not an object of charity. I am in his employ. But—well—I want to do my best for his work, and”—she laughed shyly, but with pretty mischief, that did not hide her pity for Richard—“I am only his eyeglasses, but I don’t want the glasses to pinch, you see?”

“I see,” assented Miss Carrington. “You mean, since someone must serve him in lieu of his lost eyes, you want to see to it that it is someone devoted to him. I still think it is wonderful. How did you hear of him, or he of you?”

“There was an artist here last summer who is Mr. Latham’s closest friend. He is a very good artist——”

“Edwin Wilberforce?” interrupted Miss Carrington. “Decidedly he is. I would not speak so temperately of him; he is a famous and great painter. Did he find you for his friend?”