ing as it always did when he used to come of
evenings--the young man drew back, amazed.

"It is not true! No, it could not be true!" he muttered.

"It is true," said the father. "Come in."

The mother held out her hand to him. "Yes, come in. You were very
fond of--"

Ah! that name!--now nothing but a name! For a little while we all wept
sore.

Then we told him--it was Ursula who did it chiefly--all particulars
about our darling. She told him, but calmly, as became one on whom had
fallen the utmost sorrow and crowning consecration of motherhood--that
of yielding up her child, a portion of her own being, to the corruption
of the grave--of resigning the life which out of her own life had been
created, unto the Creator of all.

Surely, distinct and peculiar from every other grief, every other
renunciation, must be that of a woman who is thus chosen to give her
very flesh and blood, the fruit of her own womb, unto the Lord!

This dignity, this sanctity, seemed gradually to fall upon the mourning
mother, as she talked about her lost one; repeating often--"I tell you
this, because you were so fond of Muriel."

He listened silently. At length he said, "I want to see Muriel."

The mother lit a candle, and he followed her up-stairs.

Just the same homely room--half-bedchamber, half-nursery--the same
little curtainless bed where, for a week past, we had been accustomed
to see the wasted figure and small pale face lying, in smiling
quietude, all day long.

It lay there still. In it, and in the room, was hardly any change. One
of Walter's playthings was in a corner of the window-sill, and on the
chest of drawers stood the nosegay of Christmas roses which Guy had
brought for his sister yesterday morning. Nay, her shawl--a white,
soft, furry shawl, that she was fond of wearing--remained still hanging
up behind the door. One could almost fancy the little maid had just
been said "good-night" to, and left to dream the childish dreams on her
nursery pillow, where the small head rested so peacefully, with that
pretty babyish nightcap tied over the pretty curls.

There she was, the child who had gone out of the number of our
children--our earthly children--for ever.

Her mother sat down at the side of the bed, her father at its foot,
looking at her. Lord Ravenel stood by, motionless; then stooping down,
he kissed the small marble hand.

"Good-bye, good-bye, my little Muriel!"

And he left the room abruptly, in