"Listen!" he said as he held her hand in both of his. "Listen an' I'll tell yer all 'bout Lizzī."
An expectant hush fell upon the group, and even Lizzī's thumping heart beat more softly as she awaited her blind friend's story.
"My eyes are only a joke." He spoke like a wise cynic. "They don't see. Hunch says they look like good eyes an' move an' wink like other people's. 'Tain't no use their winkin', 'cause the light don't hurt them."
Very bitterly he spoke the last sentence as he winked his eyes sarcastically.
"But my ears, they're good; they know." His tone became more cheerful, but no less earnest. "They hear well, better than you folks see. They know when the birds laugh and when they cry, when they're glad and when they're sad. They know when the fiddle's in tune. They know a right sound. No, I've no eyes to see the white snow, er the blue sky, er the green grass; but my ears hears the wind in the trees, and it never lies ter me. I know when it's mad, when it's sad, when it's glad. So is Lizzī's voice ter me, like the wind among the trees that never lies ter me. I hev never seen Lizzī's face, but I hev heard her voice. I know when she's glad, when she's mad, when she's sad. I hev heard her sing her baby songs when she thought nobody was listenin', an' she sings 'em like my mother did, an' my mother wasn't false; no more is Lizzī."
The men clamored their approval of Blind Benner's tribute to Lizzī, but Mrs. McAnay remained silent, still doubting, and Lizzī, though her heart hungered for her mother's trust, would not ask for it.
CHAPTER XI.
LIZZĪ STOPS A FIGHT.
Saturday evening was a money-making time for the landlord of the "Three-Girls" Tavern, as the inn was familiarly called. On that evening old scores were wiped off the slate and new ones opened, to be lengthened during the coming week until on the next Saturday they followed their predecessors into Nowhere. Into Nowhere? Perhaps. But Memory hides in Nowhere, and Memory is terrifying when she catches one in a lonely way and brings him up with hair on end, as he gazes at the dog Conscience, whose leash she seems ready to let slip that he may rend the poor wayfarer. Yet, the score is erased from the landlord's slate and, it may be, from memory's tablet—for the nonce.
The usual Saturday night crowd had gathered in the bar-room, and tongues had been loosened by drink. Words flew thick and fast. Language was not choice. At short intervals there was a demand for an apology, or a fight. The McAnay brothers were there and all drinking, though not very deeply. Cassi, who was standing treat, was the centre of a group of muscular men, some of whom were intoxicated. The glasses had been filled with pure rye whiskey. They were held high in the air, then they were clinked, while the landlord bowed and smirked as he waited for the toast.