“Yes—yes,” said the patient, in tones of humble thankfulness, and then his lips moved for a few moments, but no sound was heard. Then aloud—“Believe me, doctor, I am grateful. But the bandage. Let me see the light.”
“My poor fellow!” began the doctor, and old Hannah uttered a sob, “you must know.”
“Ah!” cried John Grange, snatching the bandage from his eyes, the broad handkerchief kept there ever since the fall. “Don’t—don’t tell me that—I—I was afraid—yes—dark—all dark! Doctor—doctor—don’t tell me I am blind!”
Old Hannah’s sobs grew piteous, and in the silence which followed, James Ellis stole on tiptoe towards the window, unable to be a witness of the agony which convulsed the young man’s face.
“Then it is true!” said Grange. “Blind—blind from that awful shock.”
“Ah, here you are, Master Barnett,” cried the voice of old Tummus outside. “The doctor. Is he coming over? ’Cause he needn’t now.”
“What is the matter?” said Ellis, stepping out, with Daniel Barnett backing away from the porch before him.
“Poor owd Dunton’s gone, sir; dropped off dead ripe at last—just gone to sleep.”
James Ellis looked Daniel Barnett in the eyes, and both had the same thought in their minds.
What a change in the younger man’s prospects this last stroke of fate had made!