s. Meyrick thought that this quiet might be the best invitation to
speech on the part of her companion, and chose not to disturb it by
remark. Mirah sat opposite in her former attitude, her hands clasped on
her lap, her ankles crossed, her eyes at first traveling slowly over
the objects around her, but finally resting with a sort of placid
reverence on Mrs. Meyrick. At length she began to speak softly.

"I remember my mother's face better than anything; yet I was not seven
when I was taken away, and I am nineteen now."

"I can understand that," said Mrs. Meyrick. "There are some earliest
things that last the longest."

"Oh, yes, it was the earliest. I think my life began with waking up and
loving my mother's face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round
me, and she sang to me. One hymn she sang so often, so often: and then
she taught me to sing it with her: it was the first I ever sang. They
were always Hebrew hymns she sang; and because I never knew the meaning
of the words they seemed full of nothing but our love and happiness.
When I lay in my little bed and it was all white above me, she used to
bend over me, between me and the white, and sing in a sweet, low voice.
I can dream myself back into that time when I am awake, and it often
comes back to me in my sleep--my hand is very little, I put it up to
her face and she kisses it. Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble
and think that we are both dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies
like this, and for a moment I hardly know myself. But if I could see my
mother again I should know her."

"You must expect some change after twelve years," said Mrs. Meyrick,
gently. "See my grey hair: ten years ago it was bright brown. The days
and months pace over us like restless little birds, and leave the marks
of their feet backward and forward; especially when they are like birds
with heavy hearts-then they tread heavily."

"Ah, I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me. But to feel her
joy if we could meet again, and I could make her know I love her and
give her deep comfort after all her mourning! If that could be, I
should mind nothing; I should be glad that I have lived through my
trouble. I did despair. The world seemed miserable and wicked; none
helped me so that I could bear their looks and words; I felt that my
mother was dead, and death was the only way to her. But then in the
last moment--yesterday, when I longed for the water to close over
me--an