'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. The Blind Girl spread
her hands before her face again. But in quite another manner now.

'Dear Mary, a moment. One moment? More this way. Speak softly to
me. You are true, I know. You'd not deceive me now; would you?'

'No, Bertha, indeed!'

'No, I am sure you would not. You have too much pity for me.
Mary, look across the room to where we were just now--to where my
father is--my father, so compassionate and loving to me--and tell
me what you see.'

'I see,' said Dot, who understood her well, 'an old man sitting in
a chair, and leaning sorrowfully on the back, with his face resting
on his hand. As if his child should comfort him, Bertha.'

'Yes, yes. She will. Go on.'

'He is an old man, worn with care and work. He is a spare,
dejected, thoughtful, grey-haired man. I see him now, despondent
and bowed down, and striving against nothing. But, Bertha, I have