er was wholly occupied in Muriel--looking in her face, and
feeling all her little fragile limbs, to make sure that in no way she
was injured.

It appeared not; though the escape seemed almost miraculous. John
recurred, with a kind of trembling tenacity, to the old saying in our
house, that "nothing ever harmed Muriel."

"Since it is safe over, and she can walk--you are sure you can, my
pet?--I think we will not say anything about this to the mother; at
least not till we reach Longfield."

But it was too late. There was no deceiving the mother. Every change
in every face struck her instantaneously. The minute we rejoined her
she said:

"John, something has happened to Muriel."

Then he told her, making as light of the accident as he could; as,
indeed, for the first ten minutes we all believed, until alarmed by the
extreme pallor and silence of the child.

Mrs. Halifax sat down by the roadside, bathed Muriel's forehead and
smoothed her hair; but still the little curls lay motionless against
the mother's breast,--and still to every question she only answered
"that she was not hurt."

All this while the post-chaise was waiting.

"What must be done?" I inquired of Ursula; for it was no use asking
John anything.

"We must go back again to Enderley," she said decidedly.

So, giving Muriel into her father's arms, she led the way, and, a
melancholy procession, we again ascended the hill to Rose Cottage door.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Without any discussion, our plans were tacitly changed--no more was
said about going home to dear Longfield. Every one felt, though no one
trusted it to words, that the journey was impossible. For Muriel lay,
day after day, on her little bed in an upper chamber, or was carried
softly down in the middle of the day by her father, never complaining,
but never attempting to move or talk. When we asked her if she felt
ill, she always answered, "Oh, no! only so very tired." Nothing more.

"She is dull, for want of the others to play with her. The boys should
not run out and leave their sister alone," said John, almost sharply,
when one bright morning the lads' merry voices came down from the Flat,
while he and I were sitting by Muriel's sofa in the still parlour.

"Father, let the boys play without me, please. Indeed, I do not mind.
I had rather lie quiet here."

"But it is not good for my little girl always to be quiet, and it
grieves father."

"Does it?" She roused herself, sat