“Yes, I know mamma. I can tell her step from a distance.”
“Yes, of course you can. I can tell my mother when my eyes are shut.”
The conversation had assumed a less agitating tone.
“I can feel the sun,” said the blind boy, growing more animated, “and I can tell when it has set.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because—don’t you see?—I can’t tell why myself.”
“Yes,” said the girl, and she seemed quite satisfied with this reply, and both were silent.
“I can read,” Petrùsya was the first to break the silence, “and I shall soon begin to learn to write with a pen.”
“How do you manage?” she inquired, and suddenly paused abashed, reluctant to pursue the delicate subject.
But he understood her. “I read from my own book, with my fingers,” he explained.