"Yes, please; and Guy will come and sit quiet on the bed beside me and listen. That will be pleasant. Guy was always very good to his sister—always."
"I don't know that," said Guy, in a conscience-stricken tone. "But I mean to be when I grow a big man—that I do."
No one answered. John opened the large Book—the Book he had taught all his children to long for and to love—and read out of it their favourite history of Joseph and his brethren. The mother sat by him at the fireside, rocking Maud softly on her knees. Edwin and Walter settled themselves on the hearth-rug, with great eyes intently fixed on their father. From behind him the candle-light fell softly down on the motionless figure in the bed, whose hand he held, and whose face he every now and then turned to look at—then, satisfied, continued to read.
In the reading his voice had a fatherly, flowing calm—as Jacob's might have had, when "the children were tender," and he gathered them all round him under the palm-trees of Succoth—years before he cried unto the Lord that bitter cry—(which John hurried over as he read)—"IF I AM BEREAVED OF MY CHILDREN, I AM BEREAVED."
For an hour, nearly, we all sat thus—with the wind coming up the valley, howling in the beech-wood, and shaking the casement as it passed outside. Within, the only sound was the father's voice. This ceased at last; he shut the Bible, and put it aside. The group—that last perfect household picture—was broken up. It melted away into things of the past, and became only a picture, for evermore.
"Now, boys—it is full time to say good-night. There, go and kiss your sister."
"Which?" said Edwin, in his funny way. "We've got two now; and I don't know which is the biggest baby."
"I'll thrash you if you say that again," cried Guy. "Which, indeed? Maud is but the baby. Muriel will be always 'sister.'"
"Sister" faintly laughed, as she answered his fond kiss—Guy was often thought to be her favourite brother.
"Now, off with you, boys; and go down-stairs quietly—mind, I say quietly."