upright, and began to move her
limbs, but wearily.

"That is right, my darling. Now let me see how well you can walk."

Muriel slipped to her feet and tried to cross the room, catching at
table and chairs--now, alas! not only for guidance but actual support.
At last she began to stagger, and said, half crying:

"I can't walk, I am so tired. Oh, do take me in your arms, dear
father."

Her father took her, looked long in her sightless face, then buried his
against her shoulder, saying nothing. But I think in that moment he
too saw, glittering and bare, the long-veiled Hand which, for this year
past, _I_ had seen stretched out of the immutable heavens, claiming
that which was its own. Ever after there was discernible in John's
countenance a something which all the cares of his anxious yet happy
life had never written there--an ineffaceable record, burnt in with
fire.

He held her in his arms all day. He invented all sorts of tales and
little amusements for her; and when she was tired of these he let her
lie in his bosom and sleep. After her bed-time he asked me to go out
with him on the Flat.

It was a misty night. The very cows and asses stood up large and
spectral as shadows. There was not a single star to be seen.

We took our walk along the terrace and came back again, without
exchanging a single word. Then John said hastily:

"I am glad her mother was so busy to-day--too busy to notice."

"Yes," I answered; unconnected as his words were.

"Do you understand me, Phineas? Her mother must not on any account be
led to imagine, or to fear--anything. You must not look as you looked
this morning. You must not, Phineas."

He spoke almost angrily. I answered in a few quieting words. We were
silent, until over the common we caught sight of the light in Muriel's
window. Then I felt rather than heard the father's groan.

"Oh, God! my only daughter--my dearest child!"

Yes, she was the dearest. I knew it. Strange mystery, that He should
so often take, by death or otherwise, the DEAREST--always the dearest.
Strange that He should hear us cry--us writhing in the dust, "O Father,
anything, anything but this!" But our Father answers not; and
meanwhile the desire of our eyes--be it a life, a love, or a
blessing--slowly, slowly goes--is gone. And yet we have to believe in
our Father. Perhaps of all trials to human faith this is the sorest.
Thanks be to God if He puts into our hearts such love towards