She turned her wonder-stricken face towards him still; but drew
back, and clung closer to her friend.

'Your road in life was rough, my poor one,' said Caleb, 'and I
meant to smooth it for you. I have altered objects, changed the
characters of people, 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 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.'