"There's Muriel," said the father, listening.
Often thus the child slipped away, and suddenly we heard all over the house the sweet sounds of "Muriel's voice," as some one had called the old harpsichord. When almost a baby she would feel her way to it, and find out first harmonies, then tunes, with that quickness and delicacy of ear peculiar to the blind.
"How well she plays! I wish I could buy her one of those new instruments they call 'pianofortes;' I was looking into the mechanism of one the other day."
"She would like an organ better. You should have seen her face in the Abbey church this morning."
"Hark! she has stopped playing. Guy, run and bring your sister here," said the father, ever yearning after his darling.
Guy came back with a wonderful story of two gentlemen in the parlour, one of whom had patted his head—"Such a grand gentleman, a great deal grander than father!"
That was true, as regarded the bright nankeens, the blue coat with gold buttons, and the showiest of cambric kerchiefs swathing him up to the very chin. To this "grand" personage John bowed formally, but his wife flushed up in surprised recognition.
"It is so long since I had the happiness of meeting Miss March, that I conclude Mrs. Halifax has forgotten me?"
"No, Lord Luxmore, allow me to introduce my husband."
And, I fancied, some of Miss March's old hauteur returned to the mother's softened and matronly mien;—pride, but not for herself or in herself, now. For, truly, as the two men stood together—though Lord Luxmore had been handsome in his youth, and was universally said to have as fine manners as the Prince Regent himself—any woman might well have held her head loftily, introducing John Halifax as "my husband."