he midst of them looked up the large purple eye of the ground-thistle.
The mornings grew hazy and dewy. We ceased to take Muriel out with us
in our slow walk along John's favourite "terrace" before any one else
was stirring. Her father at first missed her sorely, but always kept
repeating that "early walks were not good for children." At last he
gave up the walk altogether, and used to sit with her on his knee in
front of the cottage till breakfast-time.

After that, saying with a kind of jealousy "that every one of us had
more of his little daughter than he," he got into a habit of fetching
her down to the mill every day at noon, and carrying her about in his
arms, wherever he went, during the rest of his work.

Many a time I have seen the rough, coarse, blue-handed, blue-pinafored
women of the mill stop and look wistfully after "master and little
blind miss." I often think that the quiet way in which the Enderley
mill people took the introduction of machinery, and the peaceableness
with which they watched for weeks the setting up of the steam-engine,
was partly owing to their strong impression of Mr. Halifax's goodness
as a father, and the vague, almost superstitious interest which
attached to the pale, sweet face of Muriel.

Enderley was growing dreary, and we began to anticipate the cosy
fireside of Longfield.

"The children will all go home looking better than they came; do you
not think so, Uncle Phineas?--especially Muriel?"

To that sentence I had to answer with a vague assent; after which I was
fain to rise and walk away, thinking how blind love was--all love save
mine, which had a gift for seeing the saddest side of things.

When I came back, I found the mother and daughter talking mysteriously
apart. I guessed what it was about, for I had overheard Ursula saying
they had better tell the child--it would be "something for her to look
forward to--something to amuse her next winter."

"It is a great secret, mind," the mother whispered, after its
communication.

"Oh, yes!" The tiny face, smaller than ever, I thought, flushed
brightly. "But I would much rather have a little sister, if you
please. Only"--and the child suddenly grew earnest--"will she be like
me?"

"Possibly; sisters often are alike."

"No, I don't mean that; but--you know?" And Muriel touched her own
eyes.

"I cannot tell, my daughter. In all things else, pray God she may be
like you, Muriel, my darling--my child of peace!" s