feebleness which were the physical sign of that vision's blighting
presence. The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of duties
with Mr. Heron's curate, that Maynard might be constantly near Caterina,
and watch over her progress. She seemed to like him to be with her, to
look uneasily for his return; and though she seldom spoke to him, she was
most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his large
protecting grasp. But Oswald, _alias_ Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was
perhaps her most beneficial companion. With something of his uncle's
person, he had inherited also his uncle's early taste for a domestic
menagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the
welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed
now and then to have gleams of her childhood coming athwart the leaden
clouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spent
in Ozzy's nursery.

Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but one of Mr.
Gilfil's cares was to procure a harpsichord, and have it placed in the
drawing-room, always open, in the hope that some day the spirit of music
would be reawakened in Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the
instrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain.
The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond passiveness and
acquiescence--a quiet grateful smile, compliance with Oswald's whims, and
an increasing consciousness of what was being said and done around her.
Sometimes she would take up a bit of woman's work, but she seemed too
languid to persevere in it; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed
into motionless reverie.

At last--it was one of those bright days in the end of February, when the
sun is shining with a promise of approaching spring. Maynard had been
walking with her and Oswald round the garden to look at the snowdrops,
and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the
room in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and
struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note.

The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock: it seemed
as if at that instant a new soul were entering into her, and filling her
with a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from the
sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were
wandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul was
floating in its true