“Blind! An’ a-workin’ i’ the mines?”
“Oh, a body don’t have to see to ’tend door, you know. All I’ve to do is to open it when I hear the cars a-comin’, an’ to shut it when they get by.”
“Aye, that’s true; but ye did na get here alone. Who helpit ye?”
Bennie’s face lighted up with pleasure, as he answered,—
“Oh, that’s Tom! He helps me. I couldn’t get along without him; I couldn’t do any thing without Tom.”
The man’s interest and compassion had grown, as the conversation lengthened, and he was charmed by the voice of the child. It had in it that touch of pathos that often lingers in the voices of the blind. He would hear more of it.
“Sit ye, lad,” he said; “sit ye, an’ tell me aboot Tom, an’ aboot yoursel’, an’ a’ ye can remember.”
Then they sat down on the rude bench together, with the roughly hewn pillar of coal at their backs, blind Bennie and Jack Rennie, the giant, and while one told the story of his blindness, and his blessings, and his hopes, the other listened with tender earnestness, almost with tears.
Bennie told first about Tom, his brother, who was fourteen years old, two years older than himself. Tom was so good to him; and Tom could see, could see as well as anybody. “Why,” he exclaimed, “Tom can see every thing!”