cided in, her own mind whether she was to be hung or burnt at the stake.
"It's no matter at all," said mother, kindly; "I knew you felt sick last night. I should have called you if I had needed you."
Having set the girl at her ease, as only she could do, she went on with her breakfast, and we forgot all about her. She stayed, however, in the room to wait on the table. It was afterwards remembered that she had not been out of our sight since she came down the garret-stairs. Also, that her room looked out upon the opposite side of the house from that on which the well-curb stood.
"Why, look at Sel!" said Clara, suddenly, "she has her eyes shut."
The girl was just passing the toast. Mother spoke to her. "Selphar, what is the matter?"
"I don't know."
"Why don't you open your eyes?"
"I can't."
"Hand the salt to Miss Sarah."
She took it up and brought it around the table to me, with perfect precision.
"Sel, how you act!" said Clara, petulantly. "Of course you saw."
"Yes'm, I saw," said the girl in a puzzled way, "but my eyes are shut, Miss Clara."
"Tight?"
"Tight."
Whatever this freak meant, we thought best to take no notice of it. My mother told her, somewhat gravely, that she might sit down until she was wanted, and we returned to our conversation about the ear-ring.
"Why!" said Sel, with a little jump, "I see your ear-ring, Miss Clara,—the one with a white drop on the leaf. It's out by the well."
The girl was sitting with her back to the window, her eyes, to all appearance, tightly closed.
"It's on the right-hand side, under the snow, between the well and the wood-pile. Why, don't you see?"
Clara began to look frightened, mother displeased.
"Selphar," she said, "this is nonsense. It is impossible for you to see through the walls of two rooms and a wood-shed."
"May I go and get it?" said the girl, quietly.
"Sel," said Clara, "on your word and honor, are your eyes shut perfectly tight?"
"If they ain't, Miss Clara, then they never was."
Sel never told a lie. We looked at each other, and let her go. I followed her out, and kept my eyes on her closed lids. She did not once raise them; nor did they tremble, as lids will tremble, if only partially closed.
She walked without the slightest hesitation directly to the well-curb, to the spot which she had mentioned, stooped down, and brushed away the three-inch fall of snow. The ear-ring lay there, where it had sunk in falling. She picked it up, carried it in, and gave it to Clara.
That Clara had the thing on when she started after her kitten, there could be no doubt. She and I both remembered it. That Sel, asleep on the opposite side of the house, could not have seen it drop, was also settled. That she, with her eyes closed and her back to the window, had seen through three walls, and through three inches of snow, at a distance of fifty feet, was an inference.
"I don't believe it!" said my mother, "it's some nonsensical mistake." Clara looked a little pale, and I laughed.
We watched her carefully through the day. Her eyes remained tightly closed. She understood all that was said to her, answered correctly, but did not seem inclined to talk. She went about her work as usual, and performed it without a mistake. It could not be seen that she groped at all with her hands to feel her way, as is the case with the blind. On the contrary, she touched everything with her usual decision. It was impossible to believe, without seeing them, that her eyes were closed.
We tied a handkerchief tightly over them; see through it or below it she could not, if she had tried. We
