'Mary,' said the Blind Girl, 'tell me what my home is. What it
truly is.'
'It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house
will scarcely keep out wind and rain another winter. It is as
roughly shielded from the weather, Bertha,' Dot continued in a low,
clear voice, 'as your poor father in his sack-cloth coat.'
The Blind Girl, greatly agitated, rose, and led the Carrier's
little wife aside.
'Those presents that I took such care of; that came almost at my
wish, and were so dearly welcome to me,' she said, trembling;
'where did they come from? Did you send them?'
'No.'
'Who then?'
Dot saw she knew, already, and was silent. The Blind Girl spread
her hands before her face again. But in quite another manner now.
'Dear Mary, a moment. One moment? More this way. Speak softly to
me. You are true, I know. You'd not deceive me now; would you?'
'No, Bertha, indeed!'
'No, I am sure you would not. You have too much pity for me.
Mary, look across the room to where we were just now--to where my
father is--my father, so compassionate and loving to me--and tell
me what you see.
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