"Oh, no. He had one, too, and they both are good ones. Father said so. Joe's got father's now."
"Joe?"
"Joe Glaspell."
"You don't mean Widow Glaspell's Joe, the blind boy? I didn't know he could play."
"He couldn't till I showed him. But he likes to hear me play. And he understood—right away, I mean."
"UNDERSTOOD!"
"What I was playing, you know. And he was almost the first one that did—since father went away. And now I play every time I go there. Joe says he never knew before how trees and grass and sunsets and sunrises and birds and little brooks did look, till I told him with my violin. Now he says he thinks he can see them better than I can, because as long as his OUTSIDE eyes can't see anything, they can't see those ugly things all around him, and so he can just make his INSIDE eyes see only the beautiful things that he'd LIKE to see. And that's the kind he does see when I play. That's why I said he understood."
For a moment there was silence. In Mr. Jack's eyes there was an odd look as they rested on David's face. Then, abruptly, he spoke.
"David, I wish I had money. I'd put you then where you belonged," he sighed.
"Do you mean—where I'd find my work to do?" asked the boy softly.