Caleb did not answer. She knew already, and was silent.
"I see, I understand," said Bertha, "and now I am looking at you, at my kind, loving compassionate father, tell me what is he like?"
"An old man, my child; thin, bent, gray-haired, worn-out with hard work and sorrow; a weak, foolish, deceitful old man."
The blind girl threw herself on her knees before him, and took his gray head in her arms. "It is my sight, it is my sight restored," she cried. "I have been blind, but now I see; I have never till now truly seen my father. Does he think that there is a gay, handsome father in this earth that I could love so dearly, cherish so devotedly, as this worn and gray-headed old man? Father there is not a gray hair on your head that shall be forgotten in my prayers and thanks to heaven."
"My Bertha!" sobbed Caleb, "and the brisk smart father in the blue coat—he's gone, my child."
"Dearest father, no, he's not gone, nothing is gone, everything I loved and believed in is here in this worn, old father of mine, and more—oh, so much more, too! I have been happy and contented, but I shall be happier and more contented still, now that I know what you are. I am not blind, father, any longer."