"Blind! How shocking!"
The stranger's voice had softened perceptibly, and sounded no longer indifferent. Peggy, conscious of the change, smiled, and a faint colour rose to her pale cheeks as she remarked:
"Every one is surprised to hear I am blind, but it is quite true."
"And have you been blind long?"
"All my life."
"And yet you look happy!" was the wondering exclamation.
"I am very happy. Mother says I must always remember how many blessings God has given me, and so I do. Oh, here is Mr. Tiddy!" the little girl cried, with a sudden change of tone.
The farmer came up, glancing curiously at Peggy's companion, who now put forward a request—it sounded almost like a command—to see his flowers, adding that she had come from Penzance on purpose to look at them, and had left her carriage at the foot of the hill.
"You are just in time to see them at their best," Mr. Tiddy told her pleasantly. "In another week, I shall have cut them all: we rear them for the London markets. Lead the way, Peggy. A little friend of ours from town," he explained, lowering his voice as the child and the dog went on ahead. "She's been laid up ill and hasn't picked up her health and spirits yet. We're trying what our Cornish air will do for her."
"I trust it will do wonders," said the lady, and her voice, though still cold in tone, was not ungracious. "She looks a delicate child, and she tells me, she is blind."