The brightly ornamented matting under our feet I at once recognized as of South American origin.

The ceiling above was decorated in delicate pale blue, with borderings of flowers.

Nowhere down the whole extent of the place was so much as a single morsel of dark color to be seen anywhere.
At the lower end of the corridor, a solitary figure in a pure white robe was bending over the flowers in the window.

This was the blind girl whose dark hours I had come to cheer.

In the scattered villages of the South Downs, the simple people added their word of pity to her name, and called her compassionately--"Poor Miss Finch." As for me, I can only think of her by her pretty Christian name.