The disease had been kind to the blind child; she was, I think, more sweet-looking than ever.

Older, perhaps; the round prettiness of childhood gone--but her whole appearance wore that inexpressible expression, in which, for want of a suitable word, we all embody our vague notions of the unknown world, and call "angelic." "Does Muriel feel quite well--quite strong and well ?" the father and mother both kept saying every now and then, as they looked at her.

She always answered, "Quite well." In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitchen, and John and I were standing at the open door, listening to the dropping of the rain in the garden, we heard, after its long silence, Muriel's "voice." "Father, listen!" whispered the mother, linking her arm through his as he stood at the door.

Soft and slow came the notes of the old harpsichord--she was playing one of the abbey anthems.

Then it melted away into melodies we knew not--sweet and strange.