“It is a dreadful fate,” said Helen to Polly. “Oh, yes, it is a dreadful fate, but we must not complain, for anything is better than losing him.”
“Anything truly,” replied Polly. “Why, what is the matter, Flower? How you stare.”
Flower had been lying full-length on the old sofa in the school-room; she now sprang to her feet, and came up eagerly to the two sisters.
“Could a person do this,” she said, her voice trembling with eagerness—“Could such a thing as this be done: could one give their eyes away?”
“Flower!”
“Yes, I mean it. Could I give my eyes to Dr. Maybright—I mean just do nothing at all but read to him and look for him—manage so that he should know everything just through my eyes. Can I do it? If I can, I will.”
“But, Flower, you are not father’s daughter,” said Polly in an almost offended tone. “You speak, Flower—you speak as if he were all the world to you.”
“So he is all the world to me!” said Flower. “I owe him reparation, I owe him just everything. Yes, Helen and Polly, I think I understand how to keep your father from missing his eyes much. Oh, how glad I am, how very glad I am!”
From that moment Flower became more or less a changed creature. She developed all kinds of qualities which the Maybrights had never given her credit for. She had a degree of tact which was quite astonishing in a child of her age. There was never a jarring note in her melodious voice. With her impatience gone, and her fiery, passionate temper soothed, she was just the girl to be a charming companion to an invalid.
However restless the Doctor was, he grew quieter when Flower stole her little hand into his; and when he was far too weak and ill and suffering to bear any more reading aloud, he could listen to Flower as she recited one wild ballad after another.