But it was a cloudy and rainbeaten face.

She pointed toward the farm, saying that my father was there.
'Has he grieved you, Mabel ?' I asked softly.
'Oh, no, not he! he wouldn't, he couldn't; he talked right.

Oh, go, go: for I haven't a foot to move.

And don't speak so soft; I can't bear kindness.' My father in admonishing her had done it tenderly, I was sure.
Tenderness was the weapon which had wounded her, and so she shrank from it; and if I had reproached and abused her she might, perhaps, have obeyed me by coming out, not to return.

She was deaf.