Cheerful and neat it was, wherever Bertha's hands could busy themselves. But nowhere else, were cheerfulness and neatness possible, in the old crazy shed which Caleb's fancy so transformed.
"You have your working dress on, and are not so gallant as when you wear the handsome coat?" said Bertha, touching him.
"Not quite so gallant," answered Caleb. "Pretty brisk though."
"Father," said the Blind Girl, drawing close to his side, and stealing one arm round his neck "Tell me something about May. She is very fair?"
"She is indeed," said Caleb. And she was indeed. It was quite a rare thing to Caleb, not to have to draw on his invention.
"Her hair is dark," said Bertha, pensively, "darker than mine. Her voice is sweet and musical, I know. I have often loved to hear it. Her shape—"
"There's not a Doll's in all the room to equal it," said Caleb. "And her eyes!"—
He stopped; for Bertha had drawn closer round his neck; and, from the arm that clung about him, came a warning pressure which he understood too well.
He coughed a moment, hammered for a moment, and then fell back upon the song about the Sparkling Bowl; his infallible resource in all such difficulties.
"Our friend, father; our benefactor. I am never tired you know of hearing about him.—Now was I, ever?" she said, hastily.