"But not often," I whispered, kissing her troubled brow, for a look
of great sadness came over her face at the idea; but her words
recurred to me by-and-by when I heard a short conversation between
Flurry and her father.

After the first fortnight Miss Ruth regained strength a little, and
though still an invalid was enabled to spend some hours downstairs.
Before I left the Cedars she had resumed all her old habits, and was
able to preside at her brother's dinner-table.

I joined them on these occasions, both by hers and Mr. Lucas'
request, and so became better acquainted with Flurry's father.

One Sunday afternoon I was reading in the drawing-room window, and
trying to finish my book by the failing wintry light, when Flurry's
voice caught my attention; she was sitting on a stool at her father's
feet turning over the pages of her large picture Bible. Mr. Lucas had
been dozing, I think, for there had been no conversation. Miss Ruth
had gone upstairs.

"Father," said the little one, suddenly, in her eager voice, "I do
love that story of Isaac. Abraham was such a good man to offer up his
only son, only God stopped him, you know. I wonder what his mother
would have done if he had come home, and told her he had killed her
boy. Would she have believed him, do you think? Would she have ever
liked him again?"

"My little Florence, what a strange idea to come into your small
head." I could tell from Mr. Lucas' tone that such an idea had never
occurred to him. What would Sarah have said as she looked upon her