"And makes it noble," added Caleb in his quiet desperation. "And makes it noble!" cried the blind girl. "He is older than May, father?" "Ye-es," said Caleb, reluctantly. "He's a little older than May, but that don't signify." "Bertha," said Caleb softly, "what has happened? How changed you are, my darling, in a few hours--since this morning. _You_ silent and dull all day! What is it? Tell me!" "Oh father, father!" cried the blind girl, bursting into tears. "Oh, my hard, hard fate!" Caleb drew his hand across his eyes before he answered her. "But think how cheerful and how happy you have been, Bertha! How good, and how much loved, by many people." "That strikes me to the heart, dear father! Always so mindful of me! Always so kind to me!" Caleb was very much perplexed to understand her. "To be--to be blind, Bertha, my poor dear," he faltered, "is a great affliction; but----" "I have never felt it!" cried the blind girl. "I have never felt it in its fullness. Never! I have sometimes wished that I could see you, or could see him; only once, dear father; only for one little minute. But, father! Oh, my good, gentle father, bear with me, if I am wicked!" said the blind girl. "This is not the sorrow that so weighs me down!" "Bertha, my dear!" said Caleb, "I have something on my mind I want to tell you, while we are alone. Hear me kindly! I have a confession to make to you, my darling." "A confession, father?" "I have wandered from the truth and lost myself, my child," said Caleb, with a pitiable look on his bewildered face. "I have wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been cruel." She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him, and repeated, "Cruel! He cruel to me!" cried Bertha, with a smile of incredulity. "Not meaning it, my child," said Caleb. "But I have been; though I never suspected it till yesterday. My dear blind daughter, hear me and forgive me! The world you live in, heart of mine, doesn't exist as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have been false to you." She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still. "Your road in life was rough, my poor one," said Caleb, "and I meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, invented many things that never have been, to make you happier. I have had concealments from you, put deceptions on you, God forgive me! and surrounded you with fancies." "But living people are not fancies?" she said hurriedly, and turning very pale, and still retiring from him. "You can't change them." "I have done so, Bertha," pleaded Caleb. "There is one person that you know, my Dove--" "Oh, father! why do you say I know?" she answered in a tone of keen reproach. "What and whom do I know! I, who have no leader! I, so miserably blind!" In the anguish of her heart she stretched out her hands, as if she were groping her way; then spread them, in a manner most forlorn and sad, upon her face.