Enderley was growing dreary, and we began to anticipate the cosy fireside of Longfield.
"The children will all go home looking better than they came; do you not think so, Uncle Phineas?—especially Muriel?"
To that sentence I had to answer with a vague assent; after which I was fain to rise and walk away, thinking how blind love was—all love save mine, which had a gift for seeing the saddest side of things.
When I came back, I found the mother and daughter talking mysteriously apart. I guessed what it was about, for I had overheard Ursula saying they had better tell the child—it would be "something for her to look forward to—something to amuse her next winter."
"It is a great secret, mind," the mother whispered, after its communication.
"Oh, yes!" The tiny face, smaller than ever, I thought, flushed brightly. "But I would much rather have a little sister, if you please. Only"—and the child suddenly grew earnest—"will she be like me?"
"Possibly; sisters often are alike."
"No, I don't mean that; but—you know?" And Muriel touched her own eyes.
"I cannot tell, my daughter. In all things else, pray God she may be like you, Muriel, my darling—my child of peace!" said Ursula, embracing her with tears.
After this confidence, of which Muriel was very proud, and only condescended, upon gaining express permission, to re-confide it to me, she talked incessantly of the sister that was coming, until "little Maud"—the name she chose for her—became an absolute entity in the household.