"What be
you making here, dear?" Betsey Lane would ask joyfully, and the most
perfunctory guardian hastened to explain. She squandered money as she
had never had the pleasure of doing before, and this hastened the day
when she must return to Byfleet. She was always inquiring if there
were any spectacle-sellers at hand, and received occasional
directions; but it was a difficult place for her to find her way about
in, and the very last day of her stay arrived before she found an
exhibitor of the desired sort, an oculist and instrument-maker.
"I called to get some specs for a friend that's upsighted," she
gravely informed the salesman, to his extreme amusement. "She's
dreadful troubled, and jerks her head up like a hen a-drinkin'. She's
got a blur a-growin' an' spreadin', an' sometimes she can see out to
one side on't, and more times she can't."
"Cataracts," said a middle-aged gentleman at her side; and Betsey Lane
turned to regard him with approval and curiosity.
"'Tis Miss Peggy Bond I was mentioning, of Byfleet Poor-farm," she
explained. "I count on gettin' some glasses to relieve her trouble, if
there's any to be found."
"Glasses won't do her any good," said the stranger. "Suppose you come
and sit down on this bench, and tell me all about it. First, where is
Byfleet?" and Betsey gave the directions at length.
"I thought so," said the surgeon. "How old is this friend of yours?"
Betsey cleared her throat decisively, and smoothed her gown over her
knees as if it were an apron; then she turned to take a good look at
her new acquaintance as they sat on the rustic bench together.
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