'A blessing on those voices!' said the wayfarer. 'I feel the beauty of
the night more keenly, when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Will
they speak again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?'
'Have you no guide?' asked the widow, after a moment's pause.
'None but that,' he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun;
'and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now.'
'Have you travelled far?'
'A weary way and long,' rejoined the traveller as he shook his head. 'A
weary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of your
well--be pleased to let me have a draught of water, lady.'
'Why do you call me lady?' she returned. 'I am as poor as you.'
'Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,' replied the man.
'The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are--apart from the sense of
touch--alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress.'
'Come round this way,' said Barnaby, who had passed out at the
garden-gate and now stood close beside him. 'Put your hand in mine.
You're blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark?
Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?'
'Alas!' returned the other, 'I see nothing.
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