Some one came behind her, and placed her in the arm-chair, gently. It was my father. He sat down by her, taking her hand.
"Grieve not, Ursula. I had a little brother who was blind. He was the happiest creature I ever knew."
My father sighed. We all marvelled to see the wonderful softness, even tenderness, which had come into him.
"Give me thy child for a minute." Ursula laid it across his knees; he put his hand solemnly on the baby-breast. "God bless this little one! Ay, and she shall be blessed."
These words, spoken with as full assurance as the prophetic benediction of the departing patriarchs of old, struck us all. We looked at little Muriel as if the blessing were already upon her; as if the mysterious touch which had scaled up her eyes for ever had left on her a sanctity like as of one who has been touched by the finger of God.
"Now, children, I must go home," said my father.
They did not detain us: it was indeed best that the poor young parents should be left alone.
"You will come again soon?" begged Ursula, tenderly clasping the hand which he had laid upon her curls as he rose with another murmured "God bless thee!"
"Perhaps. We never know. Be a good wife to thy husband, my girl. And John, never be thou harsh to her, nor too hard upon her little failings. She is but young—but young."
He sighed again. It was plain to see he was thinking of another than Ursula.