"But just think, Gerty," said Emily, in the same sad voice, "how would you feel if you could not see the light, could not see anything in the world?"
"Can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the church we're in? Are you in the dark?"
"In the dark all the time—day and night in the dark."
Gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, "It's too bad! it's too bad!"
The child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for years, Emily wept bitterly for her blindness.
It was but for a few moments, however. Quickly recovering herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, "Hush! hush! don't cry; and don't say it's too bad! It's not too bad; I can bear it very well. I'm used to it, and am quite happy."
"I shouldn't be happy in the dark; I should hate to be!" said Gerty. "I an't glad you're blind; I'm really sorry. I wish you could see me and everything. Can't your eyes be opened, any way?"
"No," said Emily; "never; but we won't talk about that any more; we will talk about you. I want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly."
"Because folks say that I am an ugly child, and that nobody loves ugly children."
"Yes, people do," said Emily, "love ugly children, if they are good."