it
is!' pressing it to her lips, with a smile, and drawing it through
her arm. 'I heard them speaking softly among themselves, last
night, of some blame against you. They were wrong.'
The Carrier's Wife was silent. Caleb answered for her.
'They were wrong,' he said.
'I knew it!' cried Bertha, proudly. 'I told them so. I scorned to
hear a word! Blame HER with justice!' she pressed the hand between
her own, and the soft cheek against her face. 'No! I am not so
blind as that.'
Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained upon the
other: holding her hand.
'I know you all,' said Bertha, 'better than you think. But none so
well as her. Not even you, father. There is nothing half so real
and so true about me, as she is. If I could be restored to sight
this instant, and not a word were spoken, I could choose her from a
crowd! My sister!'
'Bertha, my dear!' said Caleb, 'I have something on my mind I want
to tell you, while we three are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a
confession to make to you, my darling.'
'A confession, father?'
'I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child,' said
Caleb, with a pitiable expression in his bewildered face. 'I have
wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been
cruel.'
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated
'Cruel!'
'He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha,' said Dot. 'You'll say
so, presently. You'll be the first to tell him so.'
'He cruel to me!' cried Bertha, with a smile of incredulity.
'Not meaning it, my child,' said Caleb. 'But I have been; though I
never suspected it, till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear
me and forgive me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't
exist as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in, have
been false to you.'
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still; but drew
back, and clung closer to her friend.
'Your road in life was rough, my poor one,' said Caleb, 'and I
meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, changed the
characters of people, invented many things that never have been, to
make you happier. I have had concealments from you, put deceptions
on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies.'
'But living people are not fancies!' she said hurriedly, and
turning very pale, and still retiring from him. 'You can't change
them.'
'I have done so, Bertha,' pleaded Caleb. 'There is one person that
you know, my dove—'
'Oh father! why do you say, I know?' she answered, in a term of
keen reproach. 'What and whom do
I
know! I who have no leader!
I so miserably blind.'
In the anguish of her heart, she stretched out her hands, as if she
were groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn
and sad, upon her face.
'The marriage that takes place to-day,' said Caleb, 'is with a
stern, sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear,
for many years. Ugly in his looks, and in his nature. Cold and
callous always. Unlike what I have painted him to you in
everything, my child. In everything.'
'Oh why,' cried the Blind Girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost
beyond endurance, 'why did you ever do this! Why did you ever fill
my heart so full, and then come in like Death, and tear away the
objects of my love! O Heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and
alone!'
Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his
penitence and sorrow.
She had been but a short time in this passion of regret, when the
Cricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp. Not
merrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way. It was so mournful
that her tears began to flow; and when the Presence which had been
beside the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to her
father, they fell down like rain.
She heard the Cricket-voice more plainly soon, and was conscious,
through her blindness, of the Presence hovering about her father.
'Mary,' said the Blind Girl, 'tell me what my home is. What it
truly is.'
'It is a poor place,
is!' pressing it to her lips, with a smile, and drawing it through
her arm. 'I heard them speaking softly among themselves, last
night, of some blame against you. They were wrong.'
The Carrier's Wife was silent. Caleb answered for her.
'They were wrong,' he said.
'I knew it!' cried Bertha, proudly. 'I told them so. I scorned to
hear a word! Blame HER with justice!' she pressed the hand between
her own, and the soft cheek against her face. 'No! I am not so
blind as that.'
Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained upon the
other: holding her hand.
'I know you all,' said Bertha, 'better than you think. But none so
well as her. Not even you, father. There is nothing half so real
and so true about me, as she is. If I could be restored to sight
this instant, and not a word were spoken, I could choose her from a
crowd! My sister!'
'Bertha, my dear!' said Caleb, 'I have something on my mind I want
to tell you, while we three are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a
confession to make to you, my darling.'
'A confession, father?'
'I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child,' said
Caleb, with a pitiable expression in his bewildered face. 'I have
wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been
cruel.'
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated
'Cruel!'
'He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha,' said Dot. 'You'll say
so, presently. You'll be the first to tell him so.'
'He cruel to me!' cried Bertha, with a smile of incredulity.
'Not meaning it, my child,' said Caleb. 'But I have been; though I
never suspected it, till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear
me and forgive me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't
exist as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in, have
been false to you.'
She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still; but drew
back, and clung closer to her friend.
'Your road in life was rough, my poor one,' said Caleb, 'and I
meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, changed the
characters of people, invented many things that never have been, to
make you happier. I have had concealments from you, put deceptions
on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies.'
'But living people are not fancies!' she said hurriedly, and
turning very pale, and still retiring from him. 'You can't change
them.'
'I have done so, Bertha,' pleaded Caleb. 'There is one person that
you know, my dove—'
'Oh father! why do you say, I know?' she answered, in a term of
keen reproach. 'What and whom do
I
know! I who have no leader!
I so miserably blind.'
In the anguish of her heart, she stretched out her hands, as if she
were groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn
and sad, upon her face.
'The marriage that takes place to-day,' said Caleb, 'is with a
stern, sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear,
for many years. Ugly in his looks, and in his nature. Cold and
callous always. Unlike what I have painted him to you in
everything, my child. In everything.'
'Oh why,' cried the Blind Girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost
beyond endurance, 'why did you ever do this! Why did you ever fill
my heart so full, and then come in like Death, and tear away the
objects of my love! O Heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and
alone!'
Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his
penitence and sorrow.
She had been but a short time in this passion of regret, when the
Cricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp. Not
merrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way. It was so mournful
that her tears began to flow; and when the Presence which had been
beside the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to her
father, they fell down like rain.
She heard the Cricket-voice more plainly soon, and was conscious,
through her blindness, of the Presence hovering about her father.
'Mary,' said the Blind Girl, 'tell me what my home is. What it
truly is.'
'It is a poor place,
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