‘Why should it be made smooth or nice? He isn’t coming back yet. See here, granny, you shall dress me the day he comes home—all in white—with myrtle in my hair, like a bride. I would have orange blossoms if I knew where to get any. There are some orange trees up at the Manor House. I’ll ask him to bring me some. I was never dressed like a bride.’ ‘Oh, Muriel, Muriel, so full of fancies!’ ‘Ah! but there are some of them real—too real. Where is the old cradle that my little brother used to sleep in?’ ‘I don’t know, darling. In the loft, perhaps.’ ‘They should have burnt it. I peeped into the loft one day, and saw it in a corner—the old cradle. It set me thinking—such strange thoughts!’ She remained silent for a few minutes, still crouching at her grandmother’s knees, and with her hollow eyes fixed on the low fire. ‘Didn’t you hear a child cry?’ she asked, suddenly, looking up with a listening face first at the old woman, then at Maurice. ‘Didn’t you, granny?’ ‘No, love. I heard nothing.’ ‘Didn’t you, then?’ to Maurice. ‘No, indeed.’ ‘Ah, you are all of you deaf. I hear that crying so often—a poor little feeble voice. It comes and goes like the wind in the long winter nights, but it sounds so distant. Why doesn’t it come nearer? Why doesn’t it come close to us, that we may take the child in and comfort it?’ ‘Ah, Muriel, Muriel, so full of fancies,’ repeated the old woman, like the burden of an ancient ballad. The sound of doors opening, and loud voices, announced the return of the family. ‘You’d better go back to the hall, sir. Bridget won’t like to find you here with _her_,’ said Mrs. Trevanard in a hurried whisper, pointing to the figure leaning against her knees. Maurice obeyed without a word. His last look at Muriel showed him the great haggard eyes gazing at the fire, the wasted hands clasped upon the grandmother’s knee. He left Borcel early next morning, Martin insisting upon bearing him company for the first few miles of his journey. He had paid liberally for his entertainment, rewarded the servant, and parted upon excellent terms with Mr. and Mrs. Trevanard and the blind grandmother. But he saw no more of Muriel, and it was with her image that Borcel End was most associated in his mind. When he was parting with Martin he ventured to speak of her, for the first time since that conversation in the dog-cart. ‘Martin, I am going to say something which will perhaps offend you, but it is something I can’t help saying.’ ‘I don’t think there’s much fear of offence between you and me—at least not on my side.’