"Poor dear!" he said softly. "How thoughtless of me to forget!"
"Does it seem to you very dreadful to be blind?" she asked, catching the tone of tender sympathy in his deep voice.
Then, as he hesitated what answer to make, she continued:
"You know, I shall never see as long as I live, but I think I shall get on very well. Mother says I am very useful in the house. I am learning to do lots of things—to play the piano and to knit, and father says, if he had more money—Oh, here are the others!" And she suddenly broke off.
That was the first occasion on which Peggy had been to church since her accident. Her mother had been doubtful about taking her to-night, and had wanted to leave her at home with Sarah for her companion. But the little girl had begged to be allowed to go, and had gained her own way, and the service had had a beneficial effect upon her, having soothed her nerves instead of having excited them. She slept well that night, and the next day was spent in making preparations for her visit, and passed so busily that when bedtime came again, she was too weary to lie awake thinking of the parting from all those who made up her little world, which was so near at hand.
She was called early on the following morning, and after breakfast—of which she partook but little—and a somewhat tearful good-bye to Billy and Sarah, she drove off in a cab with her parents to Paddington railway station, where she was consigned to the care of Mr. Tiddy, who had already selected a comfortable carriage and procured a foot-warmer for his little charge.
"Good-bye, Peggy, darling," whispered her mother, as the guard bustled by requesting people to take their places. "God bless and protect you, dear."
"Good-bye, little Sunbeam," said her father cheerily, as he lifted her into the carriage and wrapped her up in a rug. "We shall expect you to come back well and strong."
"Yes," murmured Peggy, bravely smiling. "Good-bye—oh, good-bye!"