“Tell me; don’t be afraid.”
“It’s been,” replied Preston, choking, “it’s been a long while. The sun isn’t so bright somehow as it was; and oh, Mr. Garland, the print in my books isn’t so black as it used to be! But I didn’t want to make a fuss about it, and have father know it.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, he’d give me medicine, I suppose.”
“My boy, my poor boy, you ought to have told him.”
“Do you think so? Well, I hoped I’d get better, you know.”
“Preston, is this the reason you don’t learn your lessons any better?”
“I don’t know. Yes, sir, I think so. I can’t read the words in my books very well.”
“You poor, blessed child! Growing blind,” thought Mr. Garland; but did not say the words aloud.
“And I have to sit in the sun to see.”