he dark--which was no dark to
her--for a long hour she sat and played. By and by the moon looked in,
showing the great gilt pipes of the organ, and the little fairy figure
sitting below.

Once or twice she stooped from the organ-loft to ask me where was
Brother Anselmo, who usually met us in the church of evenings, and whom
to-night--this last night before the general household moved back to
Longfield--we had fully expected.

At last he came, sat down by me, and listened. She was playing a
fragment of one of his Catholic masses. When it ended, he called
"Muriel!"

Her soft, glad answer came down from the gallery.

"Child, play the 'Miserere' I taught you."

She obeyed, making the organ wail like a tormented soul. Truly, no
tales I ever heard of young Wesley and the infant Mozart ever surpassed
the wonderful playing of our blind child.

"Now, the 'Dies Irae.'--It will come," he muttered, "to us all."

The child struck a few notes, heavy and dolorous, filling the church
like a thunder-cloud, then suddenly left off, and opening the
flute-stop, burst into altogether different music.

"That is Handel--'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'"

Exquisitely she played it, the clear treble notes seemed to utter like
a human voice the very words:

"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and He shall stand
at the latter day upon the earth.
And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh
shall I see God."

With that she ceased.

"More, more!" we both cried.

"Not now--no more now."

And we heard her shutting up the stops and closing the organ lid.

"But my little Muriel has not finished her tune?"

"She will, some day," said the child.

So she came down from the organ-loft, feeling her way along the aisles;
and we all went out together, locking the church-door.

Lord Ravenel was rather sad that night; he was going away from Luxmore
for some time. We guessed why--because the earl was coming. Bidding us
good-bye, he said, mournfully, to his little pet, "I wish I were not
leaving you. Will you remember me, Muriel?"

"Stoop down; I want to see you."

This was her phrase for a way she had of passing her extremely
sensitive fingers over the faces of those she liked. After which she
always said she "saw" them.

"Yes; I shall remember you."

"And love me?"

"And love you, Brother Anselmo."

He kissed, not her cheek or mouth, but her little child-hands,
reverently, as if she had b