To give the greater force to his words, he checked himself in an involuntary imitation of two half-length stretching and yawning figures on the mantel-shelf, who were represented as in one eternal state of weariness from the waist upwards; and hummed a fragment of a song. It was a Bacchanalian song, something about a Sparkling Bowl. He sang it with an assumption of a Devil-may-care voice, that made his face a thousand times more meagre and more thoughtful than ever. ‘What! You’re singing, are you?’ said Tackleton, putting his head in at the door. ‘Go it! _I_ can’t sing.’ Nobody would have suspected him of it. He hadn’t what is generally termed a singing face, by any means. ‘I can’t afford to sing,’ said Tackleton. ‘I’m glad _you can_. I hope you can afford to work too. Hardly time for both, I should think?’ ‘If you could only see him, Bertha, how he’s winking at me!’ whispered Caleb. ‘Such a man to joke! you’d think, if you didn’t know him, he was in earnest—wouldn’t you now?’ The Blind Girl smiled and nodded. ‘The bird that can sing and won’t sing, must be made to sing, they say,’ grumbled Tackleton. ‘What about the owl that can’t sing, and oughtn’t to sing, and will sing; is there anything that _he_ should be made to do?’ ‘The extent to which he’s winking at this moment!’ whispered Caleb to his daughter. ‘O, my gracious!’ ‘Always merry and light-hearted with us!’ cried the smiling Bertha. ‘O, you’re there, are you?’ answered Tackleton. ‘Poor Idiot!’ He really did believe she was an Idiot; and he founded the belief, I can’t say whether consciously or not, upon her being fond of him. ‘Well! and being there,—how are you?’ said Tackleton, in his grudging way. ‘Oh! well; quite well. And as happy as even you can wish me to be. As happy as you would make the whole world, if you could!’ ‘Poor Idiot!’ muttered Tackleton. ‘No gleam of reason. Not a gleam!’ The Blind Girl took his hand and kissed it; held it for a moment in her own two hands; and laid her cheek against it tenderly, before releasing it. There was such unspeakable affection and such fervent gratitude in the act, that Tackleton himself was moved to say, in a milder growl than usual: ‘What’s the matter now?’ ‘I stood it close beside my pillow when I went to sleep last night, and remembered it in my dreams. And when the day broke, and the glorious red sun—the _red_ sun, father?’ ‘Red in the mornings and the evenings, Bertha,’ said poor Caleb, with a woeful glance at his employer. ‘When it rose, and the bright light I almost fear to strike myself against in walking, came into the room, I turned the little tree towards it, and blessed Heaven for making things so precious, and blessed you for sending them to cheer me!’ ‘Bedlam broke loose!’ said Tackleton under his breath. ‘We shall arrive at the strait-waistcoat and mufflers soon. We’re getting on!’