“Who, then?”
Dot saw she knew already, and was silent. The blind girl spread her hands before her face again, but in quite a different manner now.
“Dear Mary, a moment, please. Speak softly. Tell me truly. Look across the room to where we were sitting just now—to where my father is—my father, so kind and loving to me—and tell me what you see.”
“I see,” said Dot, who understood her well, “an old man sitting in a chair, and leaning over sorrowfully with his head resting in his hands. He looks as if his child should comfort him, Bertha.”
“Yes, yes. She will. Go on.”
“He is an old man, worn with care and work. He is a sad, thoughtful, gray-haired man, who seems to have lost the object he most loved in the world—his child for whom he lived.”
The blind girl broke away from her, and dropping on her knees before him, threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, my Father! My dear, dear Father!” she cried. “I have been so blind! But now my eyes are open. I never knew you. To think, I might have died and never truly known the father who has been so loving to me!”
Caleb managed to say, “My Bertha!”
“And in my blindness, I believed him to be so different,” said the girl, still caressing him, “so young and gay!”