“God is never cruel,” said Helen, a beautiful, steadfast light shining in her eyes. “I couldn’t let go the faith that God is always good. But father—oh, Polly, Polly, I am dreadfully afraid that father is going to lose his sight.”
“What?” said Polly. “What? father lose his sight? No, I’m not going to listen to you, Nell. You needn’t talk like that. It’s perfectly horrid of you. I’ll go away at once and ask him. Father! Why, his eyes are as bright as possible. I’ll go this minute and ask him.”
“No, don’t do that, Polly. I would never have spoken if I wasn’t really sure, and I don’t think it would be right to ask him, or to speak about it, until he tells us about it himself. But I began to guess it a little bit lately, when I saw how anxious mother seemed. For she was anxious, although she was the brightest of all bright people. And after her death father said I was to look through some of her letters; and I found one or two which told me that what I suspected was the case, and father may—indeed, he probably will—become quite blind, by-and-by. That was—that was—What’s the matter, Polly?”
“Nothing,” said Polly. “You needn’t go on—you needn’t say any more. It’s a horrid world, nothing is worth living for; pie-crust, nor housekeeping, nor nothing. I hate the world, and every one in it, and I hate you most of all, Nell, for your horrid news. Father blind! No, I won’t believe it; it’s all a lie.”
“Poor Polly,” said Helen. “Don’t believe it, dear, I wish I didn’t. I think I know a little bit how you feel. I’m not so hot and hasty and passionate as you, and oh, I’m not half, nor a quarter, so clever, but still, I do know how you feel; I—Polly, you startle me.”
“Only you don’t hate me at this moment,” said Polly. “And I—don’t I hate you, just! There, you can say anything after that. I know I’m a wretch—I know I’m hopeless. Even mother would say I was hopeless if she saw me now, hating you, the kindest and best of sisters. But I do, yes, I do, most heartily. So you see you aren’t like me, Helen.”
“I certainly never hated any one,” said Helen. “But you are excited, Polly, and this news is a shock to you. We won’t talk about it one way or other, now, and we’ll try as far as possible not to think of it, except in so far as it ought to make us anxious to carry out mother’s plan.”
Polly had crouched back away from the window, her little figure all huddled up, her cheeks with carnation spots on them, and her eyes, brimful of the tears which she struggled not to shed, were partly hidden by the folds of the heavy curtain which half-enveloped her.
“You were going to say something else dreadfully unpleasant,” she remarked. “Well, have it out. Nothing can hurt me very much just now.”
“It’s about the strangers,” said Helen. “The strangers who were to come in October. You surely can’t have forgotten them, Polly.”