"I see none," said Cilli. Reinhold looked at the sightless eyes upraised with an expression of gentle enthusiasm.
"I can well believe that you do not see it, poor child," he said to himself.
"And on that point I am quite easy," continued the blind girl; "men must live up to their convictions, and bear the consequences patiently. And my father and I can do so the more easily, that at the worst we shall not have to bear them long."
"What do you mean, dear Cilli?"
"I know that my father will not live long; the doctor has always feared that he would sink under one of his nervous attacks; and once, when he was very bad, he told me so, that I might be prepared. I am prepared. And if my father could only believe that I should not outlive him long, he would be more easy in his mind. He thinks so much of you; perhaps he would believe you if you assured him of it."
"But how can I, dear Cilli?"
"Because it is only the truth. I am ill; dying of a nervous illness. My blindness, which came on when I was three years old, is only the result of this disease, which I doubtless inherited from my father. When I was eight years old, and had a very bad illness, my parents called in two doctors, and one said to the other as they went out--they said it in a whisper, and probably did not intend me to hear, but they did not know how sharp my hearing is--it would be a miracle if the child lived to be sixteen. I shall be sixteen next spring, and--I do not believe in miracles."
"Doctors often make mistakes; I hope they have made one in your case."
"I do not hope it--I do not wish it."
"But you love life."