"The extent to which he's winking at this moment!" whispered Caleb to his daughter. "Oh, my gracious!"
"Always merry and light-hearted with us!" cried the smiling Bertha.
"Oh! you're there, are you?" answered Tackleton. "Poor idiot!"
He really did believe she was an idiot; and he founded the belief, I can't say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him.
"Well! and being there—how are you?" said Tackleton, in his cross way.
"Oh! well; quite well. And as happy as even you can wish me to be. As happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!"
"Poor idiot!" muttered Tackleton. "No gleam of reason! Not a gleam!"
The blind girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before releasing it. There was such unspeakable affection and such fervent gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than usual:
"What's the matter now?"
"Bertha!" said Tackleton, assuming, for once, a little cordiality. "Come here."