Madge, Phil and David gasped involuntarily. They had been silent and amazed listeners to the dialogue between the two old people. Now the thought of a girl younger than themselves being shut up all day in this dreadful house, and only being allowed to go out-of-doors at night was too dreadful to contemplate.
"Oh, but surely you can't keep your little grand-daughter shut away from the daylight!" exclaimed impetuous Madge, her face alive with sympathy as she gazed at the thin little form on the bed.
"Daylight and darkness are as one to my little girl," the old gentleman answered quietly, "she is blind."
Madge shivered. Phil went over to the bed and patted the girl's hand softly. But they both longed, with all their hearts, to get away from this house of tragedy. It was strange that Miss Betsey did not offer to go and leave the old man and child to their privacy.
Miss Betsey's black eyes were no longer snapping; they were wet with tears.
"I am coming to take you both away from this place in the morning, John Randolph. If you won't come for your own sake, you must come for the child's. So like a man not to know that that poor baby needs to feel all the more sunlight because she can't see it! And she may even be able to see it some day with proper care." Miss Betsey bent over the child so caressingly that she looked more like a funny old angel in her strange, long cape and her ridiculous hat than a selfish, cross-grained old maid.
"I do not understand your kindness, Madam," returned the old gentleman with courteous curiosity.
"Because I am your friend," answered Miss Betsey curtly. "I'm Betsey Taylor, whom you used to know a great many years ago. You have forgotten me because you have had many interests in your life that have crowded me out. But I—I have remembered," concluded Miss Betsey abruptly. "Good night." She swung her dark lantern and, looking more than ever like a grenadier, led the little procession out.