"You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when—" He choked on the words.
"When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears.
A Torturing Doubt
A Change
"Yes, when she—died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was because I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there has been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my blindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tender and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could—?"
"Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "That would only have made her love you more."
"Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But, after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it into the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by a gulf that is never bridged again."
"Daddy!" cried Barbara, in pain. "Didn't you want me?"