Muriel was the first to whom the news was told. Her father told it. His natural joy and thankfulness seemed for the moment to efface every other thought.
"She is come, darling! little Maud is come. I am very rich—for I have two daughters now."
"Muriel is glad, father." But she showed her gladness in a strangely quiet, meditative way, unlike a child—unlike even her old self.
"What are you thinking of, my pet?"
"That—though father has another daughter, I hope he will remember the first one sometimes."
"She is jealous!" cried John, in the curious delight with which he always detected in her any weakness, any fault, which brought her down to the safe level of humanity. "See, Uncle Phineas, our Muriel is actually jealous."
But Muriel only smiled.
That smile—so serene—so apart from every feeling or passion appertaining to us who are "of the earth, earthy," smote the father to the heart's core.
He sat down by her, and she crept up into his arms.
"What day is it, father?"