THERE is a pathetic little story of a blind girl, told by Ian Maclaren in an old number of Frank Leslie’s: “If I dinna see,”—and she spoke as if this were a matter of doubt and she were making a concession for argument’s sake,— —“there’s naebody in the Glen can hear like me. There’s no a footstep of a Drumtochty man comes to the door but that I ken his name, and there’s no voice oot on the road that I canna tell. “The birds sing sweeter to me than to onybody else, and I can hear them cheeping to one another in the bushes before they go to sleep. And the flowers smell sweeter to me,—the roses and the carnations and the bonny moss rose,—and I judge that the oatcake and milk taste the richer because I dinna see them. “Na, na, ye’re no to think that I’ve been illtreated by my God; for if he dinna give me ae thing, he gave me mony things instead. And mind ye, it’s no as if I’d seen once and lost my sight; that micht ha’ been a trial, and my faith micht have failed. I’ve lost naething; my life has been all getting.”—Australian Signs of the Times.