On a Sunday afternoon in this sweet after-thought summer-time, two weeks after Lizzī's wedding, Blind Benner and Hunch were half-sitting, half-lying on a pile of leaves on the top of Bald Mountain. Hunch was greatly distressed at not being able to quiet his friend's discontent, which was very evident as he turned his sightless eyes to the sky at one moment, and at the next rolled over and buried his face in the leaves.
"'Tain't no use in carryin' on thet way. Lizzī ain't here, an' thet's all there is 'bout it."
"There ain't no comfert in her bein' away," Blind Benner groaned.
"It's the first time she's missed comin'; an' yer know, Benner, she's mortil fond uv yer, an' she hed good reason fer stayin' er she'd ben here."
"Thet's more comfertin' talk, Hunch."
If the blind man could have seen the smile that broke out on his friend's face at this remark, he would have been amply repaid for it. There was moisture, too, in the dwarf's eyes. He was grateful to the friend who had said he comforted him. For a long time Blind Benner lay face downwards in the leaves, and Hunch sat beside him in silence, his untutored intelligence having caught the great secret of sympathy—unobtrusiveness.
Until this time Lizzī had always been their companion on these Sunday jaunts, but on this day she could not be found, and the two friends had gone off in a desperate sort of way, resisting the old habit, yet unable to break it.
Hunch openly declared that he loved no one but Blind Benner. The dwarf was unseemly, disagreeable. He felt that he was pitied by those who saw his deformity, and he loathed their compassion. In this list he did not include Lizzī, who said a kind thing about his back, and Bill Kellar, who was always making fun of it.
Lizzī once said:
"Hunch, don't mind about your back. You're so good to Blind Benner, that I know you're an angel, and the hump on your back is only your wings folded up."