the round
prettiness of childhood gone--but her whole appearance wore that
inexpressible expression, in which, for want of a suitable word, we all
embody our vague notions of the unknown world, and call "angelic."

"Does Muriel feel quite well--quite strong and well?" the father and
mother both kept saying every now and then, as they looked at her. She
always answered, "Quite well."

In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitchen, and John
and I were standing at the open door, listening to the dropping of the
rain in the garden, we heard, after its long silence, Muriel's "voice."

"Father, listen!" whispered the mother, linking her arm through his as
he stood at the door. Soft and slow came the notes of the old
harpsichord--she was playing one of the abbey anthems. Then it melted
away into melodies we knew not--sweet and strange. Her parents looked
at one another--their hearts were full of thankfulness and joy.

"And Mary Baines's little lad is in the churchyard."

CHAPTER XXVI

"What a comfort! the day-light is lengthening. I think this has been
the very dreariest winter I ever knew. Has it not, my little daughter?
Who brought her these violets?"

And John placed himself on a corner of my own particular armchair,
where, somehow or other, Muriel always lay curled up at tea-time
now--(ay, and many hours in the day-time, though we hardly noticed it
at first). Taking between his hands the little face, which broke into
smiles at the merest touch of the father's fingers, he asked her "when
she intended to go a walk with him?"

"To-morrow."

"So we have said for a great many to-morrows, but it is always put off.
What do you think, mother--is the little maid strong enough?"

Mrs. Halifax hesitated; said something about "east winds."

"Yet I think it would do her good if she braved east winds, and played
out of doors as the boys do. Would you not like it, Muriel?"

The child shrank back with an involuntary "Oh, no."

"That is because she is a little girl, necessarily less strong than the
lads are. Is it not so, Uncle Phineas?" continued her father, hastily,
for I was watching them.

"Muriel will be quite strong when the warm weather comes. We have had
such a severe winter. Every one of the children has suffered," said
the mother, in a cheerful tone, as she poured out a cup of cream for
her daughter, to whom was now given, by common consent, all the richest
and rarest of the house.