as to us all, during those ten struggling years, when our
household had much to contend with, much to endure. If at night her
father came home jaded and worn, sickened to the soul by the hard
battle he had to fight daily, hourly, with the outside world, Muriel
would come softly and creep into his bosom, and he was comforted. If,
busying herself about, doing faithfully her portion too, that the
husband when he came in of evenings might find all cheerful and never
know how heavy had been the household cares during the day--if, at
times, Ursula's voice took too sharp a tone, at sight of Muriel it
softened at once. No one could speak any but soft and sweet words when
the blind child was by.

Yet, I think either parent would have looked amazed had any one pitied
them for having a blind child. The loss--a loss only to them, and not
to her, the darling!--became familiar, and ceased to wound; the
blessedness was ever new. "Ay, and she shall be blessed," had said my
dear father. So she was. From her, or for her, her parents never had
to endure a single pain. Even the sicknesses of infancy and childhood,
of which the three others had their natural share, always passed her
by, as if in pity. Nothing ever ailed Muriel.

The spring of 1812 was an era long remembered in our family. Scarlet
fever went through the house--safely, but leaving much care behind.
When at last they all came round, and we were able to gather our pale
little flock to a garden feast, under the big old pear-tree, it was
with the trembling thankfulness of those who have gone through great
perils, hardly dared to be recognized as such till they were over.

"Ay, thank God it is over!" said John, as he put his arm round his
wife, and looked in her worn face, where still her own smile
lingered--her bright, brave smile, that nothing could ever drive away.
"And now we must try and make a little holiday for you."

"Nonsense! I am as well as possible. Did not Dr. Jessop tell me, this
morning, I was looking younger than ever? I--a mother of a family,
thirty years old? Pray, Uncle Phineas, do I look my age?"

I could not say she did not--especially now. But she wore it so
gracefully, so carelessly, that I saw--ay, and truly her husband saw--a
sacred beauty about her jaded cheek, more lovely and lovable than all
the bloom of her youth. Happy woman! who was not afraid of growing old.

"Love"--John usually called her "Love"--putting it at the beginning of