"Did you sigh, Marlene?" he asked, without turning his head.
"Not I, Clement; what should I sigh for? I only started when the wind burst in so suddenly."
"But sigh you did! Do you think I do not hear you when I play? When you shiver, I feel it even here."
"Yes, it is cold now."
"You don't deceive me! If you were only cold, you would not be standing there at the window. And I know what makes you sigh and tremble; you are afraid because the doctor is to come to-morrow and pierce our eyes with needles. Yet he told us how quickly it is done, and that it is only like the sting of a gnat. You used to be so brave and patient. When I was little, and used to cry when I was hurt, were not you always held up as a pattern to me by my mother, though you are only a girl. And now you cannot find your courage, and do not in the least think of all the joy that is to come after."
She shook her head. "Can you believe me to be afraid of so short a pain? And yet I am oppressed by foolish childish fancies, from which I cannot see my way. From that day when the strange doctor for whom the baron sent, came down from the great house to see your father, and your mother called us in to him from the garden--from that hour there has been a weight upon me which will not go. You were so glad, you took no notice; but when your father knelt down, and began to return thanks to God for this great mercy, my heart was dumb within me, and I could not join. I tried to find a reason for being thankful, but I could feel none."
She said this very quietly, and her voice was steady. He struck a few gentle chords. Between the hoarse jarring tones peculiar to such old instruments, sounded the distant song of returning labourers--contrasting, as did that life, in its plenitude of light and power, with the dream-life of these two blind children.
The boy appeared to feel it; he rose hastily, and went to the window with unerring step--for he knew that room and everything it contained--and, tossing back his fine fair curls, he said:
"You are fanciful, Marlene; our fathers and mothers and all the village wish us joy, and should it not be joy?--before they promised this, I did not mind. We are blind, they say; I never knew what it was we wanted. When visitors used to come and see my mother, and we heard them pity us, and say; 'Ah, those poor children!' I used to get so angry. What right have they to pity us? I thought. Still, I always knew that we are not like other people. They often spoke of things I did not understand, but yet which must be lovely; now that we are to know these too, curiosity has taken hold of me, and will not let me rest night or day."
"I was quite content before;" said Marlene, sadly. "I was happy, and could have been happy all my life--now it will be different. Do you never hear people complain of care and trouble? and what did we know of care?"