I could have wished him a pleasanter way, though, of finding out his secret.

There was another that saw the alteration, and that was Emily, the sick one,—­the care and the blessing of the household.  For twelve summers her foot had never pressed the greensward.  They told me that once she was a gay, frolicsome girl.  ’Twas hard to believe, so tranquil, so spiritual, so heavenly was the expression which long suffering had brought to her face.  That face, apart from this wonderful expression, was beautiful to look upon.  It seemed as if sickness itself was loath to meddle with aught so lovely.  So, while her body slowly wasted from the ravages of disease, her countenance remained fair and youthful.

She often had days of freedom from suffering,—­days when, as she expressed it, her Father called away His unwelcome messengers.  At these times she would sit in her stuffed chair, or lie on the sofa, and the family went in and out as they chose.  Everybody liked to stay in Emily’s room.  Its very atmosphere was elevating.

Then there were collected so many beautiful things,—­for these she craved.  “I need them, mother,” she would say,—­“my soul has need of them.  If there are no flowers, get green leaves, or a picture of Christ, or of some saint, or little child.”  And sometimes I would dream, for a moment, that even I, with all my obtuseness, my earthiness, could have some faint perception of the way in which, in the midst of suffering, any form of beauty was a strength and a consolation.

And singularly enough for a sick girl, she liked gold ornaments and jewels.  People used to lend her their chains and bracelets.  “I know it is strange, mother,” she said, one day, while holding in her hand a ruby bracelet,—­“strange that I care for them; but they look so strong, so enduring, so full of life:  hang them across the white vase, please; I love to see them there.”

It was good for her when Mary Ellen came, vigorous, fresh, beautiful, like the early morning.  She liked to have her in the room, to watch her face, to braid her long brown hair, and dress it with flowers, or pearls, or strings of beads,—­to clasp her hands about the pretty white throat, as if she were only a pigeon, or a little lamb, brought in for her to play with.

She was pleased, too, about David.  “He is so good,” she said to me one day.  “I always knew he had love and gentleness in his heart, and now an angel has come to roll away the stone.”

I thought a great deal of my privilege of going into her room, the same as the rest.  After the perplexing, and often low, grovelling duties of my profession, it was like sitting at the gate of heaven.

I used to love to come home, at the close of a long summer’s day, and find the family assembled there.  I felt the rest of the hour so much more, sitting among people who had been hard at work all day.

The windows would be set wide open, that not a breath of out-door air might he lost.  And with the air would seem to come in the deep peace, the solemn Hush of a country-twilight.  It pervaded the room; and even my cold, worldly nature would be touched.