le 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.

"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? Oh, heaven, how blind I am! How helpless and alone!"

Her afflicted father hung his head, and offered no reply but in his
grief.

"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,