o that they saw nothing beyond the present moment.

The children were wildly happy. All the afternoon they kept up their
innocent little games by Muriel's bed-side; she sometimes sharing,
sometimes listening apart. Only once or twice came that wistful,
absent look, as if she were listening partly to us, and partly to those
we heard not; as if through the wide-open orbs the soul were straining
at sights wonderful and new--sights unto which HER eyes were the
clear-seeing, and ours the blank and blind.

It seems strange now, to remember that Sunday afternoon, and how merry
we all were; how we drank tea in the queer bed-room at the top of the
house; and how afterwards Muriel went to sleep in the twilight, with
baby Maud in her arms. Mrs. Halifax sat beside the little bed, a
sudden blazing up of the fire showing the intentness of her watch over
these two, her eldest and youngest, fast asleep; their breathing so
soft, one hardly knew which was frailest, the life slowly fading or the
life but just begun. Their breaths seemed to mix and mingle, and the
two faces, lying close together, to grow into a strange likeness each
to each. At least, we all fancied so.

Meanwhile, John kept his boys as still as mice, in the broad
window-seat, looking across the white snowy sheet, with black bushes
peering out here and there, to the feathery beech-wood, over the tops
of which the new moon was going down. Such a little young moon! and
how peacefully--nay, smilingly--she set among the snows!

The children watched her till the very last minute, when Guy startled
the deep quiet of the room by exclaiming--"There--she's gone."

"Hush!"

"No, mother, I am awake," said Muriel. "Who is gone, Guy?"

"The moon--such a pretty little moon."

"Ah, Maud will see the moon some day." She dropped her cheek down
again beside the baby sister, and was silent once more.

This is the only incident I remember of that peaceful, heavenly hour.

Maud broke upon its quietude by her waking and wailing; and Muriel very
unwillingly let the little sister go.

"I wish she might stay with me--just this one night; and to-morrow is
my birthday. Please, mother, may she stay?"

"We will both stay, my darling. I shall not leave you again."

"I am so glad;" and once more she turned round, as if to go to sleep.

"Are you tired, my pet?" said John, looking intently at her.

"No, father."

"Shall I take your brothers down-stairs?"

"Not yet, dear fathe