'She has such a merry, tender way with her. I do not wonder Lemuel says they don't mind rainy weather since Pauline makes sunshine to order. And she is the busiest creature! I believe she carries the whole of Sleepy Hollow on her heart and shoulders. She seems to have all the destitute and afflicted under her wing, and dispenses beef-tea and Bible promises with the same liberal hand.
'Oh! Papa, I am so glad we were detained at Sleepy Hollow, for at last I have found what I have been looking for--an absolutely Christ-like life. Your own little daughter, 'MURIEL.'
Richard Everidge remained deep in thought for a long time after he had kissed the large, girlish signature; then he drew a sheet of paper towards him, and wrote, in his clear, bold hand:--
'MY DARLING MURIEL,--I knew your princess, as she says, in "the long ago," and she is, as you have found her, pure gold.
'Make the most of your visit, for, next to your Bible, she is the best teacher you could have. Your loving 'FATHER.'
The days lengthened into weeks and the Everidges were still at the Farm.
'Why should you go?' Pauline said, in her cheery, unanswerable way, when they spoke of leaving: 'it does us good to have you, and it does you good to be here,' and Muriel and her mother were content.
'Princess,' said the girl one day, as she watched her moving lightly about the kitchen, 'I envy you your altitude.'
'You dear child! Every one gets up the mountain if they keep on climbing.'
'But I have not an atom of perseverance,' sighed Muriel. 'Christianity seems such a tremendous undertaking to me.'
'Let me give you what was to me the beginning of all Gospels: "The kingdom of heaven is just as near us as our work is, for the gate of heaven for each soul lies in the endeavour to do that work perfectly."
'But, princess, you are such a royal creature. It seems such a waste for you to be buried here.'
'The King never wastes, little one. If we have the angel aim and standard, we can consecrate the smallest acts. Don't you know that "he who aims for perfectness in a trifle, is trying to do that trifle holily?"'
'You dear princess! You make me think of one of Murillo's pictures in the Louvre, which we saw when we were abroad last year. It is the interior of a convent kitchen, and instead of mortals in old dresses doing the work, there are beautiful white-winged angels. One puts the kettle on the fire, and one is lifting up a pail of water, and one is at the kitchen dresser reaching up for plates.'