the deep
of his heart. And though after this time they never again formed
themselves into words, yet he knew well that not a hope, or joy, or
fear of his, whether understood or not, could be unshared by me.

In the winter, when the first snow lay on the ground, the little one
came.

It was a girl--I think they had wished for a son; but they forgot all
about it when the tiny maiden appeared. She was a pretty baby--at
least, all the women-kind said so, from Mrs. Jessop down to Jael, who
left our poor house to its own devices, and trod stately in Mrs.
Halifax's, exhibiting to all beholders the mass of white draperies with
the infinitesimal human morsel inside them, which she vehemently
declared was the very image of its father.

For that young father--

But I--what can _I_ say? How should _I_ tell of the joy of a man over
his first-born?

I did not see John till a day afterwards--when he came into our house,
calm, happy, smiling. But Jael told me, that when she first placed his
baby in his arms he had wept like a child.

The little maiden grew with the snowdrops. Winter might have dropped
her out of his very lap, so exceedingly fair, pale, and pure-looking
was she. I had never seen, or at least never noticed, any young baby
before; but she crept into my heart before I was aware. I seem to have
a clear remembrance of all the data in her still and quiet infancy,
from the time her week-old fingers, with their tiny pink nails--a
ludicrous picture of her father's hand in little--made me smile as they
closed over mine.

She was named Muriel--after the rather peculiar name of John's mother.
Her own mother would have it so; only wishing out of her full heart,
happy one! that there should be a slight alteration made in the second
name. Therefore the baby was called Muriel Joy--Muriel Joy Halifax.

That name--beautiful, sacred, and never-to-be-forgotten among us--I
write it now with tears.

* * * * *

In December, 1802, she was born--our Muriel. And on February
9th--alas! I have need to remember the date!--she formally received her
name. We all dined at John's house--Dr. and Mrs. Jessop, my father and
I.

It was the first time my father had taken a meal under any roof but his
own for twenty years. We had not expected him, since, when asked and
entreated, he only shook his head; but just when we were all sitting
down to the table, Ursula at the foot, her cheeks f