| Share page |
|
THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 227
" Oh why," cried the Blind Girl, tortured, as it seemed, almost beyond endurance, " why did you ever do this ! Why did you ever fill my heart so full, and then come in like Death, and tear away the objects of my love! Oh Heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and alone !"
Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his penitence and sorrow.
She had been but a short time in this passion of regret, when the Cricket on the Hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp. Not merrily, but in a low, faint, sorrowing way. It was so mournful, that her tears began to flow : and when the Presence which had been beside the Carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing to her father, they fell down like rain.
She heard the Cricket-voice more plainly soon; and was conscious, through her blindness, of the Presence hovering about her father.
"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 sackcloth 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."
"I see," said Dot, who understood her well; "an old man sitting in a chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face resting on his hand. As if his child should comfort him, Bertha." |
||