Cheerful and neat it was, wherever Bertha’s hands could busy themselves, but nowhere else were cheerfulness and neatness possible in the old crazy shed which Caleb’s fancy painted with such pleasant description.
“You have your working clothes on, and are not so gallant as when you wear the handsome coat?” said Bertha, touching him.
“Not quite so gallant,” answered Caleb. “Pretty lively, though.”
“Father,” said the blind girl, drawing close to his side, and putting one arm around his neck, “tell me something about May. Is she very pretty?”
“She is indeed,” said Caleb. And she was indeed. It was quite a rare thing for Caleb not to draw upon his imagination.
“I can imagine her,” said Bertha. “Her hair is dark, darker than mine. Her voice is sweet and musical, I know. I have often loved to hear it. Her form——”
“There’s not a doll in all the room can compare with her,” said Caleb. “And her eyes!”
He stopped; for Bertha’s arm around his neck had given a sudden pressure. He coughed a moment; hammered a moment; then began to sing the gay song about the sparkling bowl, a thing he always did when in such difficulties.
“Now, about your friend, our benefactor, Mr. Tackleton—I am never tired, you know, of hearing about him. Now, was I ever?” she said hastily.