“Oh, well; quite well. And as happy as even you could wish me to be—as happy as you would make the whole world, if you could.”
“Poor idiot!” muttered Tackleton. “No gleam of reason! Not a gleam!”
The blind girl took his hand, and held it a moment in her own two hands, and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before releasing it. There was so much affectionate gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than usual:
“What’s the matter now?”
“I stood the little plant beside my pillow when I went to sleep last night, and remembered it in my dreams. When the day came, and the glorious red sun—the red sun, Father?”
“Red in the mornings and in the evenings, Bertha,” said poor Caleb, with a woeful glance at his employer.
“When it rose, and bright light came into the room, I turned the little tree towards it, and blessed Heaven for making such precious things, and blessed you for sending it to cheer me.”
“Whew!” said Tackleton under his breath, “we’re getting on! The next thing will be the padded cell.”
Meanwhile Caleb looked as if he were uncertain whether Tackleton had done anything deserving of praise or not. Yet he knew that with his own hands he had brought the little rose tree home for her so carefully, and that with his own lips he had made her believe that it was a gift from Tackleton, in order to keep her from suspecting how much he every day denied himself to save the money it cost—that she might be the happier.