The Blind Girl, greatly agitated, rose, and led the Carrier's little wife aside.
"Those presents that I took such care of; that came almost at my wish, and were so dearly welcome to me," she said, trembling; "where did they come from? Did you send them?"
"No."
"Who, then?"
Dot saw she knew already, and was silent. The Blind Girl spread her hands before her face again. But in quite another manner now.
"Dear Mary, a moment. One moment. More this way. Speak softly to me. You are true I know. You'd not deceive me now; would you?"
"No, Bertha, indeed!"
"No, I am sure you would not. You have too much pity for me. Mary, look across the room to where we were just now—to where my father is—my father, so compassionate and loving to me—and tell me what you see."
"I see," said Dot, who understood her well, "an old man sitting in a chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face resting on his hand. As if his child should comfort him, Bertha."
"Yes, yes. She will. Go on."