nce like himself, he seemed to regard Sir Guy's daughter like a
disinherited princess.

This short walk fatigued Philip thoroughly. He slept till dinner-time,
and when he awoke said it was the first refreshing dreamless sleep
he had had for weeks. His head was much better, and at dinner he had
something like an appetite.

It was altogether a day of refreshment, and so were the ensuing ones.
Each day Philip became stronger, and resumed more of his usual habits.
From writing a few lines in Amabel's daily letter to Laura, he proceeded
to filling the envelope, and from being put to sleep by Charles's
reading, to reading aloud the whole evening himself. The pony carriage
was set up, and he drove Charles out every day, Amabel being then
released from attending him, and free to enjoy herself in her own way in
rambles about the house and park, and discoveries of the old haunts she
knew so well by description.

She early found her way to Guy's own room, where she would walk up and
down with her child in her arms, talking to her, and holding up to her,
to be admired, the treasures of his boyhood, that Mrs. Drew delighted to
keep in order. One day, when alone in the sitting-room, she thought of
trying the piano he had chosen for her. It was locked, but the key was
on her own split-ring, where he had put it for her the day he returned
from London. She opened it, and it so happened, that the first note she
struck reminded her of one of the peculiarly sweet and deep tones of
Guy's voice. It was like awaking its echo again, and as it died away,
she hid her face and wept. But from that time the first thing she did
when her brother and cousin were out, was always to bring down her
little girl, and play to her, watching how she enjoyed the music.

Little Mary prospered in the sea air, gained colour, took to springing
and laughing; and her intelligent lively way of looking about brought
out continually more likeness to her father. Amabel herself was no
longer drooping and pining, her step grew light and elastic, a shade of
pink returned to her cheek, and the length of walk she could take was
wonderful, considering her weakness in the summer. Every day she stood
on the cliff and looked at 'Guy's sea,' before setting out to visit the
cottages, and hear the fond rough recollections of Sir Guy, or to wander
far away into the woods or on the moor, and find the way to the places
he had loved. One day, when Philip and Charles came in from a d