Nobody would have suspected that he could. He hadn’t a singing face by any means.
“I can’t afford to sing,” said Tackleton. “I’m glad you can. I hope you can afford to work, too. Hardly time for both, I should think.”
Caleb turned toward his daughter, and said in a low tone, “If you could only see him, Bertha, how he’s winking at me. Such a man to joke! You’d think, if you didn’t know him, he was in earnest—wouldn’t you now?”
The blind girl smiled and nodded.
“The bird that can sing and won’t sing, must be made to sing,” grumbled Tackleton. “What about the owl that can’t sing, and oughtn’t to sing, and will sing. Is there anything that he should be made to do?”
“The way he’s winking at me this moment!” whispered Caleb to his daughter. “Oh, my gracious!”
“Always merry and light-hearted with us!” cried the smiling Bertha.
“Oh, you’re there, are you?” answered Tackleton. “Poor idiot!”
He really did believe she was an idiot; and, strange to say, he thought her an idiot because she was fond of him.
“Well! being there, how are you?” said Tackleton, in his grudging way.