e 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 term 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.

"The marriage that takes place to-day," said Caleb, "is with a stern,
sordid, grinding man. A hard master to you and me, my dear, for many
years. Ugly in his looks, and in his nature. Cold and callous always.
Unlike what I have painted him to you in everything, my child. In
everything."

"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?
O 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. Th