tchwoman
of her own native heather. In her arms the child bore, like a little
gleaner, a great sheaf of graceful golden-rod, as large as her grasp
could bear. In all the artist's visions he had seen nothing so aerial,
so lovely; in all his passionate portraitures of his idol, he had
delineated nothing so like to her. Marian's cheeks mantled with rich and
wine-like tints, her hair took a halo from the sunbeams, her lips
parted over the little milk-white teeth; she looked at us with her
mother's eyes. I turned to Kenmure to see if he could resist the
influence.

He scarcely gave her a glance. "Go, Marian," he said,--not impatiently,
for he was too thoroughly courteous ever to be ungracious, even to a
child,--but with a steady indifference that cut me with more pain than
if he had struck her.

The sun dropped behind the horizon, the halo faded from the shining
hair, and every ray of light from the childish face. There came in its
place that deep, wondering sadness which is more pathetic than any
maturer sorrow,--just as a child's illness touches our hearts more than
that of man or woman, it seems so premature and so plaintive. She turned
away; it was the very first time I had ever seen the little face drawn
down, or the tears gathering in the eyes. By some kind providence, the
mother met Marian on the piazza, herself flushed and beautiful with
walking, and caught the little thing in her arms with unwonted
tenderness. It was enough for the elastic child. After one moment of
such bliss she could go to Janet, go anywhere; and when the same
graceful presence came in to us in the studio, we also could ask no
more.

We had music and moonlight, and were happy. The atmosphere seemed more
human, less unreal. Going up stairs at last, I looked in at the nursery,
and found my pet seeming rather flushed, and I fancied that she stirred
uneasily. It passed, whatever it was; for next morning she came in to
wake me, looking, as usual, as if a new heaven and earth had been coined
purposely for her since she went to sleep. We had our usual long and
important discourse,--this time tending to protracted narrative, of the
Mother-Goose description,--until, if it had been possible for any human
being to be late for breakfast in that house, we should have been the
offenders. But she ultimately went down stairs on my shoulder, and, as
Kenmure and Laura were out rowing, the baby put me in her own place,
sat in her mother's chair, and ruled me wi