“O, but I couldn’t! People would—see me!” cried Rose shrinkingly.
“Well, let ’em. Rose. And anyhow, they’d just love to, everybody would. And why shouldn’t they? You look just the same as you always did except that you’re awfully pale and your hair isn’t done so prettily. People that didn’t know would never dream you couldn’t see. Listen! wouldn’t it be fun to go along as if nothing had happened and when I see anyone coming I’ll tell you and you can say ‘hullo’ like you always did?”
Rose Harrow sat erect in her chair, clasping her hands almost wildly.
“Betty, is that true? Do you mean that, or are you just saying it like mama says things, because you pity me?” she demanded. “Do I look the same? You don’t mean—you can’t mean that my eyes look—all right?”
“I do mean it,” asseverated Betty.
“Honest and true?” demanded Rose. Betty’s reputation for truthfulness was established, but Mrs. Harrow’s conduct indicated that another sort of ethics prevailed with the blind. Moreover this statement was too wonderful to be conceivable.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, they look exactly the same,” Betty declared solemnly. “Your eyes haven’t changed the least mite except that they look a little darker and sort of sober instead of sparkling. Tommy could hardly believe it, nor father, but it’s true. If you wouldn’t hang your head and would turn towards people when they spoke, why, nobody——”
Betty stopped, appalled. For Rose was sobbing wildly.
“Rose! darling Rose!” she cried, running to her and throwing her arms about her.
“O, Betty, why didn’t you say so before? Why didn’t somebody tell me?” the girl wailed. “I have suffered so. And everyone sounded as if—— O, I thought I looked frightful, so that——”