Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 77) (1881 05 03)

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~\ PF is Me PUES “Ba: - $2.50 a year. No.77. Vou. IT. Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. A Et TS I ER A PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM ST,, N. Y. up WT : iff) a ' ; Paes Ny) Me ; + has Price, but 5 cents each. 2 ey \! sorte \ aay a mA WwW” or ¢ \ be aC, eRe. ; Sw . 4 oC Wat SS: $ £5 + a7 ~ = ‘ o A eo Routed s CSG | 7S May 8, 1881. PRICE, 5 CENTS, CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE. BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN,” ETc., ET. CHAPTER I. “So I will do my best a gude wife to be, For Auld Robin Gray is vera kind to me.” “T THINK this will do, my dear; just listen;”’ and, » a mysterious half-whisper, good Mrs. Ferguson, fife of James Ferguson, the well-to-do silversmith ind jeweler of High street, Avonsbridge, read aloud trom the sheet of paper in her band: ““*On the 2ist instant, at the University Church, Avonsbridge, by the Reverend John Smith, the Reverend old Grey, D. D., Master of Saint Bede’s sanege Avonsbridge, to Christian, only child of the late Edward Oakley, Esq., of that place.’ Will it do? Because, if.so, James will send it to ‘The Times’ at once.”’ ‘* Better ask Dr. Grey first,’’ answered the bride. As she spoke, Dr. ~ turned round from the window where he had been conversing—that is responding to conversaticn—with Mr, Ferguson, chiefly on the weather; forit was a snowy Decem- ber day. This precise moment, half an hour after his mar- riage—his second marriage—is hardly a fair time to describe Dr. Arnold Grey; suffice it to say that he was a gentleman apparently about forty-five, rather low in stature and sparc in figure, with hair already thin and iron-gray. The twenty-five years between him and his newly-married wife showed plainly— only too plainly—as she stood, in all her graceful- ness of girlhood, which even her extreme pallor and a certain sharp, worn, unnaturally composed’ look could not destroy. He seemed struck by this. His face clouded over for a minute, and he slightly sighed. But the pain, whatever it was, was only momentary. He looked like a man who was not in the habit of acting poe a Olen. impulsively—who never did anything without having previously fully counted the cost. “What were you saying, Mrs. Ferguson?” said he addressing her with the grave and somewhat formal politeness which was his natural manner, but which always somewhat awed that rather vulgar, though kind-hearted and well meaning woman. She put the paper into his hands, “It’s the notice for ‘ The Times;’ James and I made it up last night. James thought it would save bey trouble, master—”’ Mrs. Ferguson always hesita between the com- _— University custom of address and plain * Dr. rey.’ hank you; Mr. Ferguson is always kind,” re- turned the Master of Saint Bede’s. ‘al “You see,” continued Mrs. Ferguson, lowering her tone to a confidential w » “I thought it was better ouly to put “Edward Oakley, Esq.,’ and ery more. Wouldn't you like it to be so, sir?” oe and the color rushed violently over his thin, worn, and yet sensitive face, as sensitive as if he had been | a young man still—‘‘ exactly as Mrs, Grey pleases.” rs. Grey! At the sound of her new name Christian started, and she, too, turned scarlet. Not the sweet, rosy blush of a bride, but the dark red flush of sharp physical or mental pain, which all her phe coul a — " . , ** Poor dear! r dear! & grea change or her, and only atenee since her father died!” said Mrs. Ferguson still in that mysterious, apologetic whisper. ‘But indeed, my love, you have done — right in marrying; and don’t fret a bit about | Never mind her, sir; she’ll be better by-and-by.”’ i tienes eee This oppression of pity would have nerved any one of reserved temperament to die rather than be- oe the least fragment of emotion more. Christian athered herself up; her face grew nee er voice steady. She looked, not at Mrs. Ferguson, but at the good man who had just made her his wife—and any one looking at him must have felt that he was a good man—then said, gently, but de- | terminedly “If Dr. Grey has no objection, I should like to have stated my father’s occupation or my own. I £0 RON wish to hide or appear to be ashamed of either.” “Certainly not,” replied Dr. Grey; and, taking up the pen, he added, “Edward Oakley, Esq., late organist of Saint Bede’s.’’ It was the last earthly memento of one who, born a gentleman and a genius, had so lived, that, as all Avonsbridge well knew, the reatest blessing which could have happened to his aughter was his death. and merciful law of compensation often occurs, Christian, inheriting mind and person from him, had inherited temperament, dis that he was not, and who bad lived just long enough to stamp on the girl of thirteen a moral impress which could resist all siete nae a aie» might, perhaps—Go than the reality. These things Dr. Grey, brought accidentally into contact with Christian Oakley on business matters after her father’s lamentable death, speedily dis- covered for himself; and the result was one of those sudden resolves which in some men spring from mere dream of motherhood that passion, in others from an instinct so deep and true | | of the drawing-room darkened into absolute that they are not to be judged by ordinary rules. People eall it “love at first sight, familiar face, which takes possession of his fancy with an almost supernatural force. He says to him- self, “That woman shall be my wife;’ and some day, months or years after, he actually marries her; even as, within a twelvemonth, having waited silent- ly until she was twenty-one, Dr. Grey married | | | | | | ould like it to be exactly as—” he paused, | : : ; : hristian Mpa h But until within a few weeks aro she herself had had no idea of the kind. She intensely respected him, her gratitude for his fatherly care and kindness | was almost boundless; but marrying him, or marry- ing at all, was quite foreign to her thoughts. How things had come about even yet she could hardly remember orcomprehend. All was a perfect dream, It seemed another person, and not she, who was sud- denly changed from Mrs. Ferguson's ap governess, without a friend or relative in the wide world, to the wife of the Master of Saint Bede's. That she could have married, or been thought to have married him, for aught but his own good and enerous self, or that the mastership of Saint ede’s, his easy income, and his high reputation | had anything at all to do with it, never once crossed her imagination, She was so simple: her forlorn, shut-up, unhappy life had kept her, if wildly ro- mantic, so intensely, childishly true, that, whatever objections she had to Dr. Grey’s offer, the idea that this could form one of them-—that any one could suspect her—her, Christian Oakley—of marrying for money or for a home, did not oecur to her for an nstant. He saw that, this lover, who, from his ain, and | _ told him quite plainly that she felt for him not love, But, as by some strange | ition, character | from the lowly-born mother, who was everything | after contamination, and to | knows!—have been diviner | and sometimes | tell wonderful stories of how a man sees, quite un- | eepeotedly. some sweet, strange, and yet mysterious- | ly I beg your pardon, master—if they are really many years of seniority, and the experience of a _pomewhat hard life, looked right down into the assionate, depths of the girl’s perpreres. troubled, : nee 10ugh she innocent heart, and he was not afraid. but only affection and gratitude, he had simp! with his own tender smile, “Never mind— you ;’ and married her. As she stood in her white dress, white shawl, white bonnet—all as plain as possible, but still pure bridal white, contrasting strongly with the glaring colors of that drawing-room over the shop, which poor Mrs. Ferguson had done her luckless best to make as fine as possible, her tall, slender figure, harmoni- ous movements and tones, being only more notice- able by the presence of that stout, gaudily-dressed, and loud-speaking woman, most people would have said that, though he had m ed a governess, a solitary, unprotected woman, with neither kith nor kin to give her dignity, earning her own bread by her own honest labor, the Master of Saint Bede’s was not said, love ' exactly a man to be pitied. He rose, and, having silently shown the paper to Christian, inclosed it in an envelope, and gave it to Mr, Ferguson. “Will you take the trouble of forwarding this to ‘The Times,’ the latest of all your many kindnesses?” said he, with that manner innately a gentleman’s, which makes the acknowledging of a favor appear like the conferring of one. Worthy James Ferguson took it as such; but he was a person of deeds, not words; and he never could quite overcome the awe with which, as an Avonsbridge person,he,the jeweler of High Street, regarded the Master of Saint Bede’s. Meanwhile the snow, which had been falling all day, fell thicker and thicker, so that the hazy light, oom. ou think the children should be here?’’ erguson, pausing in her assiduous admin- “That is—I’m sure ‘Don’t said Mrs. istration of cake and wine. coming.”’ “T desired my sisters to send them without fail,” quietly replied the mister. But another half-hour dragged heavily on; the bridegroom's. carriage, which was to take them across country to a quiet railway station, already stood at the door, when another carriage Was heard to drive up to it. “There they are!” cried Mrs. Ferguson, and the bride who had been sitting beside her on the + te passive, silent, all but motionless, started a e. ‘Oh, lam so glad!’ she said, in the first natural tone that had been heard inher voice allday, “I did so wish to see the children.”’ F hus e married n he was a bachelor, and not a soul belonging to him except an old aunt. She wouldn't like to n poor Mrs. Grey’s shoes—dear me, no!—with those two old ladies enn have lived at the ever since the first Mre. Grey died. She wondered how on earth Miss Oakley could manage them.’’ And upon James Ferguson's suggesting “in the same ie | as she managed everybody,” bis wife soundly rated him for saying such a silly thing,

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— CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTARRE. though he had, with the usual acuteness of silent people, said a wiser thing than he was aware of. Meantime Christian was left alone, for the first time that day, and many days ; for solitude was a blessing not easy to get in the Fergusons’ large, bustling family. Perhaps she did not seek it— perhaps she dared not, yhow, during the month that had been occupied with her marriage preparations, she had scarcely been ten.minutes alone, not even.at night, for two children shared her room—the loving little things whom she had taught for two years, first as daily, and then as resident governess, and to whom she had persisted in giving lessons till the last, She stood with the same fixed composedness—not,composure— of manner ; the quietness of a person who, having certain thin to go through, goes through them in a sort of dream, almost with- out recognizing her own identity. After a minute she moved slightly, took up and laid down a book, but still mechanically, as if she did not quite know what she was doing, until, suddenly, she caught sight of her weddin ring. She regarded it with something very like affright; tried convulsively to pull it off; but it was rather tight ; and before it had passed a finger-joint, she had recollected herself, and pressed it down again. 3 ‘It is too late now. He is so good—everybody says so—and he is so very good to me.” She spoke aloud, though she was alone in the room, or rather because she was alone, after a habit which, like all solitarily reared and dreamy persons, Christian had had all her life—her young: short life—only twenty-one years—and yet it seemed to er a whole, long, weary existence. “If Ican but make ft happy! If what is left of me is only enough to make him happy !” ‘hese broken sentences were repeated more than once, and then she stood silent, as though in a dream still. When she heard the door open, she turned round with that still, gentle, passive smile, which had welcomed Dr. Grey on every day of his brief ‘‘ courting” days. It never altered, though he entered in a character not the pleasantest fora bridegroom, with his three little children, one on either side of him, and the young- est in his arms. But there are some men, and mostly those grave, shy, and re- served men, who have always the truest and tenderest hearts, whom nothing transforms so much as to be with children, espe- cially if the children are theirown. They are given to hiding a great deal, but the father in them cannot be hid. Miss Oakley, like the rest of Avonsbridge, had long known Dr. Grey’s history ; how he had married early, or (ill-natured report said) been married by, a widow lady, very handsome, and some years older than himself. However, the sharpest insinuations ever made a their domestic bliss were that she visited a good deal, while he was deeply absorbed in his studies. And when, after a ecePyegn childless years, she brought him a girl and a boy, he e excessively fond of his children. Whether this implied that he had been disappointed in his wife, nobody could tell. He certainly did not publish his woes. Men seldom do, At the birth of a third child Mrs. Grey died, and then the widower’s grief, though unobtrusive, was sufficiently obvious to make Avonsbridge put all unkindly curiosity aside, and conclude that the departed y must have been the most exemplary and well-beloved of wives and mothers. All this, being town’s talk, Christian already knew ; more she had never inquired, not even when she was engaged to him. Nor did Dr. Grey volunteer any information. The strongest and most soothing part of his influence over her was his seine | silence. tHe 7 of oon troubled her with any great demonstrations, nor frightened her with questionings. From the time of their engage- ment he had seemed to take every thing for granted, and to treat her tenderly, almost reverently, without fuss or kerete yet with the consideration due from a man to his future wife ; so much so that she had hardly missed, what, indeed, in her simplicity she hardly expected, the attention usually paid to an affianced bride from the relatives of her intended. Dr. Grey had only two, his own sister and his late wife’s. These ladies, Miss Gascoigne and Miss Grey, had neither called upon nor taken the least notice of Miss Oakley. But Miss Oakley—if she thought about the matter at all—ascribed it to a fact well ized in Avonsbridge, as in most University towns, that one might as soon expect the skies to fall as for a college lady to cross, save for purely business purposes, the threshold of a High Street tradesman. The same cause, she concluded, made them absent from her wedding; and when Dr. Grey had said simply, ‘‘I shall desire my sister to send the chil- dren,” Christian ind uired no farther. Only for a second, pee as, Nap the brink of this first meeting with the children—her aus ’s children, hers that were to be—did her heart fail her, and then she came forward to meet the little group. Letitia and Arthur were thin, prim-looking, rather plain chil- dren ; but Oliver was the very picture of a father’s darling, a boy that any childless man would bitterly covet, any childless woman crave and yearn for, with a longing that woman alone can under- stand ; a child who, beautiful as most childhood is, had a beauty ou rarely see—bright, frank, merry, bold; half a Bacchus and half a Cupid, be was a perfect image of the Golden Age, Though three years old, he was evidently still ‘‘the baby,” and rode on a father’s shoulder with a glorious tyranny charming to be- old, ‘‘ Who's that?” said he, pointing his fatfingers, and shaking his curls that undulated like billows of gold, ‘‘ Papa, who’s that?” Hardly could there have been put by any one’a more difficult question. Dr. Grey did not answer, but avoided it, taking the whole three to Christian’s side, and bidding them in a rather nervous voice, to ** kiss this lady.” But that ceremony the bwaistles obstinately declined. “Pm a big boy, and I don’t like to be kissed,” said Arthur. ‘¢ Nurse told us since we had no mamma of our Own, we were not to kiss any body but our aunts,” added Letitia. Dr. Greylooked terribly annoyed, but Christian said calmly, ‘¢ Very well, then shake hands only. Weshall be better friends by-and-by.” They suffered her to touch a little hand of each, passively rather than unwillingly, and let it go. For a minute or so the boy and girl stood opposite her; holding fast by one another, and staring with all their eyes ; but they said nothing more, being apparently very ‘‘ good” children. Therefore, on being told to sit down, they gravely took their places on the sofa, and continued to stare. What could he do—the father who had just given his children a new mother, they being old enough not only to understand this, but previously taught, as most people are so fatally ready to teach children, the usual doctrine aboyt step-mothers, and also quite ready to rebel against the same? “This is Oliver. I remember you told me his name. Will he come to me? children generally do,” said she, in a shy sort of way, but still holding out her arms. In her face and manner was that inexplicable motherliness which some girls have even while nurs- ing their dolls—some never; ay, though they may boast of a houseful of children—never ! Master Oliver guessed this by instinct, as children always do, He looked at her intently, a gees mischievous, yet penetratin look; then broke into a broad, genial laugh, quite Bacchic, an succumbed, Christian, tle solitary governess, first the worse than orphan, and then the real orphan, without a friend or relative in the world, felt. a child clinging round her neck—a child toward whom, by the laws of God and man, she was bound to fulfill alt the duties of a mother—which had always seemed to her the very sweetest in all the world. Her heart leaped with a sudden ecstasy involuntary and uncontrollable, ‘‘My bonny boy!” she murmured, kissing the top of that bil- lowy curl which extended from brow to crown—‘“ my curl ”—for Oliver immediately and proudly pointed it out to her, ‘‘ And to think that his mother never saw Poor thing ! poor thing !” Dr. Grey turned away to the window. What remembrances, bitter or sweet, came over the widower’s heart, Heaven knows |! But he kept them between himself and Heaven, as he did all things that were incommunicable and inevitable, and especially all things that could have given pain to any human being. He only said on ning on ‘‘] knew, Christian, from the first, that you would be a good mother to my children.” She looked up at him, the tears in her eyes, but with a great light shining in them too. “«T will try.” | Poor Christian! If her hasty m e, or any other mistake of her life, needed pardon, surely it ms t be won for the earnest ye of this vow, and for its self-forgetful, utter humility— ‘«T will try.” For another half hour, at her entreaty, the children staid, though Letitia and Arthur never relaxed from their dignified decorum farther than to inform her that they were sometimes called **‘ Titia” and ‘‘Atty;” that their nurse was named Phillis; and that she had remained in the carriage because ‘‘ she said she wouldn’t come in.” Still, having expected nothing, the y step-mother was not disappointed. And when the he left, Oliver having held up his rosy mouth voluntarily for ‘‘a good large kiss,” the sweet- ness of that caress lingered on her mouth like a chrism,of conse- cration, sanctifying her for these new duties which seemed to have been sent without her choice, almost without her volition. When Mrs, Ferguson, re-entering, ready with any amount of sympathy, found the young step-mother kissing her hand to the retreating carriage with a composed smile, which asked no con- dolence, and offered no confidences, the good lady was, to say the least, surprised. ‘‘ But,” as she afterward confessed to at least two dozen of her most intimate friends, ‘‘ there always was something so odd, so different from most young ladies about Miss Oakley.” However, to the young lady herself she said nothing, except sug- gesting, rather meekly, that it was time to her dress. ” And just once more let me beg you to take my shawl—my Vf best—instead of your own, which you have had a year and a » 7 ee fue ming ‘if you had only spent more money on your wed ing clothes !” ‘How could [?” said Christian, and yg seeing Dr. Grey enter. This was the one point on which : She could not accept her trousseau from her husband’s generosity It had been the last struggle of that fierce, ee er inde. pendence, which nothing short of perfect love could have extin- guished into happy humility, and she had held to her point resolute and hard; so much so, that when, with 9 quiet ty peculiarly Le Se ———<aer = ~

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CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE. 3 ashamed. And even now a slight blush came in her cheek when, All that the fire revealed, as she laid the packet on it, stirring it she heard him say cheerfully : down into a red hollow, so that not a flickering fragment should be ‘‘Do not trouble her, Mrs. Ferguson, about her shawl. You left unconsumed, were four letters—only four—written on apr | know I have taken her—that is, we have taken one another ‘for paper, in a man’s hand, sealed with a man’s large heraldic seal. f better, for worse,’ and it is little matter what sort of clothes she | When they were mere dust, Christian rose. . wears.” | “It is over now—quite over. In the whole world: there is no- | Christian, as she passed him, gave her husband a grateful look. | body to believe in—except him. He is very good and he loves his own, Dr, Grey had yielded, she had, afterward almost felt! Good-bye to what—or to whom? Grateful, alas! Love does not understand, or even recognize,|me. I was right to marry him—yes, quite right.” gratitude, She repeated this more than once, as if compelling herself to But when the door closed after her, Dr. Grey’s eyes rested on it | acknowledge it, and then paused. like those of one who misses a light. If ever there was a man who, without the slightest obtrusive- ness, or self-assertion of any kind, had unlimited influence over those about him, it was Arnold Grey, Throughout a life spent entirely within the college walls, he had, from freshman to fellow, from thence to tutor, and so on to the early dignity of mastership, the most extraordinary faculty of making people do whatsoever he liked—ay, and enjoy the doing of it. Friends, acquaintances, un- dergraduates, even down to children and servants, all did, more or less, sooner or later, the good pleasure of Dr. Grey. Perhaps the secret of this was that his ‘‘ pleasure” was never merely his own. Christian was not exactly a religious woman—that is, she had lived among such utterly irreligious people, that whatever she thought or felt upon these subjects had to be kept entirely to herself—but she was of a religious nature. She said her prayers duly, and she had one habit—or superstition, some might sneeringly call it—that the last thing before she went on a journey she always opened her, Bible, read a verse or two, and knelt down, if only to say; ‘‘God take care of me, and brin me safe back again ;” petitions that in many a wretched compelle wandering were not so uncalled for as some might suppose... Be- fore this momentous journey she did the same ; but, instead of a None wield such absolute power over others as those who think | Bible, it happened to be the children’s Prayer-Book which she little about themselves. Had circumstances, or his own inclination, led him out farther into the world, he might have been noticeable there, for he had very great and varied acquirements—more acquirements, perhaps, than originalities. He had never written a book, but he had read almost every book that ever was written—or, at least, such was the belief current in Avonsbridge, In his study he was literally entombed in books—volumes in all languages—and Avonsbridge supposed him able to read them all, How far this was a popular superstition, and to what length his learning went, it is impossible to say. But nobody ever came quite tothe end of it. His strong- est outward characteristic was quietness, both of manner, speech, motions, Springing, it appeared, out of a corresponding quietness of soul, Whether it had been born with him, or through what storms of human passion and entering it had attained to this permanent central calm, who couldsay? C Age nobody knew or was likel to know ; for the Master of Saint Bede’s was a person, the dept of whose nature could not be fathomed easily with any line. Pos- sibly because, old as he was, it happened, as does happen in some lives, that the right plumb-line, by the right hand, had never been dropped yet, And Christian, his wife? She had run up stairs—ran almost with her former light step, for her heart felt iightened with the childish smile of little Oliver ought to be paid before she was married. So he had fiicen titled , and the other valueless yet well-prized feminine trifles, and brought her, as their equivalent, a sum large enough to pay both these debts and all her m © expenses, w sum she, ignorant and unsuspicious, took gratefully, merely a e **he was very kind.” her dress with that careful neatness which was an instinct with proceeded to fasten her collar and complete the minutiz of motherless girl had ever learned wo at all was a marvel. She answered chiefly in soft monosyllables to the perpetual stream of Mrs. Ferguson’s talk, till at last the good soul could no longer Se tees: i uld onl nly let out your feel - my dear, if you would only s —only let out your feel- ings w ite for oF dgiel yl feel this oe I’m sure I do, just as t were my own wedding-day, or Isabella’s, or Sarah Jane’s. And when tae Ek eouia tobe masviod. poor lambs! I hope it will be as = & match as you are making—only, perhaps, not a widower. ut I your pardon. Oh, Miss Oakley, my dear, we shall miss you so . And the good woman, who had a heart—and hearts are worth something—clasped the orphan-bride to her broad bosom, and shed over her a torrent of honest tears. ‘‘Thank you,” Christian said, and returned the kiss gently, but 00, caw,” ned Mead hi ru «And now,” rs, Merguson, recove jerself, ‘I'll go gat > ya Lee Pll eet ay Wain Aaron and see that everything shaw! for you to travel It’s a terrible snowy day still, You'll Re down presently?” — er husband watched her still. Once he sighed—a rather sad sigh for a bridegroom, and then a light, better and‘holier than

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> CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’'S MISTAKE. love, or rather the essence of all love, self-denial and self-forgetful- ness, brightened up his whole countenance. a iM very tired she is; but I shall take care of her, my poor Cc . tae The words were as gentle as if he had been speaking to one of his own children, and he drew her to him with a tender, protect- ing fatherliness which seemed the natural habit of his life, such as never in her poor, forlorn life had any one shown to Christian Oakley. It took away all her doubts, all her fears. For the mo- ment she forgot she was married, forgot every thing but his good- ness, his tenderness, his care over her, and her great and sore need of the same. She turned and clung to him, weeping. assionately. ‘‘T have nobody in the whole world but you. Oh, be kind to me |” ‘*] will,” said Arnold Grey. CHAPTER II. “You'll love me yet! and I can tarry | June reaped that bunch of flowers you carry Your love’s protracted growing: From seeds of April’s sowing.” Satnt BepDR’s is one of the most ancient of the minor colleges of Avonsbridge. Its foundress’s sweet, pale, suffering face, clad in the close coif. of the time of the wars of the Roses, still smiles over the fellows’ table in hall, and adorns the wall of combina- tion-room. The building itself has no great architectural beauty except the beauty of age. Its courts are gray and still, and its grounds small ; in fact, it possesses only the Lodge garden, and a walk between tall trees on the other side of the Avon, which is crossed by a very curious bridge. The I e itself is so close to the river, that from its.windows you may drop a stone into the dusky, slowly rippling, sluggish. water, which seems quieter and deeper there than at any other college past which it flows. Saint Bede’s is, as I said, a minor college, rarely numbering dormant sullenness in his under lip which showed he could be @ very naughty one if he chose. | ‘1 told you so, Titia,” said he, darting to an open door facing ‘the staircase at the gallery’s,end. ‘‘ There’s papa’s es fire lit, e I knew he was coming home to-night, though aunt won’t let us sit up, as he said we should. ButI will! Ill lie awake, if it’s til} twelve o’clock, and call him as he passes the nursery door.” “You forget,” said Titia, drawing herself up with a womanly air, ‘‘ papa will not be alone now, He may not care to come to you now he has got Mrs, Grey.” ‘Mrs. Grey !” ‘*‘ You know aunts told us always to call herso. I’m sure I don’t want to call her anything. I hate her!” ** So do I,” 2 Seine the boy, doubling up his fist with intense enjoyment. ‘‘ Wouldn’t I like to pitch into her for marrying papa? But yet,” with a sudden compunction, ‘“‘she gave us lots of cake. And she looked rather—jolly, eh?” “Jolly! You boys are so vulgar,” said the little lady, con- temptuously. ‘‘ But I dare say you'll like her, for aunts say she is quite a vulgar person. As for me, I don’t mean to take any notice of her at all.” ‘¢ A deal she’ll care for that! Who minds you? Yovu’re only a 2 Ae ‘I’m glad I’m not a big, ugly, dirty-handed, common boy.” Arthur’s reply was short and summary, administered by one of those dirty hands, as he was in the habit of administering what he doubtless considered justice to his much cleverer, more precocious, and very sharp-tongued sister, even though she was “‘a girl.” It was the only advantage he had over her, and he used it, aatoah not being a thing which comes natural to most boys, and it, as well as the root and core of it, loving kindness, not having been one of the things taught in these children’s nursery. Letitia set up an outcry of injured innocence, upon which nurse, who waited at the foot of the stairs, seeing something was amiss, while not. stopping to discover what it was, did as she always did more than, fifty gownsmen at a time, and maintaining, both as to | under similar circumstances—she flew to the contending parties. sports and honors, a mild mediocrity. Tor years it had not sent | and soundly thumped them both, any first-rate man either to boat-race, or cricket-ground, or senate- ‘Get to bed, you naughty children ; you’re always quarreling,” ON ee eee ee — os ee house. Lately, however, it. had boasted one, quite an Admirable | rang the sharp voice, rising above Letitia’s wail and Arthur’s storin Crichton in his way, who, had his moral equaled his mental qual- | of furious sobs. The girl yielded, but the boy hung back ; and it ities, would have carried all before him. _As it was, being discov- | was not until after a regular stand-up fight between him and the ered in offenses not. merely against University authority, but ob- | woman—a big, sturdy woman too—that he was carried off, still des- noxious.to society at large, he had been rusticated. Though the | perately resisting, and shouting that he would have his revenge as matter was kept as privaie as possible, its details being known only to the master, dean, and tutor, still it:made.a nine-days’ talk, soon as ever papa came home, Motherless children indeed these were and had been, practically, not only in. the, college, but in the, town—until the remorseless | ever since they were born. All the womanly bringing up they had wave of daily life, which so Pan closes over the head of either ill-doer, or well-doer, closed completely over that. of HEdwin Uniacke. Even.such an event as the master’s second marriage had scarcely power to stir Saint Bede’s from its sleepy equanimity. It was, indeed, a peaceful place.. It had no grand emtrance, but in‘a narrow back street you came suddenly upon its ancient gate- way; through which you passed into a medisval world... The clock-tower and clock, with an upright sundial affixed below it, marked the first: court; whence, through.a. passage which, as is usualin colleges, had the hall on one hand and the buttery on the other, you entered the second court,.round three sides of which ran cloisters of very ugly, very, plain, but very ancient architec- ture... Ina corner of these cloisters was the door of the Lodge— the master’s private dwelling, | Until eighteen months ago, the date of .Dr.;Grey’s appointment, there had. not. been a woman’s face.or a child’s foot eat it: for a hundred and fifty years. All the master8 had been unmarried— grim, graye, fellows—advanced in years, Dz. Arnold Grey, whose fellowship had terminated early,.and) who had afterward been tutor and dean, was the youngest master that had ever been known at Saint Bede’s ; and his election. might consequently have been unpopular had he not. been personally so, much liked, and had there not happened immediately afterward that scandal about Edwin Uniacke.... Therein he acted so promptly and wisely, that the sleepy, timid old dons, as well as the Uniacke family—for the lad was highly connected—were thankful that this unlucky business had not occurred in the time of the late master, who was both old and’ foolish,.and would haye made it, the talk, of, all_ England, instead of hushing it up, with the prudent decision of Dr, Grey, so that now it was scarcely spoken of beyond the college walls. Solemn, quiet, and beautiful, as if they had never known a scan- dal or a tragedy, slept’ those old walls in the moonlight, which streained also in long bars from window to window, across the ghostly gallery before mentioned. Ghostly enough in. all, con- science; and yet two little figures went. trottin ifeasleasls down it, as they did every night at eight o’clock, between the two ancient apartments now converted into Sanne: Poo and nursery. The master’s children were too familiar with these grim, shadowy corners to feel the slightest dread ; besides they were not imagi tive children. Neither child was very interesting. Letitia, with her ar figure and thin light hair, looked not unlike a dimin- ished reflection of the foundress herself—that pale, prim, pre-Raphaelitish dame who was represented all over the college, jn all sizes and varieties of the limner’s art. Arthur, who hung a little behind his sister, was different from her, being stout and . had, even in Mrs. Grey’s lifetime, had come from that grim nurse, Phillis. , Phillis was not an ordinary woman. The elements of a trage- dy were in her low, broad, observant, and intelligent forehead, her keen black eyes, and her full-lipped, uider-hanging mouth, Though ‘past thirty, she was still comely, and when she looked pleasant, it was not an unpleasant face. Yet there lurked in it pos- sibilities of passion that made you tremble, es tee, considering that she had the charge of growing children. You id not wonder at her en ppm | in the nursery, but you wondered very much that any mother could have allowed her to acquire it, For the rest, Phillis had. entered the family as Letitia’s wet- nurse, with the sad story of most wet-nurses. Her own child hay- ing died, she took to her foster-child with such intensity of devoted- ness as to saye Mrs, Grey all trouble of loving or looking after the little creature from henceforward. And so she staid, through many storms and warnings to leave, but she never did leave—she wag too, necessary. And, in one sense, Phillis did her duty. Physi- cally, no children could be better cared for than the little Greys, They were always well washed, well clad, and, in a certain exter- nal sense, well managed. The ‘rod in pickle,” which Phillis always kept in the nursery, maintained a form of outward disci- pline and even manners, so far as Phillis knew what manners meant; morals too, in Phillis’s style of morality. Beyond that, Phillis’s. own will—strong and obstinate as it was—made laws for itself, which the children were obliged to obey, They rebelled ; sometimes they actually hated her, and yet she had great influence over them—the earliest and closest influence they had ever known. Bésides, the. struggle had only begun when they were old enough to have some sense of the difference between justice and injustice ; submission compelled and obedience lawfully won ; to infants and pee children Phillis was always very tender—nay, passionately oving. | : Meanwhile at the other end of the ghostly gallery, sat, over the dining-room fire, the two other rulers, dians, and guides of these three children—‘‘the aunts ”— Gascoigne and Miss Grey ; for these ladies still remained at the Lodge. Dr. Grey had asked Christian if she wished them to leave, for they had a house of their own near Avonsbridge, and she had answered indifferently, “Oh no ; let them do as they like,” As she liked did not seem to enter into her thoughts. as! that sacred dual solitude, which most young wives naturally and rightfully desire, was no vital necessity to Christian Grey, Hee poe eer So the two ladies, who had come to the Lodge when their sister died, had declared their intention of remaining there, at least for equare: but he, too, was not an attractive child, and there was a: the present, “‘for the sake of those poor dear children.” And, — => ee ee — oa .—— ee

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- yy - — - - > _ - . ee ee ee ee — CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE. & dressed in all their best, they sat. solemnly waiting the arrival of the children’s father and step-mother—‘‘ that young woman,” as ‘they always spoke of her in Avonsbridge. at Dr. Grey had gone through in domestie opposition before ‘the married, he alone knew, and he never told. But he had said, as every man under similar circumstances has a right to say, “ I will marry,” and had done it. Besides, he was a just man ; he was fully aware that to his sisters Christian was not—could not be as yyet—any more than the organist’s daughter and the silversmith’s governess, while they. were University ladies, But he knew them, and he knew her; he was not afraid. They were a strong contrast, these two, the ladies at the Lodge. Miss Grey, the elder, was a little roly-poly woman, with a meek, round, fair-complexioned face, and pulpy, soft hands—one of those people who irresistibly remind one of a white mouse, She was neither clever nor wise, but she was very sweet-tempered. She ‘had loved Dr, Grey all her life. From the time that she, a big girl, had dandled him, a baby, in her lap ; throughout her brief youth, when she was engaged to young Mr. Gascoigne, who died ; up to her somewhat silly and helpless middle-age, there never was anybody, to Miss Grey, like ‘‘my brother Arnold.” Faithfulness is a rare virtue ; let us criticise her no more, but pass her over, faults and all. Miss ge fe was a lady who could not be passed over on any account. Nothing would have so seriously offended her. From her ma nose to her high voice and her particularly high temper, everything about her was decidedly prononcé. There was no ex- tinguishing her or putting her into a corner, Rather than be unnoticed —if such a thing she could ever believe possible—she would make herself noticeable in any way, even in an ill way. She was a good-looking woman, and a clever woman too, only not quite clever enough to find out one slight fact—that there might ‘be anybody in the world superior to herself. “Set down B ps3 value at your own huge rate, The world will pay it” — foratime, And so the world had paid it pretty well to Miss Gas- coigne, but was beginning a little to weary of her; except fond Miss Grey, who still thought that, as there never was a man like “dear Arnold,” so there was not a woman anywhere to compare with ‘‘dear Henrietta.” They sat, one on either side the fire, in the long unbroken si- lence of people who are so used to one another that they feel no necessity for talking, until Miss Gascoigne spoke first, as she always did. _ “I wonder what Dr. Grey meant by desiring the children to be kept out of their beds till his return. As if I should allow it! And to order a tea-dinner ! No wonder Barker looked astonished. He never knew my poor sister have anything but a proper dinner, at the proper hour ; but it’s just that young woman’s doing. In her position, of course she always dined at one o’clock.” ‘Very likely,” said Miss Grey, assentingly. Dissent she never ‘did, in any thing, from any body, least of all from Miss Gascoigne. That lady fidgeted again, poked the fire, re ed herself in the mirror, and settled her cap—no, her head-dress, for Miss Grey always insisted that ‘‘dear Henrietta” wag too young to wear caps— and admired fervently the still black—too black hair, the mystery of which was only known to Henrietta herself, | ‘“‘ What o’clock is it? half-past nine, I declare. Most annoyin —most impertinent—to keep us waiting for our tea in this way. Your brother never did it before.” ‘‘I hope there is no accident,” said Miss Grey, looking up alarmed, ‘‘The snow might be dangerous on the railway.” “‘ Maria, if you had any sense—but I| think you have less and less every day—you would remember that they are not coming by rail at all—of course not. On the very first day of term, when Dr. ‘Grey would meet so many people he knew ; and to have to intro- duce his wife! Why, every body would have laughed at him; and no wonder. Verily, there’s no fool like an old fool.” “Henrietta!” pitifully appealed the sister, “you know dear Arnold is not a fool. He never did a foolish thing in his life— ‘except, perhaps, in making this unfortunate marriage, And she may aero. Any body ought to improve who had the advan- mea» of living constantly with dear Arnold.” iss Gascoigne, always on the watch for affronts, turned sharply round, but there was not a shadow of satire in her friend’s sim- plicity. “‘My dear Maria, you are the greatest —” But what Miss Grey was remained among the few bitter speeches that Miss Gascoigne left unsaid, for at that moment the heavy oak door was thrown wide open, and Barker, the butler (time-honored institution of Saint Bede’s, who thought himself one of its strong- est pillars of support), repeated, in his sonorous voice, ‘‘The master and Mrs, Grey,” oe Thus announced—suddenly and formally, like a stranger, in her own house—Christian came home. The two maiden aunts rose ceremoniously. Either their polite- mess sprang from their natural habit of good-breeding, or it was wrung from them by extreme surprise. The apparition before them—tal]l, graceful, and dignified—could by no means be mistaken for any thing but a lady—such a lady as Avonsbridge, with all its a of birth and condition, rarely produced. She would have been the same even if at in hodden gray, but now she was well dressed in silks and furs, Dr. Grey smiled at the ‘modest trousseau, and soon settled every thing by saying, ‘*‘M wife must wear so and so.” In this rich clothing, which set off her fair large Saxon beauty to the utmost advantage, Christian quite dazzled the eyes of the two ladies who had so persistently called her ‘‘that young woman.” Any person with eyes at all could see that, except for the difference in age, there was not the slightest incongruity between ‘‘ the master and Mrs. Grey.” Dr. Grey’s personal introduction was brief enough: ‘‘ Christian, these are my sisters. This is Maria, and this is Henrietta—Miss Gascoigne.” Christian bowed—a little stately, perhaps—and then held out her hand, which, after a hesitatin Prayer at Miss Gascoigne, was accepted timidly by Miss Grey. ey couldn’t help it, my dear,” she afterward pleaded, in answer to a severe scolding ; ‘‘she quite took me by surprise.” But in Miss Gascoigne’s acuter and more worldly nature the sur- prise soon wore off, leaving a sharp consciousness of the beauty, grace, and dignity—formidable weapons in the hands of any woman, and especially of one so young as the master’s wife. Not that her youth was now very noticeable ; to any one who had known Chris- tian before her marriage, she would have appeared greatly altered, as if some strange mental convulsion had passed over her—passed, and beensubdued. In two weeks she had grown ten years older— was a matron, not a girl. If Dr. Grey saw, what any one who loved Christian could not fail to have seen, this remarkable change in her, he also saw deep enough into her nature neither to dread # nor deplore it. A few civil speeches having been interchanged about the weather, their journey, and so forth, the master, suddenly looking round him, inquired, ‘‘ Maria, where are the children?” ‘‘IT sent them to bed,” said Miss Gascoigne, with dignity: “It was impossible they could be kept up to this late hour. My poor sister never allowed it.” The color flashed violently over Dr. Grey’s face. With the uick, resolute movement of a master in his own house, he crossed the room and rang the bell. ‘‘ Barker, inquire of nurse are the children in bed. If not, say I wish them sent down to me; otherwise, | will come up to them immediately.” The answer to this m e was awaited in most awkward silence, Even Miss Gascoigne seemed to feel that she had gone a little too far, and busied herself over the tea equipage ; while Miss Grey, after one or two deprecating looks at dear Arnold, began knitting nervously at her eternal socks—the only aunt-like duty which, in her meek laziness, she attempted to fulfill toward the children. For Christian, she sat by the fire, where her husband had piaced her, absently taking in the externalities—warm, sombre, luxurious —of the house, which, in all human probability, was now her home for life. For life! Did that overpowering sense of the inevitable —so maddening to some, so quieting to others—cause all small things to sink to their natural smallness, and all painful a touch her less painfully than otherwise they would have felt? It might have been. Barker returned with the information that all the children were fast asleep, but nurse said, ‘‘ Of course Dr. Grey could come up if he pleased,” | ‘‘Let me go too,” begged Christian. ‘‘ Little Oliver will look so Weber in his bed.” . Grey smiled. It was a rare thing to be a whole fortnight away from his children, and all the father’s heart was in his] eyes. ‘‘Come away, then,” he said, all his cheerful looks return- ing. ‘‘ Aunts, you will give us omr tea when we return.” “ Well, she does make herself at home!” cried Miss Gascoigne, indignantly, almost before the dor had closed. | Miss Grey knitted half a row with a perplexed air, and then, as if she had lighted upon a perfect solution of the difficulty, said brightly, ‘‘ But then, you see, dear Henrietta, she is at home.” Letitia and Arthur occupied two little closets leading out of the nursery, which seemed ious enough, and ancient enough, to have been the dormitory of a score of monks, as very likely it was in the early days of Saint Bede’s. Phillis, sewing by her little vable in the far corner, kept guard over a large bed, where, curled up like a rose-bud, flushed and warm, lay that beautiful child whom Christian had thought of twenty times a day for the last mepeh pn J AIE ‘Well, Phillis, how are you and your little folks?” said the master, in a pleasant whisper, as he crossed the nursery floor. He trod tightly, ut either his step was too welcome to remain undis- covered, or the children’s sleep had been ‘‘ fox’s sleep,” for there arose a outcry of ‘‘ Papa! papa!” Oliver leaped up, half laugh- ing, half screaming, and kicking his little bare legs with glee as father took him in his arms ; Arthur came running in, clad in the very airiest costume possible; and Letitia ap sedately a min- ute or two afterward, having stopped to put on her warm scarlet dressing-gown, and to take off her nightcap—under the most excit- ing circumstances, Titia was such an exceedingly “‘ proper” child. hat would the Avonsbridge dons have said—the solitary old fellows in combination-room—and, above all, what would the ghosts of the gloomy old monks have said, could they have seer the Master of Saint Bede’s, with all his children round him, hug ging him, kissing him, chattering to him, while he hung over ther .

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S CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE, in an absoiption of enjoyment so, deep that, for the moment, tian was unnoticed? But only for a moment; and he turned to where she stood, a little aloof, looking on, half sadly, and yet with beaming, kindly eyes, Her husband caught her hand and drew her nearer. “Children, you remiember this lady. She was very good to you one day lately, And now I want you to be very good to her.” ‘‘Oh yes,” cried Oliver, putting up his mouth at once for a kiss, ‘‘T like her very much. Whoisshe? What is her name?” Children ask sometimes the simplest, yet the most terrible of ques- tions, This one seemed literally impossible to be answered, _ Dr. Grey tried, and caught sight of his daughter’s face—the mouth pursed into that hard line which made her so exactly like her mother. Arthur, too, looked sullen and shy. Nobody spoke but little Oliver, who, in his innocent, childish way, pulling Chris- tian’s dress, repeated again, ‘‘Whatis your name? What must Olly call you?” . | Whatever she felt, her husband must have felt and known that this was the critical moment which, once let ape might take years afterward to recall.. He said, nervously enough, but with a firm- ness. that showed he must already have considered the subject, ‘‘Call her mamma,”’ There was no reply. Christian herself was somewhat. startled, but conscious of a pleasant thrill at the sound of the new name, coming upon her so suddenly. Strange it was; and ah! how dif- ferently it came to her from the way it comes upon most women— granary. deliciously, with long looking forward and tremulous ope and fear--still it was pleasant, Her maternal instinct was so strong that even imaginary motherhood seemed sweet, She bent forward to embrace the children, with tears in her eyes, when Letitia said, in a sharp, unchildlike voice, “People can’t have two mammas ; and our mamma is buried in the New Cemetery. ...Aunts took us there yesterday afternoon,” Had the little girl chosen the sharpest arrow in her aunts’ quiver —nay, had she been Miss Gascoigne herself—she could not haye shot. more keenly home, For the dart was barbed with truth— literal truth ; which, however sore it be, people in many difficult circumstances of life are obliged to face, to recognize, and abide by—to soften and subdue if.they can—but woe betide them if, by any cowardly weakness or short-sighted selfishness, they are tempted to deny it as truth, or to overlook and make light of it. Painful.as the position. was—so painful that Dr. Grey was quite overcome by it, and maintained a total silence—Christian had yet the sense to see that it was a position inevitable, because it was true. She looked at her husband, saw how agitated he was, and there seemed to come into her.mind a sort of inspiration. ‘‘ My child,” she said, trying to draw Letitia toward her, ‘‘ you say truly. Jam not you own mamma; no one ever could be that to. you,,again; but | mean to.be.as like her as I can. [ mean to loye you and take care of you; and you will love me too by-and- by. . You can always talk tome as much as ever you like about your own mamma,’* ad at doesn’t remember her one bit,” said Arthur, contemptu- ously... ‘“‘Qh, yes 1. do,” cried Letitia. ‘“‘She was very pretty, and always wore such beautiful gowns.” Again there was a silence, and then Christian said, ‘T think, if the children do not dislike it, that as they always called Mrs. Grey ‘mamma,’ they had better call me ‘mother.’ It is a pleasanter.word than step-mother. And I hope to make myself a real mother to them before very long.” ‘‘T know you will,” answered. Dr. Grey, in,a smothered voice, as he set down little Oliver, and, kissing the children all round, bade nurse carry them off to bed once more—nurse, who, standing art, with her great black eyes had already taken the measure of the new wife, of the children’s future, and of the chances of her own authority, Not the smallest portion of this decision originated in the fact that Christian, wholly preoccupied as she was, had en- tered the nursery and quitted it without taking any notice of her— Phillis—at all... | Dr..Grey preceded his wife to a room, which, in the long laby- rinth of apartments, seemed almost a quarter of a mileaway, A large fire burnt on the old-fashioned hearth, and glimmered cheer- ily on the white toilet-table, crimson sofa and bed. It was a room comfortable, wt, oe pleasant, bright, thoroughly ‘‘my lady’s chamber,” and which seemed from every nook to welcome its new owner with a smile. > rary, “Oh, how pretty 1” exclaimed Christian, involuntarily. She was not luxurious, yet she dearly loved pretty things; the more so because she had never possessed them, - Even now, though her heart was so moved and full, she was not insensible to the warmth imparted to it by mere external pleasantnesses like these. JT had the room newly furnished. I thought you would like it,” said Dr. Grey. ) I do like it, How very kind you are to me!” Kind—only kind ! _ She looked round the room, and there, in one corner, just’as if e had ney sh er parted from them, were all the old treasures of her masdenhoodteil - 4 work-table, chair, She guessed all the secret. Once, fat on she might aave burst into tears—heart-warm tears ; now she sighed, | _ Qh, how good you are |” | Her husband kissed her Passively she took the caress, and again she sighed. Dr. Grey looked at her earnestly, then spoke in much agitation— ‘ Christian, tell me truly, were you hurt at what occurred just now ? I mean in the nursery.” ‘‘No, not in the least. Jt was inevitable.” ‘Tt was, Many things in life, quite inevitable, have*yet to be met and borne, conquered even, if we can.” wt mf we can | And ristian looked up wistfully, almost entreatingly, to her husband, who, she now knew, and trembled at the knowledge, so solemn was the responsibility it brought, had loved her, and did love her, with a depth and passion such as a man like him never loves but one woman in all his life, ‘‘ Christian,” he began again, with an effort, ‘I want to say something to you. Once in my life, when I was almost as young as you are, I made a great mistake. Therefore I know that mis- takes are not irretrievable. God teaches us sometimes by our very errors, leading us through them into light and truth. Only we must follow Him, and hold fast to the right, however difficult it may be. We must not be disheartened: we must leave the past where it is, and go on to the future ; do what we have to do, and suffer all we have to suffer. We must meet things as they are, without perplexing ourselves about what they might have been ; for, if we believe in an overruling Providence at all, there can be no such possibility as ‘might have been.’” | “That is true,” said Christian, musingly. She had never known Dr. Grey speak like this. She wondered a little why he should do it now ; and yet his words struck home. That ‘‘ great mis- take ’—was it his first marriage? which, perhaps, had not been a happy one. | But she asked him no questions ; she felt not the slightest curi- osity about that, or about anything, She was like a person ins state of moral catalepsy, to whom, for the time being, every feel- ing, pleasant or painful, seems dulled and dead, Dr. Grey said no more, and what he had said was evidently with great effort.. He aDhesred glad to go back into ordinary talk, showing her what he had done in the room to make it pretty an pleasant for his bride, and smiling over her childish delight to s again her maiden treasures, with which she had parted so mourn- fully. “You could not think I meant you really to part with them, Christian?” said he, ‘I fancied you had found out my harmless deceit long ago. But you are such an innocent baby, my child—as clear as crystal, and as true as steel.” ‘‘Oh no, no!” she cried, as he went out of the room—a cry that was almost a sob, and might have called him back again—but he was gone, and the moment had pressed by. With it passed the slight quivering and softening which had been visible in her face, and she sunk again into the impassive calm which niade Christian Grey so totally different from Christian Oakley. ‘A mistake,” she.muttered. ‘‘ Perhaps my marriage, too, was a mistake, irretrievable, irremediable, as he may himself think now, only he is too kind to let me see it. What am Ito do? Nothing. I.can do nothing, ‘Until death us do part.’ Do I wish for death—my death, of course—to come and part us?” - She could not, even to herself, answer that question. ‘‘ What was he saying—that God teaches us by our very errors —that there is no such thing as ‘might have been?’ He thinks. so, and he is very wise, far wiser and have loved him. Oh! that I had only waited till I did really love him, instead of, fancying it enough that he loved me, But I must not think. It would drive me out of my senses.” — She started up, and stood gazing round the cheerful, bright, handsome room, where every luxury that a comfortable income could give had been provided for her comfort, every little fancy and taste she had been remembered, with a tender mindfulness that would have made the heart of any newly-married wife, mar- ried for love, leap for joy, and look forward hopefully to that. life which, with all its added cares, a good man’s affection can make SO happy to the woman who is his chosen delight. But in Chris- tian’s face was no happiness ; only that white, wild, frightened look, which had come on her m ge day, and then settled down into what she now wore=the aspect of passive submission and endurance. : ) ‘But-I will do my duty, And he will do his, no fear of that? He is so good—far better than I. Yes, I shall do my duty,” Christian went down stairs slowly and sadly, but quite calm to spend—and she did spend it, essly, if not pleasantly—the first evening in her own home, ---— > - CHAPTER III, “When ye’re my ain gudewife, lassie, “But e’re m gudewite, lassie, What'll ye pring tome? Mine fe 4 i : A hantle 0’ siller, a stockin’o’gowd? | Will ye bring me three things, lassie, ‘I haena ae bawbee. My empty to fill “ are my ain gudewife, lassi “ a silent tongue, a at may firesia ri 7 ert ty BH Wil d white meet t f I'l a ye Lan tdeaie, he red an n your Na : youl no get a bonnie bride.” wri ind joe ye till I dee.” | AVONSBRIDGE lay still deep. in February snow, for it was the severest winter which had been known there for many years, But tter than I am. I might.

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_ ee a eee » ee CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAERE. 7 any one who is acquainted with the place must allow that it never | wife, or, indeed, from any lady to any other lady—at least accord- iooks better or more beautiful than in a fierce winter frost—too | ing to her code of manners. fierce to melt the snow; when, in early morning, you may pass from college to college, over quadrangles, courts, and gardens, and your own footsteps will be the only mark on the white untrodden at the far end of the room, where the master was deeply “ You may talk as you like,” continued Miss Gascoigne, Breneng busi in searching for a book, ‘‘ but I object to these morning w and carpet, which lies glittering and dazzling before you, pure and 1 am certain Dr. Grey also would object if he knew o them.” beautiful as even country snow. Or you may gaze, as Christian gazed every morning with con- tinually new wonder, at the colors of the dawn brightening into sunrise, such as it looks on a winter’s morning—so beautiful that it seems an almost equal marvel that nobody should care to see it but yourself, except perhaps a solitary gownsman, a reading man, taking his usual constitutional, just as a matter of duty, but ap- parently not enjoying it the least in the world. Christian stood watching it, for the hundredth time, with that vague sensation of pleasure which she felt at sight of all lovely things, whether of nature or art, Very dreamy her life felt still, though she had tried to make it more real and natural by resuming some, of her cld ways, and especially her morning walk, before the nine o’clock breakfast at the Lodge. ) She had made a faint protest in favor of an earlier hour than nine, and begged that the children might come down to breakfast ; she craved so to have the little faces about the table. But Miss Gascoigne had said solemnly that ‘‘my poor dear sister always breakfasted at nine, and never allowed her children to breakfast anywhere but in the nursery.” And that reference, which was made many times a day, invariably silenced Christian, She had now been married yor four weeks, but it seemed like four years—four ages—as if she hardly remembered the time when she was Christian Oakley. Yet now and then, in a dim sort of way, her old identity returned to her, as it does to those who, after a great crisis and uprooting of all life, submit, some in de- spair, some in humble patience, to the inevitable, This good time, this lucid interval, so to speak, usually came to her in the morning, when she took her early walk in the familiar places ; for to Christian familiarity only made things more dear. Already she was beginning to find her own nooks, and go about her own ways in those grim college rooms, which grew less ghostly now that she knew them better. Already she was getting a little, used to her new home, her formal dignities, and her hand- some clothes, As she stepped with her light, firm tread across the crinkling snow, she was—not unhappy. No wonder the “reading man,” who had been so insensible to the picturesque in nature, turned his weary eyes to look after her, or that a bevy of freshmen, rushing wildly out of chapel, with their surplices flying behind them like a flock of white—geese ?—should have stopped to stare, a little more persistently than gentlemen ought, at the solitary lady, who was meee where she had a perfect right to walk, and at an hour when she could scarcely be suspected of promenad- ing either to observe or to attract observation. But Christian went right on, with perfect composure, She knew she was hand- some, for she had been told so once; but the knowledge had after- ward become only pain. Now she was indifferent to her looks— at least as indifferent as any womanly woman ever can be, or ought to be. Still, it vexed her a little that these young men should presume to stare, and she was glad she was not walking in sat Bede’s, and that they were not the men of her own col- e, he stood still a minute to calm herself, then knocked at the Lodge gate. Barker opened it with that look of grieved superior surprise with which he always obeyed any novel order, or watched the doing of any deed which he considered lowered the dignity of himself and the college. She was a minute or two late; the master had already left his study, and was opening the large book of prayers. Nevertheless, he looked up with a smile, as he always did the instant his wife’s foot van gaie g the door. But his sister ap very serious, and Miss Gascoigne’s aspect was a perfect thundercloud, which broke into lightning the instant prayers were over. _‘‘T must say, Mrs. Grey, you have a most extraordinary propen- sity for mo walks. I never did such a thing in all my life, nor Maria either,” ‘* Probably not,” answered Christian, as she took her seat before the urn, which gave her the one home-like feeling she had at the Lodge, ‘ ferent people have different ways, and this has ‘* Because it does me good, and harms nobody else,” said Chris- tian, smiling. ‘I doubt that, anyhow ; you never will make me believe it can be good for you to do a thing that nobody else does—to go wander- ing about streets and colleges when all respectable people are still in their beds. To say the least of it, it is so very pecuiiar.” The tone, more even than the words, made Christian flush up, but she did not reply. She had already learned not to 2 9. to these sharp speeches of Miss Gascoigne’s, which, she noticed, fell on everybody alike. ‘‘ What Miss Grey bears I sup I can,” thought she to herself, when many times during the last two weeks she had been addressed in a manner which somewhat sur- prised her, as a mode of speech more fitting from a school- mistress to a naughty school-girl than from a sister to a young ‘*He does know,” ‘* And does he approve? Impossible! Only think, Maria, if our poor dear sister had done such a thing !” ‘Oh, hush, Henrietta!” cried Maria, appealingly, as Dr, Grey came back and sat himself placidly down at the breakfast-table, with his big book beside him. He had apparently not heard a single word. Breakfast was never a lively meal at the Lodge. After the first few days Dr. Grey took refuge in his big book, which for years Miss Gascoigne averred he had always kept beside him at meal- times. Not good behavior in a paterfamilias, but the habit told its _ tale. Very soon Christian neither marveled at nor blamed m. Never in all her life, not even during the few months that she lived with the Fergusons, had she sat at a family table; yet she had always had a favorite ideal of what a family table ought to be —bright, cheerful, a sort of domestic altar, before which every one cast down his or her offering, great or small, of pleasantness and peace ; where for at least a brief space in the day all annoy- ances were laid aside, all stormy tempers hushed, all quarrels healed ; every one being glad and content to sit down at the same board and eat the same bread and salt, making it, whether it were a fatted calf or a dinner of herbs, equally a joyful, almost sacra- mental meal. This was her ideal, poor girl! Now she wondered, as she had done many times since her coming ‘‘ home,” if all family tables were like this one—shadowed over with gloomy looks, frozen by silence, or broken by sharp speeches, which darted about like little arrows pointed with poison, or buzzed here and there like angry wasps, settling and stinging unawares, and making every one un- comfortable, not knowing who might be the next victim stung. True, there was but one person to sting, for Miss Grey never said ill-natured things ; but then she said ill-advised and mal-apropos things, and she had such an air of frightened dumbness, such a sad, deprecatory look, that she was sometimes quite as trying as Miss Gascoigne, who spoke out. And oh, how she did speak |! Christian, who had never known many women, and had never lived constantly with any, now for the first time learned what was meant by ‘‘ a woman’s tongue.” At first it simply astonished her. How it was possible for one mortal member to run on so long without a pause, and in such ugly and uneasy paths—for the conversation was usually fault- finding of persons or things—passed her comprehension. At last she sank into a troubled silence; tried to listen as well as she could, and yet allow the other half of her mind to wander away into some restful place, if any such place could be found. The nearest approach to it was in that smooth, broad brow, and kindly eyes, which were now and then lifted up from the foot of the table, out of the mazes of the big book, at the secret of which Christian did not wonder now. And he had thus listened patiently to this mill-stream, or mill- clack, for three w years! Perhaps for many another year be- fore ; but into that Christian would not allow her lightest thoughts to penetrate : the sacred veil of Death was over it all. ‘If lL can only make him happy!” This was already beginning to be her prominent thought, nid: it warmed her heart that morn- ing at this weary breakfast-table to hear him say, ‘Christian, I don’t know how you manage it, but I think I never had such good tea in all my life as since you took it into your own hands and out of Barker’s.” ‘‘No doubt she makes tea very well,” said Miss Gascoigne, con- descendingly, ‘‘ which is one good result of not having been used to a servant to do it for her. And she must have had such excel- lent practice at Mrs, Ferguson’s, I believe those sort of Pt ia always feed together—parents, children, apprentices, and all.” ‘‘] assure you, not always,” said Christian, quietly. ‘‘ At least I dined with the children alone.” ‘*Indeed ! How very pleasant !” ‘It was not unpleasant. They were good little things; and, as ou know, I always prefer having children about me at mealtimes. I think it makes them little gentlemen and gentlewomen in a man- ner that nothing else will. If I had a house ”—she — and blushed deeply for having let old things—ah ! they seemed so v old and far back now—make her forget the present. ‘<I mean, should wish in my house to have the children always accustomed to come to the parents’ table as soon as they were old enough to handle a knife and fork.” ‘Should you?” said Dr. Grey, quite startling her, for she thought he had not been attending to the conversation. ‘Then we will have Titia and Atty to breakfast with us to-morrow.” Thus, without any fuss, the t revolution was made; so rag t so completely, that even Miss Gascoigne was dumbfound- ed, e set down her teacup with a jerk; her handsome face are red with anger, but still she did not venture a word. She ad not lived three years with Dr. Grey without fin out that when the master of the house did choose to exercise authority, he

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& CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE’, must be obeyed. Even Miss Gascoigne felt instinctively that she | might have wrangled and jangled for an hour, and at the end of , down upon them; that we respect them, and remember thelr kindness. We may not ask Mr. Ferguson to dinner—he would it he would have said, almost as gently as he had said it now, | find litile to say to University dons; and as for his wife”- she ‘The children will breakfast with us to-morrow.” Christian, too, was surprised, and something more. She had thought her husband so exceedingly quiet, that sometimes her own high spirit winced a little at his passiveness ; that is, she knew it would have done had she been her own natural self, and not in the strange, dreamy, broken-down state which seemed to take in- terest in ee Still she felt some interest in seeing. Dr. Grey appear, though but in a trivial thing, rather different from what she had at first supposed him. And when, after an interval of awful silence, during which Miss Gascoigne looked like a brooding hurricane, and Miss Grey frightened out of her life at what was next to happen, he rose and said, ‘‘ Now remember, Aunt Henri- etia, you or my wife are to give orders to Phillis that the children come to us at lunchtime to-day,” Christian was conscious of a slight throb at heart. It was to see in her husband that some- thing without which no woman can wholly respect any man—the power of asserting and of maintaining authority ; not that arbitra- ry, domineering rule which springs from the blind egotism of per- sonal will, and which every other conscientious will, be it of wife, child, servant, or friend, instinctively resists, and ought to resist, but calm, steadfast, just, righteous authority. —_—--—~»>>-~«=—~>s=——- CHAPTER IV. Yo. ype little griefs—the petty wounds— ** But on the fire burns, clear and still; e stabs of daily care— The cankering sorrow dies; ‘Crackling of thorns beneath the sgl The small wounds heal; the clouds are , now As life’s fire burns—now col rent hot— And through this shattered mortal tent How hard they are to bear! Shine down the eternal skies.” ‘Dr. GREY, as to-day is your ‘at home ’—at least asmuch of an ‘at home’ as is possible under the circumstances—I wish to in- quire, once for all, what is to be done about the Fergusons?”’ ‘‘About whom? I beg pardon, Henrietta, but what were you talking about?” Which, as she had been talking ‘‘ even on” all breakfast-time, either to or at the little circle, including Letitia and Arthur, was not an unnecessary question. ‘‘] referred to your wife’s friends and late employers, the Fer- gusons, of High Street. As she was married from their house, and as, of course, they will only be too glad to keep up her ac- quaintance, they will doubtless appear to-day. In that case, much as we should regret it, your sister and myself must decline being resent. Wecan not possibly admit such people into our society. sn’t it so—eh, Maria?” Maria, thus sharply appealed to, answered with her usual mono- syllable. Dr. Grey looked at his wife in a puzzled, absent way. He was very absent—there was no doubt of it—and sometimes seemed as shut up in himself as if he had lived a bachelor all his life. There was something pathetically innocent in the way he said, ox? ae do not quite understand, Christian, what does it all mean ?” ‘It means,” said Christian, trying hard to restrain an indignant answer, ‘‘that Miss Gascoigne is giving herself a great deal of needless trouble about a thing which will never happen. My friends, the ergusons, may call to-day—lI did not invite them, though I shall certainly not shut the door upon them—but they have no intention whatever of being on visiting terms at the Lodge, nor have I of asking them.” “lam glad to hear it,” said Miss Gascoigne—“ glad to see that you have so much good taste and proper feeling, and that all my exertions in bringing you—as I hope to do to-day—for the first time into our society will not be thrown away.”’ Christian was not a very proud woman—that is, her pride lay bo oor below the surface to be easily ruffled, but she could not ft y ‘If by ‘ our society’ you mean my husband’s friends, to whom he is to introduce me, i shall be most happy always to welcome them to his house ; but if you imply that I am to exclude my own —honest, worthy, honorable nedpla, uneducated though they may nad hing. altogether decline agreeing with you, i shall do no such t yy: ‘‘ What shall you do, then?” said Miss Gascoigne, after a slight pause; for she did not expect such resistance from the young, pale, passive creature, about whom, for the last few days, she had rather changed her mind, and treated with a patronizing consid- eration. For Aunt Henrietta liked to patronize; it pleased her egotism ; besides, she was shrewd enough to see that an elegant, handsome girl, married to the Master of Saint Bede’s, was sure soon to be taken up by somebody; better, perhaps, by her own gonnections than by strangers. So—more blandly than might have been expected—she asked, ‘‘ What shall you do?” ‘What seems to me—as | think it will to Dr. Grey ”—with a timid glance at him, and a wish she had found courage to speak to him first on this matter, ‘‘ the only right thing lcan do, Not to drag my friends into society where they would not feel at home, and which would only look down upon them, but to make them understand clearly that I—and my husband—do not look could not forbear a secret smile at the thought of the poor dear woman, with her voluble affectionateness and her gowns of all colors, beside the stately, perfectly-dressed, and unexceptionally- mannered Miss Gascoigne—‘‘ whether or not Mrs. Ferguson is in- vited to the series of parties that you are planning, I shall go and see her, and she shall come to see me, as often as ever I please.” This speech, which began steadily enough, ended with a shaky voice and flashing eye, which, the moment it met Dr. Grey’s, gravely watching her, sank immediately. ‘‘ That is,” she added gently, ‘‘ if my husband has no objection.” ‘‘None,” he said, but drew ink and paper to him, and sat down to write a note, which he afterward handed to Christian. Then addressing his sister-in-law, ‘‘1 have invited Mr. and Mrs. Fergu- son to dine with us—just ourselves, as you and Maria will be out—at six o’clock to-morrow. And oh!”—with a weary look, as if he were not so insensible to this petty domestic martyrdom as people imagined—‘“‘ do, Henrietta, let us have a little peace.” It was in vain. Even Dr. Grey’s influence could not heal the wounded egotism of this unfortunate lady. ‘*Peace! Do you mean to say that it is I who make dis-peace? But if you, having known what a good obedient wife really is, can submit to such unwarrantable dictation ; and if I, or Maria, your own sister (Maria, why don’t you speak ?), can not offer one word of advice to & young person, who, as might be expected, is ve ignorant of the usages of society—is, in fact, a perfect child—” ‘‘She is my wife!” said Dr. Grey, so suddenly and decisively that even Christian, who had been reading the note with a grateful heart for kindness shown for her sake, involuntarily started. My wife. He said only those two words, yet somehow they brought a tear in her eye. The sense of protection, so new and strange, was also pleasant. She could have fought her own battles—-at least she could once-—-without bringing him into them ; but when he stood there, with his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words, which implied, or ought to imply, every thing that man is to woman, and every thing that woman needs, she became no longer warlike and indignant, but humble, passive, and content. And long after Dr. Grey was gone away, with his big book under his arm, and Miss Gascoigne, in unutterable wrath and scorn, had turned from her and began talking volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the fireside, the feeling of content remained. . There was‘a long pause, during which the two children, Letitia and Arthur, who had listened with open eyes and ears to what was passing among their elders, now, forgetting it all, crept away for their usual half hour of after-breakfast play in the oriel window of the dining-room. Christian also took her work, and began thinking of other things. She neither wished to fight or be fought for, particularly in such a petty domestic war. One of the many advantages ae the many disadvantages of a girlhood almost entirely re- moved from the society of women was that it had saved her from women’s smallnesses. Besides, her nature itself was large, like her person—large, and bounteous, and sweet; it refused to take in those petty motives which disturb petty minds, Life to her was a grand romantic drama,—perhaps, alas! a tragedy—but it never could be made into a genteel comedy, with childish in- trigues, Liliputian battles, tempests in teapots, or thunders made upon kettle-drums. , Thus, concluding the tempo storm was over, and almost forgetting it at the half-hour’s end, she called cheerfully to the children to get ready for a walk with her this iny morning. Miss Gascoigne rose, her black eyes flashing: ‘‘ Children, you will not leave the house. You will walk with nobody but your own nem nurse. It was your poor mamma’s custom, and, though she is dead, her wishes shall be carried out, at least so = I am alive,” ristian stood utterly amazed.. Her intention had been so harmless ; she had thought the walk good for the children, and perhaps good for herself to have their company. She had meant to take them out with her the first a day, and | a regular series of rambles, which perhaps might win their little hearts toward her, for they still kept aloof and shy ; and now al! her pleasant plans were set aside. And there the children stood, half frightened, half amused, watching the conflict of authority between their elders. One thing was clear. There must be no bringing them into the con- test. Christian saw that, and with a strong effort of self-control she said to Miss Gascoigne, od | ; ‘‘I think, before we discuss this matter, the children had better leave the room. Go, Atty and Titia; your aunts and I will send word to the nursery by-and-by.” | The children went obediently, though Christian heard Arthur whisper to his sister something about ‘‘such a jolly row.” But there was none. Te | | Miss sarah 73 burst forth into a perfect torrent of words, directed not to Mrs..Grey, but at her, involving such insinuations, such accusations, that Christian, who had never been used to this kind of thing, stood literally astounded. — / | | j ———

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| | | _ ate, girlish grief or anger CHRISDPIAN OAKBLEY’S MISTAKE, 9 She answered not a word ; she could not trust herself to speak. | about the same things. To her, ungifted with the blessed faculty She had meant so kindly ; was so innocent of any feeling save a wish to be good and motherly to these motherless children. If she | real, and uninteresting. She h had spoken, she would have burst into tears. To save herself from this, she rose and left the parlor. It might have been weak, unworthy a woman of spirit; but Christian was, in one sense—not Miss Gascoigne’s—still a very child. And most childlike in their passionate bitterness, their keen sense of injustice, were the tears she shed in her own room, alone. For she did not go to Dr. Grey ; why should she? Her complaints could only wound him; and somehow she scorned to complain, She had not been a governess for two years without learning that authority propped up by extraneous power is nearly useless, and that, between near connections, love commanded, not won, generally results in something very like hatred. Besides, was there not some ‘rath in what the aunt said? Had she—the second wife—authority over the first Mrs, Grey’s chil- dren? Would it not be better to let them alone, for g or for evil, and trouble herself about their welfare no more? But just that minute Oliver's little feet went pattering outside the door— Oliver, who, still a nursery pet, was freer than the others, and who had already learned where to come of forenoons for biscuits to eat or toys to be mended, There was now a one-wheeled cart and & meronasete horse requiring Christian’s tenderest attention ; and as she sat down on the crimson sofa, and busied herself over them, with the little eager face creeping close to hers, and the little fat arm steadying itself round her neck, her wet eyes soon grew dry and bright, and her heart less sore, less hopeless, The small ne- cessities of the present, which make children’s company so sooth- ing, quieted her now. | Still, when she had dressed herself in the violet silk and -Honi- ton lace which Miss Gascoigne had informed her were necessary— | oh, how she had been tormented about the etiquette of this ‘‘ at home !|’’—the cloud darkened over her again. What should she of small talk, the conversation appeared somewhat frivolous, un- y knew what to say or how to say it, yet was painfully conscious that her every word and ever look were being sharply criticised, either in the character of Ed- ward Oakley’s daughter or Dr. Grey’s wife. | ‘« At least he shall not be ashamed of me,” was the thought that kept her up through both weariness and resentment, and she found herself involuntarily looking toward the door every time it opened. Would he come in? At least his presence would brin her that sense of relief and protection which she had never failec to feel from the first hour she knew Dr. Arnold Grey. He did come in, though not immediately, and passing her with a smile, which doubtless furnished the text for a whole week’s gossip in apy se 2 went over to talk to a group of ladies be- onging to Saint Bede’s. And now for the first time Christian saw what her husband was ‘in society.” Next to a bad man or a fool, of all things most detestable is ‘‘a man of society ;” a brilliant, showy person, who gathers round him a knot of listeners, to whom his one object is to exhibit him- self. But it is no small advantage for a man, even a clever or learned man, to feel and appear at home in any company ; to have a pleasant word or smile for everybody ; both to seem and to be occupied with other people instead of with himself, and with what other people are thinking about him ; in short, a frank, kindly, natural gentleman, so sure both of his position and him. self that he takes no trouble in the assertion of either, but simply devotes himself tomaking all about him as comfortable and happy as he can. And this was Dr. Arnold Grey. He talked little, and not. brilliantly, but he knew how to make other people talk. By some subtle, fine essence in his own nature, he seemed to extract the best aroma from every other ; and better than most conversation. was it to look at his kindly, earnest, listen- do or say to these strange people ?—the. worse, that they were not jing face, as, in the pauses of politeness, Christian did look more quite strangers—that she knew them by report or sight—and, alack |! from her father’s ill name, they knew her only too well. How they would talk her over and criticise her, in that small way in which women do criticise one another, and which she now, for the first time im her life, had experienced, Was it the habit of all University ladies? If so, how would she endure a whole lifetime of that trivial ceremoniousness in outside things, those small backbitings and fault-findings, such as the two aunts indulged in ? it. was worse, far worse, than poor Mrs.. Ferguson’s stream of foolish maternalities—vulgar, but warm and kindly, and never ill- natured ; and oh! ten times worse than any thing Christian had known inher girlhood, which had been forlorn indeed, but free ; when she had followed through necessity her nomadic father, who had, at any rate, left her alone, to form her own mind and charac. ter as she best could. Of man’s selfishness and badness she knew enough ; but of women’s small sillinesses, narrow formalities, and petty unkindnesses, she was utterly ignorant till now. ‘* How shall I bear them? » Let Dr. Grey be ever so good to me, still, how shall. I bear them?” She sighed, she almost sobbed, and pressed her cheek wearily against the frosty pane, for she was sitting in a window-seat on the staircase, lingering until the last possible instant before the hour when Miss Gascoigne had said she ought to be in her in the drawing-room, somebody coming, Christian rose from the window-sill, and s like a queen—or rather like what she tried to say to herself, 80 as to keep up her matronly dignity, whenever passion- eteatenell on: reak it down, ‘‘ like Dr, Grey’s wife.” iss Gascoigne stopped benignly, much to Christian’s surprise, for she did not guess what a wonderful influence clothes have in ing down ill tempers. And Miss Gascoigne was beautifull Seed nactte quoter from top to toe; and she was such a hand- some woman still, that it was quite a pleasure to look at her, as she very well knew. She had come t from her mirror, an was complacent accordingly. Also, she felt that domestic deco- rum must be preserved on the “‘ at home” day, “‘That.is a very pretty dress you have on; I suppose Dr. Grey bought it in London ?” << es.’”’ , ‘‘ My sister always chose her own dresses ; but then she paid for them too. She had a little income of her own, which is a very good thing for a wife to have.” | ee A tm thing.” ‘Indeed, Mrs. Grey, I scarcely expected you to think so,” ‘| think,” said Christian, firmly, tho h for the moment the silk gown seemed to burn her arms, and the 1 brooch and lace collar to weigh like lead on her bosom, ‘‘I that in any true marriage it does not amity one jot whether the husband or the wife has the money, we go down stairs?” There was time for the hot cheek to cool and the angry heart to be stilled a little before the visitors came, Miss Gascoigne had truly remarked that the master’s wife was ‘unaccustomed to society ””’—that society which forms the staple of all provincial towns, well well mannered, well informed. But it seemed to Christian as if ladies, though thoroughly ladylike in manner, which was very grateful to her inmate sense of refinement, all dressed after one fashion, and talked mostly d|washe. He broke his than once ; and a thrill shot through her, the consciousness, dear to every woman, of being proud of her husband. In all good hearts, love’s root is in goodness, Deeper than even love itself is that ideal sense of being satisfied—satisfied im all one’s moral nature, in the cravings of one’s soul after what seems nearest perfection. And though in many cases poor human hearts are so weak, or strong—which is it?—that we cling to imperfect- ness, and love it simply because we love it with a sort of passion- ate pity, ever hoping to have its longings realized, still this kind of love isnot the love which exalts, strengthens, glorifies.. Sooner or later it must die the death. It had no root, and it withers away ; whereas, let there be a root and ever such a small budding of leaves, sometimes merciful nature makes it grow. Christian looked at her husband many times, stealthily, when- ever he did not notice her. She liked to look at him. She liked to judge his face, not with the expression it wore toward herselt ; that she knew. well—alas ! too well; but as it was when turned toward other people, interested in them and in the ordinary duties of life, which sometimes, when absorbed in a passionate love, a man lets slip for the time. Now she saw him as he was in reality, the head of his family, the master of his college, the centre of a circle of friends ; doing his work in the world as a man ought to do it, and as a woman dearly loves to see him doit. Christian’s eyes prgntenads and a faint warmth seemed creeping into her dull, deadened heart. While she was prem thus, and: wondering if it were real, her heart suddenly stopped still. It was only at the sound of a name, repeated in idle conversa- tion by two ladies behind her. ‘Edwin Uniacke! Yes, it is quite true. My husband was speaking of it only this morning. He is Sir Edwin Uniacke now, with a large fortune besides,” ) ‘* He didn’t deserve it. If everthere was an utter scapegrace, it mother’s heart ; she died during that affair. The dean must have known all about it?” ‘* Yes, but he and the master kept it very much to themselves. My husband hates talking ; and as for Dr. Grey—” | ‘‘The dean paid me a long visit this morning; Mrs. Brereton,” suddenly interrupted Dr. Grey. ‘‘ We were congratulating our- selves on our prospects. We think there are one or two men who will do Saint Bede’s great credit next year,” ‘That is well. But my husband says it will be long before we get a man like one whom I was just speaking of—Mr. Uniacke— Edwin he is now. He has succeeded to the baronetcy. Of course you have heard of this?” ‘*T have,” briefly answered Dr. Grey. And the dean’s wife, who had all the love of ing which the dean had not, mingled with a little nettled sense of balked curios- ity, then turned to Mrs, Grey, ‘You must have heard of that young man, ‘the scandal about him ; it was only a year ago that he was . Sucha pity! He was a most clever fellow—good at every thing, And Ae

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oo — alge q — a Lae een — — eT alll. . > - Rr em en Ret le : : } : ‘ ‘4. -* tal —_ ~ ‘ _s * a eer . — 7 . gli LO OHRIS VIAN OAKLEY'’S MISTAKE. ’ So the conversation dropped—dropped as things do drop every day, under the smooth surface of society, which handles so lightly edged tools, and treads so gayly upon bomb-shells, with the fusee just taken out intime. — “T am very tired,” said Mrs. Grey, while Dr. ade was seeing the last of the visitors to their carriage. ‘I think I will go at once to my own room.” **Do so,” replied Aunt Maria. ‘‘ Indeed, it has been a very fa- tiguing day for you, and for us all. Go, and I will tell Arnold you are dressing. It only wants half an hour to dinner.” ‘*7 will be ready.” i And so she was. But for twenty out of the thirty minutes she had lain motionless on her bed, almost like a dead figure, as pas- sive and as white. Then she rose, dressed herself, and went down to the formal meal, and to the sombre, safe routine of her present existence, as it would flow on—and she prayed with all her heart it might—until she died. pee . CHAPTER V. “He stands a-sudden at the door, Or else benignly turn away, And no one hears his soundless tread, And let us live our little day And no one sees his veiled head, And tremble back into the light: Or silent hand, put forth so sure, “ But, though thus awful to our eyes, ‘To grasp and snatch from mortal sight; | He is an angel in disguise.”’ Every human being, and certainly every woman, has, among the various ideals of happiness, good to make, if never to enjoy, one special ideal—that necessity of every tender heart—Home, Christian had made hers, built her castle in Spain, and furnished and adorned it from basement to battlement, even when she was a eh of fourteen. Sitting night after night alone, listening for the ather’s footstep, and then trembling when she heard it, or hidden away up in her own bedroom, her sole refuge from the orgies that took place below, where the sound of music, exquisite music, went oF like the cry of an angel imprisoned in a den of brutes, the girl had imagined it all. And through every vicissitude, hid- den closer for its utter contrast to all the associations and experi- ence of her daily life, Christian Oakley had kept in her heart its innocent, womanly ideal of home. Now she had the reality. And what was it? pin £4 it looked very bright. Peeping into that warm, crim- son-tinted dining-room at the hour between dinner and tea, when the whole family at the Lodge were sure to be assembled there, anybody would say what a happy family it was, and what a pleas- ant picture it made. Father and mother at either end of the table; children on both sides of it; and the two elderly aunts seated com- fortably in their two arm-chairs at the fireside, one knitting—+d. «. d., sleeping, the other— No. Miss Gascoigne never slept. Doubtless she considered watchfulness her duty. Indeed, as she explained over and over in to Aunt Maria, the principal reason which made her consent to remain at the Lodge, instead of returning to her own pretty cottage at Avonside, was to overlook and guard the interests of **those poor motherless children.” Now it happened, unfortunately for Miss Gascoigne, that if Christian had one as spot in the future of her married life to which she had looked forward earnestly, longingly, it was those children—how she would take care of them; fill up her weary days with them ; love them, and be loved by them; in short, find in them the full satisfaction of her motherly heart—that heart in which she then thought there were no instincts or emotions left —- the motherly. How she yearned and craved for this, God and her own soul only knew. Yet, how she hardly knew, but so it was, none of these hopes had been fulfilled. She saw almost nothing of the children save during the one hour after dinner, when she sat silently watching them, one on each side of their father, and one on his knee, all so rar Bing her. Dr. Grey always looked ha when he was wit ttle folk. And they, their very faults faded off into sweetnesses when they came within the atmosphere of that good, loving, fatherly nature, for love makes love, and goodness creates goodness. It was a pretty picture. Christian, sitting apart, with the gulf of shining mahogany between, bridged it o with her wistful eyes, but she never said a word, She was not jealous, not in the slightest degree; but she was sad. The luxurious aimlessness of her present life was a little heavy to the once poor, active, hard-working young governess, who had never known an idle or even a reatful hou? The rest was sweet—oh, how sweet! but the idleness was difficult to bear. She had tried sometimes in the long mornings, when the master was | get the children with her, and teach them shut up in his study, to & little ; but Miss Gascoigne had replied that “my late sister” did not approve of any but paid governesses, and that it was impossi- ble the wife of the Master of St. Bede’s could go * trapesing about like a nursemaid,” taking walks with the children, ‘Their own mamma never rity. dak of doing such a thing. And this reference to her predecessor, given about Ay ng times a day, always effectually silenced Christian, though it did not silence—it could not—the cry of her heart to be of some use to somebody ; to have some young, fresh, happy creatures to love and be loved by, even though they were another woman’s children. So she sat this evening and many evenings, quiet but sad-eyed , and it was a relief when Barker entered with the tea-tray, and three or four letters for Mrs. Grey. poate 7 very odd! Who can be writing to me? I know no- y 9 | At which simple speech Miss Gascoigne looked daggers, and the minute Barker was gone, spoke them too. ‘“‘I must beg you, Mrs. Grey, if only for our sakes, to be a little more circumspect. How could you let out before Barker that you ‘knew nobody ?’” 3 ‘** Itis the truath—why should I not say it ?” was all Christian an- swered, as she opened her letters, almost the first which had come to her still unfamiliar name. ‘‘ They areall invitations. Oh dear | what shall I do?” Dr. Grey looked up at the exclamation ; he neverseemed to hear much of what passed around him except when his wife spoke, and then some slight movement often showed that, though a silent, he’ was not an unobservant man. ‘* Invitations |” cried Miss Gascoigne ; “‘ the very thing I was ex- pecting. And tothe best houses in Avonsbridge, too. Thisis the result of your At home. I feel quite pleased at having so success- fully introduced you into good society.” | ‘“‘Thank you,” said Christian, half amused, half—well, it was not worth while being annoyed at such a small thing. She only looked across at her husband to see how he felt on the matter. ‘‘] think,” said the master, with a comical twinkling in his eye, “that no society is half so good or so pleasant as our own.” Rimes looked puzzled a minute, but afterward smiled grate- y. ‘* We may decline it, then?” ‘Should you like it best?” ‘*IT should, indeed.” For, somehow, though she did not shrink from her new life—that strange, perplexing life for which her sense of duty was making her every day more strong—she did shrink from the outward shows of it. To be stared at by cold, sor Avonsbridge eyes, or pointed at as “ matt ene ” whom Dr. Grey had married—worse; perhaps, as Edward Oakley’s daugh- ter, the Edward Oakley whose failings every body knew—‘‘ Yes,” she added, quickly, ‘‘I would much rather decline.” ‘Decline | when I have taken so much trouble—bought a new dress expressly for these parties! They are bridal parties, Mrs. Grey, given for you, meant to welcome you into society. Society always does it, except when the m is one to be ashamed of.” Christian started ; the hot flush, which now twenty times a day was beginning to burn in her once pale cheek, burnt there now ; but she restrained herself, for the children sat there—Letitia, pre ternaturally sharp, and noticing everything ; Arthur, who rarely spoke éxcept to say something rude ; and also the children’s father, Christian sought his eyes ; she was convinced he had heard and understood every word. But still it had not affected him, except — to ee chet watchfulness of herself, so tender that her indignation s own. | ** Shall I wait till to-morrow beforeI write? Perhaps, Dr. Grey, after all, it would be as well for us to accept these invitations ?” “*Perhaps,” said he, and said no more. There was no need, Whether or not they loved, without doubt the husband and wife ere gn understood one another. So next , after a rief consultation with Dr, Grey, Christian sat down and wrote to those grand University ladies, who, though not an atom better than herself, would, she knew well—and smiled, half amused at the knowledge—a year have scarcely her exist- ence, that Mrs. Grey “accepted with pleasure ” their kind invita- tions, When the day came round she dressed herself, for the first time in her whole life, in proper evening costume—white silk, white lace, ornaments, and dower: Not too youthful a toilet, for she had no wish to appear young now, but still bridal—a ‘bride adorned with her jewels,” only these were but few. She was fas- tening her one opal brooch, and looking into the mirror, half sad, half wondering to see herself so fair, when Dr. bet 4 ne _ He had a jeweler’s case in his hand. Awk , even ner- vously, he fastened a cross round her neck, and put a bracelet on her arm. Both were simple enough, but, little as she knew about such things, Christian could see they were made of very magnifi- cent diamonds. | ' “Do you like them? They are for you.” “You have not bought them on purpose ?” J Boer “Oh no, that extravagance was quite beyond me; but I_ had them re-set. = belonged to my mother, and have never been worn till now. Will my wife wear them ?” iar Christian drooped her head. Great tears were her eyelids. | ‘*T am 80 oa nes ity ay foolish ; and you are so good a so unfailingly, unceasin good. to be good ; + GO in. deed. . Don't be angry with me,” oa rape ss, “ Angry? my darling!” oo Péople may write sentiment by the page, or talk it by the hour, but there is something in real love which will neither be discussed nor described. Let us draw over it the holy veil of silence : these ought to belong to two alone,” ie oOG Dr, Grey’s wife knew how he loved her. And when he quitted her to order the carriage which was to take them to the grand din- g under

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CHRISTIAN mer-party, she stood, all in her fine garments, a fair, white, bridal- like vision—stood and wept. It is.a law most absolute and inevitable that love, however great, however small, never remains quite stationary; it must either diminish or increase. When Christian awoke out of the stunned condition which had been hers both before and after her marriage, she began to awake also to the dawning consciousness of what real taarriage ought to be—the perfect, sacred union, soseldom realized or even sought for, and yet none the less the zight aim and just desire of every true.man and woman, which, when not attained, makes the life imperfect, and the marriage, if not a sin, a terrible mistake. ‘‘T have sinned! I have sinned!” was the perpetual ery of Christian’s heart, which she had thought was dead as a stone, and now discovered. to be a living, throb ing, woman’s heart,.which needed its lord, was. ready to obey him, love and serve him, nay, fall down in the very dust before him, if only he could be found |! And she knew now—knew by the agony of regret for all she had missed, that he never had been found; that the slain love over which she had mourned had been a mere fancy, not a vital human love at all, Now her husband never kissed her that she would not have given worlds to feel that. his were the only lover’s lips which had ever touched hers; he never called her by one tender name that she did not shiver to think she had ever heard it from any other man. ‘There was coming into her that sense of sacred self-appro- priation, that fierce revulsion from any intrusion on the same, which comes into any woman’s nature when beginning to love as she is beloved. Christian did not as yet; but she recognized her husband’s love, and it penetrated with a strong sweetness to her inmost soul. Mingled with it was an acute pain, a profound re- gret, a sad humility. Not hers, alas! the joyful pride, the full content, of a heart which is conscious in its sweetest depths that it gives as much as it receives. his was all. She had done nothing , nothing unworthy of either herself or Dr. Grey ; nothing but what hundreds of wo- men do every day, and neither blame themselves nor are blamed by others. She had but suffered a new footstep to enter her young life’s garden, without having had the courage to say of one little corner in it, ‘‘ Do not tread there, it is a grave,” porn & gTave; a very harmless grave now, tricked with innocent, girlish flowers, but still containing the merest handful of dust. It would never corrupt, and might even serye to fertilize that simple heart, which, out of its very.simplicity, had made for itself a passing idol out of what was essentially false and base, which would have shortly crumbled to pieces out of its own baseness, had not Fate—or Provi- dence—with kindly eruel hand forever thrown it down. Still, this ‘was a grave, and her husband did not know it was there. ~ She wept, not loudly, but quietly, till she dared not weep any more, A sudden thought made her struggle at once for composure, and try to efface every external trace of tears, ‘‘lam Dr, Grey’s wife,” she said to herself, and resolved that the grand University magnates should find out nothing in her nn- seortay of that name—nothing that could make people say, even the most ill-natured of them—and, alas! she had lately come to learn that the world is filled, not, as she thought, with only bad | said and good, but with an intermediate race, which is merely ill-natured —— ve with a sneer, that Dr. Grey’s second marriage had been “‘ a 6.” She was considering whether it would not be courteous to knock at Miss Gascoigne’s door, and ask if she too were ready, when she heard a loud outcry in the nursery above. This, alas! was no novelty. More than once Christian had rushed wildly up stairs, maa waay Brea dreadful catastrophe, but it was only the usual warfare between Phillis and the children, especially Arthur, who was no longer a baby to be petted and scolded, ora little gi to be cowed into obedience, but.a big boy to be ruled, if at all, oi et prauie-ae Mrs. Grey had more than once suspected Phillis did | ule P ‘‘I won’t | I won’t! and you sha’n’t make me?” was the fierce scream which caught her ear before she entered the nursery door. There stood Phillis, her face red with passion, ing Arthur ith one hand, and beating him with the other, while the boy, holding on to her with the tenacity of a young bulldog, was, with all the might of his little fists, returning blow for blow—in short, a regular stand-up fight, in which the two faces, elder and younger, woman and child, were alike in obstinacy and fury. _No wonder at Titia’s sullenness or Atty’s storms of rage. The children only learned what they were taught. ‘“‘ Phillis, what is the matter ?..What has the boy done amiss ?” Phillis turned round with the defiant look which she assumed every time Mrs. Grey entered the nursery, only a little harder, a little fiercer, with the black brows bent, and the under-hung mouth almost savage in its expression, “ “What has he done,ma’am? He has disobeyed me, I'll teach you to do it again, you little villain you 1” “Phillis 1” of ark? gud pores beter had Phillis’s ripe: nang accresned. cig in set tone ; if e her pause a second, a -her blows fell with re- doubled strength on the shrinking shoulders, even on the head, of the frantic, furious boy. | OA KLHY 75 - Christian, wasted no words ; it was not. her habit. She merely, MisSs'TAIK EK. Ll with her firm, strong hand, wrenched the victim out of the op- pressor’s grasp. ‘* Arthur, goto myroom. I will hear what you have done amiss. Phillis, remember, henceforward no children in my house shall be struck or punished except by their father or myself.” Clear and determined rang out the mistress’s voice—mother and mistress—in this, her first assertion of both her rights. Phillis drew back astonished, and then recovering herself, darted after the retreating boy, - But it was too late; he had already gained the staircase, It was steep, dark, twisted, very unsafe for children ; still, in his fear, Arthur plunged down it. In a minute there was heard a ery anda heavy fall. | Fierce-tempered woman as she was, Phillis had a heaft. She rushed down after the child, but he turned sereaming from her, and it was his step-mother who lifted him up and carried him into her own room. Christian, young as she was, had had necessarily much experi- ence with children. She soothed the boy, and felt that no limbs were broken ; indeed, he complained of nothing, but he turned whiter and whiter, and shrank from the slightest touch. ‘Something is certainly wréng with him. We must send for the doctor, Whom do you have ordinarily?” The question was put to Phillis, who, her fury all gone, stood behind the sofa almost as pale as the poor child. She answered humbly, and named Dr. Anstruther, whom Christian well knew by report ; an old man, who for forty years had been the deposi- tory of the sicknesses and the sorrows of half Avonsbridge. “Go, then, tell your master I think Barker ought to be sent for him at once ; and say to Dr. Grey—only don’t frighten him, for it may be a mere trifle after all—that I am afraid he will have to dine out without me to-day. Go quick, Phillis; there is no time to lose.” For the little face was sinking back paler and paler, and there was an occasional faint moan. Almost for the first time since her entrance into the Grey family, Phillis, against her will, actually obeyed orders and slipped away ; so hastily that she stumbled over Letitia, and gave her a x on the ear; however, the little girl did not cry, but gathered her- self up, as if quite used to such treatment, and crept over to the sofa. “Will Atty die, do you think?” she whispered in much curi- osity—only curiosity ; there was not a tear in hereyes. ‘‘ Because then he would never thump me any more.” Christian’s very soul recoiled, and then melted into the qepest pity. What sort of bringing up could it have been which re- sulted in feelings like these? She took no notice of what was said, but merely desired the little girl to bring pillows and a footstool, so that she could hold Arthur as easily as possible till the doctor came, And then she bade her take off the diamond bracelets and the hanging lace, and told her where to put all this finery away, which tia accom . plished with aptitude and neatness. ‘‘There, that will do. Thank yon, og Fic You are a tidy little girl. Will you come and give me a kiss.” | Letitia obeyed, though with some hesitation, and then came and stood by her step-mother, watching her intently. At last she «You are SreR Eng your pretty white silk dress. Won't that vex you very much? ‘‘ Not very much—if it can not be helped.” “That is odd. I thought you liked fine clothes, and married papa that he might give you them ; Phillis said so,” ‘Phillis was mistaken.” More than that Christian did not answer; indeed, she hardly took in what the child said, being fully engrossed with her charge. Letitia See Ag eiR- *‘ Are you really sorry for Atty? Aunt Henrietta said you did not care for any of us,” “‘Not care for any of you!” And almost as if it were a real mother’s heart, Christian felt hers yearn over the poor pale face, wing every minute more ghastly. ‘‘] wonder where papa can be! Letitia, go and look for him. Tell him to send Barker for the doctor at once.” And then she gave her whole attention to Arthur, ere g every thing except that she had taken upon herself toward these children all the duties and anxieties of motherhood. How many —perhaps none—would she ever win of its joys? But to women like her duty alone constitutes happiness, _ She felt happier than she had done for yery, very long, when at last Arthur lay,soothed and quieted in her arms, which clasped round him close and warm, as finding in him something to com- fort, something to love, She had almost lost sight of danger and fear, when, the door opened and. Phillis entered, Dr. Grey follow- we Christian’s first look at the latter, she found out one thing— which hardly s0 much lessened her reverence as converted it into a strange tenderness—that her husband was one of the many men pp Ta enough morally, ae aed bp sa ag at sigh: of. sical suffe . , Completely , trem all. over, Dr. Grey knelt by his bo vide rr 3 +m tn ‘‘ What must we do, Christian? What must wedo?” ~ She knew at. once that whatever. was done phe paar do it; but before she had timé to say a word there appeared Miss Gascoigne

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— adn ~ CO ee ee ee ee ee ee ade a. eel +6 } « a ‘ en i - _—— = - ee ee ed oe Fy ‘ a , ; 1, 2 =>) —ae.. I Nt Ta ee De. BS — ~ wat . ’ clung > a a = Ee ee ee, ee ge Ee ee a — es. — ail — . _mcuelly ecet Clin, Mest ~~ - - — .. 2 — ~~ ——— - — — ~ ” ’ . 7S bs ® 5 ° me 12 CHRISTIAN OAKLE Y’S MISTAKE, * ‘What is wrong? Why is the doctor sent for? That child hurt? Nonsense! Hurtseriously with just a mere slip down a few stairs! I will never believe it. It is just making a fuss about nothing. Dr. Grey, we must go to the dinner-party, or what would people say? Phillis, take Arthur from Mrs. Grey and carry him up to the nursery.” But Arthur screamed, and clung with all his might to his step- mother’s neck. “He is hurt,” said Christian firmly, ‘‘ and I can not have him moved, Hush, Atty! you grieve papa. Be quiet, and nobody shall touch you but papa and me.” ark ga ey ~ mute—then again ordered Phillis to take the child, “‘T won’t go! She will beat me . Please, please ;” and he in to his step-mother. ‘‘I’ll be good—l’ll be so good, if you will only take care of me.”’, ‘«T will,” said Christian, And the desperate instinct of protec- tion, which some women have toward all helpless things, gleamed in her eyes as she added, ‘“‘ Miss Gascoigne, you must leave this child tome. I know what todo with him, Shall it beso, Dr. Grey?’ ‘“* Certainly.” With one furious glance at her brother-in-law, Miss Gascoigne turned and walked out of the room. But there was no time to heed her, for that instant, bubbling over the boy’s white lips, Christian saw a red drop or two; they made her own heart stand still. It had so happened that during her stay with the Fergusons one of the little boys had broken his collar-bone; a slight acci- dent in itself, had not the bone pierced the lung, causing a — and severe illness. Quick as lightning Christian recollected al that had not been done, and all that the doctor said they ought to have done,-in the case of little Jamie. It was useless speaking out what she feared ; indeed, one look at Dr. Grey’s terrified face showed her it was impossible; so she merely laid Arthur down Mog gently from her arms, persuaded him to let her place him on = back along the sofa, and wiped the few drops from his mouth, ‘‘Do not be frightened, papa”—and she made an effort at a smile—‘‘ as I said, I think I know what is amiss with him. Iam used to children. The doctor will be here soon. Suppose you were to go down stairs and see if he is coming.” Dr, Grey obeyed mechanically. When he came back he found Letitia and the nurse sent away. © Christian hardly knew how she managed it, but she did do it, for it was necessary ; Arthur must be kept quiet. She was now sitting in the silent, half-dark room, with the boy lying quite still and patient now, his little hot hand clinging fast tohers. «© |” . It was an inexpressible relief to Christian, when, after his first glance at the patient, Dr. Anstruther said, in his quick, firm, cheery way, oh i _.“ Now, Dr. Grey, we'll soon put your little man right. But we only want women here, The best thing you can do is to walk out of the room. This young lady?” ‘ “Mrs, Grey—Dr. Anstruther.” | ‘Tl see—I beg your pardon, madam ;” and his keen eyes took in at, a.glance the graceful figure, the brilliant. evening dress, “I was to have met you to-day at dinner at the vice-chancellor’s, but this prevented you, I suppose?” | “Yes,” said Christian ; and then, in a few whispered words, ‘told about the accident, and her suspicions of what it was. The freemasonry of trust which springs up instantaneously between any honest doctor and sensible nurse made them friends in five ‘minutes, Mrs. Grey’s fears had been only too true. Many weeks of ill- ness and of anxious nursing lay before her and her poor boy, After all had been done that could be done, Dr. Grey was recall and the facts explained to him; though Dr. Anstruther, who ‘seemed to understand him well, dwelt as lightly oe them as w geome: consistent with that strict truth which was always spoken y the good doctor, Still, it was enough. When Dr. Anstruther was gone, Dr. Grey came and stood by the sofa, in great. distress. . Iness of weeks—delicate for months—and perhaps weak- ly for life. Oh, m yr boy !” ‘‘Hush !” said ¢ an; ‘*the child might hear. Go, and sit down for a minute, and I will come to you.” — She came, and, leaning over him, laid her hand tenderly on her -husband’s shoulder. She could do no more, eventhough he was her husband. She felt helpless to comfort him, for the key which unlocks all consolation was in her heart not yet found. Only there came over her, with a solemn presentiment which had its sweetness still, the conviction that whatever happiness her lot might have missed, its duties were very plain, very sure. All her life she would have, more or less, to care of, not only these her children | She stood two firm ones, till she h oc | ‘‘T must leave you now. You will go to ; and oh, do try to aleep. Poor pope ‘tig | And you?” . ‘«T shall sit up, of course, Never mind me ; I have done it many | gi a time.” — ° a all _ on ol 4 p_Pees — a. he stood behind her and watched all she di takes the opportunity to arrange your : ; 2 hulpful ‘* Will you have nobody with you?” “No. It would disturb Arthur. Hush! there is no time for speaking. This once you must let me have my way. Good-night,, a : But for all that, in the dead of the night, she heard the study- door open, and saw Dr. Grey come stealing into where she sat watching—as she was to watch for many a weary day and night— beside his boy’s pillow. He saw her likewise—a figure, the like of which, husband and father as he had been, he had never seen be- fore. No household experience of his had ever yet shown him a woman in that light—the dearest light in which any man can behold her. A Nah quite different from the stately lady in white splendors of six hours before, sitting, dressed in a sober, soundless, dark-col- ored gown, motionless by the dim lamplight, but with the soft eyes open and watchful, and the tender hands‘ever ready for those end- less wants of sickness at night, especially sickness that may be tending unto death, or unto the awful struggle between life and death, which most women have at some time of their lives to keep ward over till danger has gone by—just the sort of figure, in short, that every man is sure to need beside him, once or more, in his journey between the cradle and the grave. Happy he over whose cradle it has bent, and who, nearing the grave, shall have such a one upon whose bosom he may close his weary. eyes. When Christian saw her husband, she stirred, and put up a fin- per for silence. Dr. Grey crossed the room, trying hard to make is step light and noiseless, but piteously failing in the attempt. Still Arthur was not disturbed. ‘He sleeps sound, Christian. Does he suffer very much, do you think ?” “ Not now.” ‘* Will he ever recover?” | “T hope so. Oh, please God, I'trust so! Dr, Anstruther said there was no reason why he should not.” “ And you—you think so too?” with a touching appeal. ‘Yes, I do think so.” Dr. Grey seemed relieved. In a kind of helpless, childlike way, d. for the child, who waked thirsty, and cried and moaned, but by-and-by was soothed to sleep again, His father shuddered as he gazed upon him. ‘He looks as if he were dead—my poor boy “You must not look at him, You must go to bed,” said Chris- tian, with a gentle authority. — | ‘Presently, And you—are you not afraid to sit up herealone?” “Oh no.” ; ‘You never seem to be afraid of any thing.” “Not of much—I have gone through such a deal,” said Christian, with a faint smile. ‘But, papa, indeed you must go to bed.” Nevertheless they stood a little longer looking down upon Arthur, whose breathing grew softer into natural sleep. Then, with a mutual impulse eye by the unity of a common grief, the husband and wife turned and kissed one another, | “God bles# you, my darling, my poor children’s mother—the first they ever—" — | He stopped, and never finished the sentence. \” | -_—_- -»> --- -- CHAPTER VL ) “ Love that asketh love again, “Love, exacting nothing back, — Ron aveth = “ oe pain ; | —— mon ry inek ; ye that givet ull store, compelling 10" Aye receives as much, and more. Bees him bankrupt every day LrF# in the sick-room—most of us know what that is ; how the ed, | whole world narrows itself within four walls, and every fanciful grief and morbid imagining slips off, pressed down into nothing- ness by the weight daily, hourly cares, and commonplace, yet all-engrossing realities. | Christian was a born nurse—and nurses, like poets, are born, not made, You may recognize the faculty in the little girl of ten years old, as she steals into your room to Weing you your breakfast, and ow, and te your drawers in order, and do any other little office which you omy need ; and you miss it painfully in the matron of sixty, who, with per- haps the kindest intentions, comes to nurse you, taking for granted that she is the best n you could possibly have about you ; and yet you would be thankful to shut the door upon her, and struggle, suffer, die alone, | oat At last it became a question almost of life and death, for the fever ran high; and even Dr. Anstruther n to look exceedingly grave. The child must be kept quiet, and how to do it? | She consulted with Dr. Anstruther, and left him to things to whosoever he would; then locked the door, and for eight days and nights suffered no one to cross the threshold of Arthur’s room except the doctor. It was a daring expedient, but the desperation of the time, and Dr. Anstruther’s consent and co-operation, gave her courage; she was neither timid nor ignorant ; she knew exactly what to do, and she believed, if it were God’s will to save Arthur's life, He would eet | “My boy’s life—only his life |” she prayed, more earnestly than A TT

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eet Rs —— CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE. 13 she had ever prayed in her life before, and then prepared for the long solitary vigil, of which it was impossible to foresee the end. In its terrible suspense she forgot every thing except the present ; day by day, and hour by hour, as they slipped , eae t along. She ceased to think of herself at all, scarcely even of her Hens | ; her mind was wholly engrossed by her poor sick boy. Hers, though hitherto she had never loved him; for he was not lovable at all, that rough, selfish, headstrong Arthur, the lague -of his aunts, and the terror of the nursery, But now, ‘shen bh ay on his sick-bed, lingering on from day to day, in total dependence on her care, with a heavy future belies him, poor child |—for he seemed seriously injured—there came into his step-mother’s weak, womanly heart a woman's passionate tenderness over all helpless ey She did to him not only her duty, but something more. She learned to love him. Had any one told her a while ago that she should stand for hours watching every change in that pale face, whose common, wince f features grew spiritualized with sickness, till she often ‘trembled on their unearthly sweetness ; that twenty times in the night she would start up from her uncemfortable sofa-bed, listening for the slightest sound ; that the sight of Arthur eating his dinner (often prepared by her own hands, for the servants of the Lodge were strangely neglectful), or of Arthur trying to play a game at draughts, and faintly smiling over it, should cause her a perfect ecstasy of delight, Christi an would have replied ‘Impossible !” But heaven sometimes converts our impossibles and inevitables into the very best blessings we have—most right, most natural, and most dear. As to Christian herself, she was, even externally, greatly changed. Pale as she looked, and no wonder, there was ight in her eye and a firmness in her step very different from those of the weary- looking woman who used to roam listlessly about the gloomy galleries, or sit silently where in the equally gloomy drawing- room with Miss Gascoigne and Miss Grey. Poor Aunt Maria, in her regular daily visit—she dared venture no more—to the sick-room door, would sometimes say hesitatingly, ** My dear, how well you look still? You are sure you are not breaking down?” And Christian, grateful for the only kindly woman’s face she ever saw near her, would respond with a smile —sometimes with a kiss, which always alarmed Aunt Maria ex- ceedingly. | As for Aunt Henrietta, she never came at all. Since the even- ing when she had marched out of the room in high dudgeon, she had taken not the smallest notice of the sick boy. life or death was apparently of far less moment to her than her own of- fended dignity. Had he been left in her sole charge, she would doubtless have done her duty to him; but to stand by and see another doing it? No! a thousand times no! That part, insig- nificant in itself, and yet often one of the very sweetest and most useful in life’s harmonies, familiarly called ‘‘ second fiddle,” was a part impossible to be played by Miss Gascoigne. Concerning Arthur himself, the matter was simple enough now. All his fractiousness, restlessness, and innumerable wants were easy to put up with; she loved the child. And he, who (except from his father) had never known any love before, took it with a “wondering complacency, half funny, half pathetic. _ Sometimes he would say, looking at her wistfully, ‘‘ Oh, it’s so nice to be ill!” And once, the first time she untied his right arm, and allowed it to move freely, he slipped it round her neck, whispering, ‘‘ You are very good to me, mother.” Christian crept away. She dared not clasp him or cry over him, he was so weak still; but she stole aside into the oriel window, her heart full almost to bursting. After that he always called her “ mother.” The other two children she scarcely ever saw. The need for ‘keeping Arthur quiet was so vital, that of course they were not admitted to his room, and she herself rarely left it. Dim and far way seemed all the world, and especially her own poor life, whether happy or miserable, compared with that frail existence, which hung almost upon a thread. yen that little Arthur might, At last the medical opinion was g with great care and incessant watching (“‘ which it is plain he will have, Mrs. Grey,” added the old doctor, bowing ahd smiling), grow up to be a man yet. When Dr. Anstruther said this, Christian felt as if the whole world had brightened. She had no one to tell her joy to, for Dr. Grey was out, but she stood in her familiar retreat at the window—oh, what that window could have revealed of the last five weeks |—and her tears, long ried up, poured down like summer rain. And then Dr. Grey came in, very much agitated; he had met the doctor in the street, and been told the glad tidings. She had to compel herself into sudden quietness, for her husband’s sake, which, indeed, was a lesson now daily being learned, and growing every day sweeter in the ] are | sd ian,” he said, when they had talked it all over, and set- tled when and where Arthur was first to go out of doors, with various other matter-of-fact things which she thought would soonest calm the father’s emotion—“ Christian, Dr. ruther tells me my boy could not have lived but for you and your care. I shall ever remember this—ever feel grateful.” A pang, the full meaning of which she then did not in the least understand, shot through Christian’s heart. ‘ You should not feel grateful to his mother.’ ‘* Do you mean, really, that you love him like—like a mother?” **Of course I do.” Dr. Grey said nothing more, but his wife felt him put his arm around her. She leaned her head against him; and, though she still wept—for the tears, once unsealed, seemed painfully quick to rise—still she was contented and at rest. Worn and weary a lit- tle, now the suspense was over the reaction came, but very f ful. _Unconsciously there ran through her mind one of the foolish bits of poetry she had been fond of when a girl : “In the unruffied shelter of thy love, My bark leaped homeward from a stormy sea, furied its sails, and, like a nested dove—” ‘*Mother!” called out Arthur’s feeble, fretful voice, and in a minute the poetry had all gone out of her head, and she was by her boy’s side, feeding him, jesting with him, and planning how the first day of his convalescence should be celebrated by a grand festival, inviting the. two others to tea in his room. It was her own room, from which he had never been moved since the first night. How familiar had grown the crimson sofa, the tall mirror, the carved oaken wardrobe! The bride had regarded these splen- dors with a wondering, half-uneasy gratitude; but now, to Ar- ere nurse and ‘‘ mother,” they looked pleasant, home-like, and ear. “We will pull the sofa to the fire. Help, papa, please, and place the little table before it. And we will send written invita- tions, which papa shall deliver, with a man’s knock, at the nursery door. e won’t send him one, | think?” ** Very well,” said Dr. Grey, with a t pretense of wrath ; ‘‘then papa will have to invite himself, like the wicked old fairy at Ries Glasped: Wis hasibd Lael” peonteding” sad: Sail ur cla ands, which p ing was tly stopped b Christian. ‘‘It was the Sleeping Beauty, which you don’t know one bit about, and I do, and ever so many more ales, She used to tell me them in the middle of the ht, when I couldn’t sleep, and they were so nice and so funny? She shall tell you some after tea. And we’ll make her sing too. Papa, did you ever hear her sing?” ** No,” said Dr. Grey. **Oh, but I have. ell sing for me,” returned Arthur, proudly. **She said she would, though she had meant never to sing again.” Christian blushed violently, for the boy, in his unconscious way, had referred to a little episode of his illness, when, havi exhausted all efforts to soothe him into drowsiness, she had tri her voice, silent for many months—silent since before she had known Dr. Grey. She had wished it so—wished to bury all relics of that time of her youth deep down, so that no chance hand could ever dig them up again. ‘‘Do you really sing?” asked Dr. Grey, a little surprised, and turning full upon her those grave, gentle, tender eyes. She blushed more painfully than ever, but she answered steadi- ly, “* Yes, I was supposed to have a very fine voice. My father wished it cultivated for the stage. It might have been so if things had been different.” ‘* Would you have liked it?—the stage, I mean,” ‘Oh no, no!” witha visible, unmistakable shudder. ‘‘I would have resisted to the last. I hated it.” ** Was that why you left off singing ?” | It would have been so to tell a lie—a little harmless white lie ; but Christian could not doit. She could keep silence to any extent, but falsehood was impossible to her. She dropped her eyes ; but the color once more overspread her whole face as she answered, distinctly and decisively, ‘* No.” It surprised her somewhat afterward, not then—her heart was beating too violently for her to notice ee much—that her husband asked her no farther question, but immediately turned the conversation to Arthur’s tea-party, in the discussion of which Pe Bi sO to amuse the et that the other subject P —nat y; it appear ed ; anyhow, © y: But when the two other children came in to see Arthur, he — recurred to her singing, which had evidently taken a strong hold upon his imagination. | “ Papa, you must hear her. Mother, sing the song with prett little twiddle-twiddles in it—far prettier than Aunt H ~ t moething about ‘ warbling in her breath !’” ‘Oh no, not that,” said Christian, s involnntarily. What from? Was it from a ghostly vision of the time she sung it—that is, rly, to a piano-forte accompaniment, played by trembling ; fi that afterward caught hold of been a li comment on the song? It was that exquisite one from Handel’s ‘‘ Acis and Galatea ROR a Mle eee to a Probably never was there a melody which more perfectly illus- trated that sort of love, the idealization of fanc f , with just a glimmer of real passion quivering through it—the t cast in advance by the yet unrisen day. ‘* Not that , Arthur. It is rather difficult ; besides, paps might not care to hear it.” be ‘‘Papa might if he were tried,” said Dr. Grey, smiling. “Wh not do to please me what you do to please the children?

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14 So Christian sang at once—ay, and that very song. She faced it. She determined she would, with all the ghosts of the past that hovered round it. And soon she found how, thus f , 8 says that other lovely song of Handel’s, which she had learned at the same time : | “The wandering shadows, ear, pale, All troop to their infernal a7 ; Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave.” Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the past. She had begun her song feebly and uncertainly ; but when she really heard the sound of her own voice echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of melody that the old walls had not known for cen- turies, there came upon her an intoxication of enjoyment. It was that pure enjoyment which all true artists—be they singers, paint- érs, poets—understand, and they only—the delight in mere crea- tion, quite distinct from any sympathy or admiration of others ; and oh | how far removed from any mean vanity or love of praise. Christian was happy—happy as a lark in the air, just to hear— and make—the sound of her own singing. Her face brightened ; her figure, as she stood leaning against the mantel-piece, assumed a new grace and dignity. She was beautiful—absolutely beauti- ful ; and her husband saw it. Was it fancy, if, glancing at her, Dr. Grey half sighed? Only for a moment ; then he said cheerily : ** Arthur was right. Children, tell your mother she is the. best singer we ever heard in our lives.” | ‘That she is | She sings just like a bird in a tree. And then, you sée; papa, she is our own bird.” Christian came down from the clouds at once, and laughed heartily at the idea of being Arthur’s ‘* own bird.” ‘““"Titia,” said Dr. Grey, with sudden energy, as if the thought had been brewing in his mind for many minutés, “is there not a piano in the drawing-room? There used to be.” ‘‘ Yes, and I practice upon it two hours every day,” answered Letitia, with dignity. ‘‘ But afterward Aunt Henrietta locks it up and takes the key. She says it is poor mamma’s piano, and nobody is to play upon it- but me,’ “ean As the child said this in a tone so like Aunt Henrietta’s, her father looked—as Christian had only seen him look once or twice before, and thought that there might be circumstances under which any body displeasing him would be considerably afraid of Dr. Arnold Grey. “Did you know of this, Christian?” “«’Yes;” she answered, very softly, with a glance, half. warning, half entreating, round upon the children, ‘“ But we will not say any thing about it; I never did, and I had rather not do so now.” ‘“‘T understand, We will speak of it another time.” But he did not, neither that night, nor for several days; and Christian felt only too thankfulfor his silence. ‘Sometimes, wiicn, after ringing at intervals of five minutes for some trifling things, Barker had sent up ‘‘ Miss Gascoigne’s eompli- ments, and the servants couldn’t be spared to wait up stairs,” or the cook had apologized for. deficiencies in Arthur’s dinner by “Migs Gascoigne wanted it for lunch ;” and especially when, to her various messages to the nursery, no.answer was ever returned ~-sometimes it had occurred to Christian — entle as she was, and too filly engrossed to notice small things—that this was not ex- actly the position Dr. Grey’s wife ought to hold in his—and her— own house, §till she said nothing. She trusted to time and ieee And she had such a dread of domestic war—of a family ivided against itself. Besides, some.changée must come, for in a day or two she would Bate to resume her ordinary duties, ‘to take her place at the head of her husband’s table, and once more endure the long mornings, the weary evenings, to meet and over the sharp speeches, Re anloving looks, which made Re continual never heard atmosphere of the Lodge ri ‘‘Lcould almost say with Arthur, ‘It ig so nice to be ill !*”” ing carried in Phillis’s strong arms—which he MA] ah to hola : ants. acuta Fen ee There they sat. waiting, Aun Matis: fond and toarful, Aunt well set and lay pa other’s hand—the cause of her sey ay came out. autiful ; and | smiled at it wit ,.as if he had done o—without consulting me! I ey uy it: but, now is bought, I hope she will like it. Try it, Christian,” “Oh!” she thought to herself, glancing round upon those four West a the ick ohatibae wih fad soe with Aueh of anxiety, a “also of love that never fi i | A patience that knew no en __ He seemed to t the same; for on the day he left it he grum- bled dreadfully at being ce: ‘ ) resisted at first—-to the drawing-room, where he was : second Vea Pery 0 a og | Henrietta grim and severe, And shortly—nay, before Arthur was hail on the sofa, and lay pale and silent, still ¢linging to “De Grey, what have you been doing? Buying a new piano?” __Yes, there it was, a : | . Grey stood and h an almost childish delight something exceedingly clever, which he certainly had of such a thing. Mrs, Grey, this is your foie = a: “She never saw it before, or knew I meant to. 148 b | @ was deeply touched, so much so that she almost felt sorry for Aunt Henrietta, She would have given much to bring a little brightness, a little kindness, into that worn, restless, unhappy face, true reflection of the nature which itself created its own un- | | happiness, as well as that of all conn with it. She said, al- most humbly : | >. *. ’ ; PASS Pg ~ , ; "— : a — . . iq . a. r — a he 2, a nll a se - - CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. **You are yery good! I never had a piano of my own before, And I hope Miss Gascoigne will enjoy it as much as I shall my- self.” The soft answer—never wasted upon fiercest wrath—threw a little oil wpon Miss Gascoigne’s, She spoke no more, but she resolutely turned her back upon the offending instrument. Chris- tian struck a few chords, just to please her husband, and came away. It was an uncomfortable tea-party—not nearly so merry as Ar- thur’s first. After it the boy wearily curled up on the «fa to sleep, and his father glanced round in search of his best friend— the big book. ; ‘Stop a minute, Dr. Grey ; before you retire to your study, as you always seem todo whenever all your family happen to be met sociably together, I have to ask you about that invitation to St. Mary’s Lodge which came this morning.” Dr. Grey paused, and listened to a long explanation, ending in the decision (to which Christian passively submitted, for what must be done. had best be done quickly) that he and his bride should make their long-delayed public may ing irate in Avonsbridge society at an evening party shortly to be given by the Master of St. Mary’s. | “It is a musical party,” explained Miss Gascoigne, when, Dr. Grey having quitted the Christian, for want,of something to converse about, began to make a few polite inquiries concerning it. ‘* So you have got your piano just in time, and may practice all to be ready for your performance. Of course you will to perform, since every body. knows about your father and his musical genius. By-the-by, I met lately a gentleman who said he knew Mr. Oakley and was exceedingly surprised—at which [ must confess I scarcely wondered—when he heard who it was. that my brother-in-law had married.” ‘Oh, Henrietta!” pleaded poor Aunt Maria, with her most troubled look. But it was too late. Even Christian—quiet as her temper was, and strong her resolution to keep peace, at any price which cost nobody any thing excepting herself—was roused at tna ‘‘ Miss Gascoigne,” she said, and her eyes blazed and her whole figure dilated, ‘‘ when your brother married me, he did it of his own free choice. He loved me. (Whatever I was, he loved me. And whatever I may be now, I at least: know his dignity and my own too well to submit to be spoken to, or spoken of, in this man- ner. It is not of the slightest moment to me who among your ac- quaintances criticises myself or my marriage, only I beg to be spared the information afterward. For my father ”—she gulped down a great agony, a sorrow darker than that of death—‘ he was my father. You had better be silent concerning him.” Miss Gascoigne was silent—for a few minutes. Perhaps she was a little storticd, almost frightened—many a torturer is a great. coward—hby the sight of that white fnec, its every feature trem- bling with righteous indignation ; or, erhat is some touch of na- ture in the hard woman’s heart pleade ainst this unwomanly ersecution of one who had never injured her. But she could not hold her peace for long. : | | | _ * There is no need to be violent, Mrs. Grey. It would be a sad thing, indeed, Maria, if your brother had married a violent-tem- pered woman,” Se a “Tam not that, Why do, you make me seem so?” said Chris- tian, still trembling. And then, her courage breaking down under a cruel sense of wrong, ‘‘ Why can not you see that Tam weak and worn out, longing for a little peace, and I cannot get it? I never did you any harm—it is not my fault that- you hate me. Wet will you hunt me down and wear my life out, while I bear it alone, and have never told my husband one single word? It is: cruel of you-—cruel,” | ‘car er eee | * She sobbed, till Arthur’s sudden WARING up—he had been fast asleep on the sofa, or she might not have given way so much— compelled her'to restrain herself. = sti‘ ts aoe Miss Gascoline was moved st least us inuch ag Wes in her net | tobe. She hastily, There ie —we will say no more about it ;” took up her work, and btisied herself therewith, For Aunt Maria, she did as she had been doing Ebsoughous the contest—the only thing Aunt Maria ever had strength to do—she rem ‘neutral an passive—cried and knitted—knitted and cried, | » fa ns - -. tie fois , | ail of | , So sat together these three women—all good wome ae their way, who meant well, and might haye lived to be a comfort to one another. Yet, as it was, they only seemed to live for one another's: mutual annoyance, irritation, and pain, Pg be asked a ome gare lege ive er St as i and the aL of resistance into. which Christian 1 n goaded apparenth : the family atmosphere for a few days, But she herself elt 6 a dead weight—a heavy chill—whic lay on her heart long aft the storm was spent. _— . Sa Toa Pre ee For the voanitlenth™ and his rude reat A indeed he had made it, which she more than doubted, aware how Miss Gascoigne, like all people who can only see tl from the stand-point of their own individuality, was somewhat given to ex on— Christian heeded him not, The world might talk as it chose; she knew her husband loved her, and that he had married her for ove. __ And her boy loved her too, and needed her sorely, as he would need for many along day yet. It would take a whole year, Dr.

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CHRISTIAN Anstruther said, before the injury tothe lung was quite recovered, and all fear of Arthur’s falling into confirmed ill health removed. Thus duties sweet as strong kept continually weaving themselves about her once forlorn life; binding hgr fast, it is true, but in such pleasant bonds that she never wis them broken. Every day she grew safer and happier; and every day, as she looked on Dr, Grey’s kind, good face, which familiarity was making almost beautiful, she felt thankful that—whether she loved it or only liked it—she should have it beside her all her days, i ed CHAPTER VIL “* And do the hours slip fast or slow, *Life counts not hours by joys or pangs, And are ye sad or gay ? But just by duties done. And is your heart with your liege lor ; “*And when I lie in the green kirk- Or is it far away?’ With the mould upon my breast, , not that “She did well or ill,” “ The lady raised her calm, proud head, nly, ** She did her best,’”’’”’ Though her tears fell one by one: A DAY or two after this, Christian, returning from her daily walk; which Was now brief enough, and never beyond the. college precincts, met a e face at the Lodge door—that.is, a face not exactly strange ; she seemed to have seen it before, but could not recollect. how: or where. Then she recalled it as that of a young daily governess, her predecessor at the Fergusons’, who had left them ‘“‘ to better herself,” as she said—and decidedly to the bettering of her pupils. Miss Susan Bennett—as Christian had; soon discovered, both pupils and parents being very loquacious on the subject—was one of those governesses whom one meets in hopeless numbers among iAdle-alane famili irls, daughters of clerks or petty shop- keepers, above domestic service, and ashamed or afraid of an other occupation, which, indeed, is only too difficult to be found, whereby half-educated or not particularly clever young women may earn their bread. They therefore take to teaching as ‘‘ gen- toe,” and as being rather an elevation than not from the class in which they were born. Obliged; to work, though they would robably rather be idle, they consider governessing the easiest dof work, and use it only as a means to an end; which, if they have pretty faces and tolerable manners, is—human nature being weak, and life only too hard, poor girls !—most probably matrimony. | But governesses, pursuing their calling on this principle, are the dead-weight which drags down their whole class. Half educated, lazy, unconscientious, with neither the working faculty of a com- mon servant, nor the tastes and feelings of a lady, they do harm wherever they go; they neither win respect nor deserve it; and the best thing that could befall them would be to bé swept down, by hundreds, a step lower in the scale of society—made to use their hands ins of their heads, or, at any rate, to learn them- selyes instead of attempting to teach others. Christian—who, though. chiefly self-taught, except in music, was.a, well-educated woman, and a most conscientious teacher—had been caused a world of trouble in undoing had done ; and inthe few times that the little Furgusons had met retty face loo orts of her own lady been calling here?” she asked of Phillis, whom > met inging in Olive from. his afternoon walk, apy 1” repeated Phillis, scornfully, ‘‘she’s only the gover- ness |” | fs . rw ‘é 1” , The gove | OW. 10% 3a “Lor! didn’t you know it, ma’am? And. she coming to Miss Letitia every for this week past!” and Phillis gleamed all over with malicious satisfaction that her mistress did not know it, and might. ally feel annoyed and offended thereat. ts. Grey certainly was, but she was not readily of- , Her feeling was more that of extreme vexation at the in- troduction here of the very last. person whom she would desire to see Letitia’s governess, and a v wonder as to how much Dr. : knew about. the matter. .Of course, engrossed as she was with the ohare of Arthur, it was quite possible that, to save her trouble, he and his es might have arranged it: all. Only she wished she had been told—merely told about it.» | _ Any little pain, however, died out when, on entering the draw- fng-F0m, she caught. the warm delight of Arthur’s eyes, turnin er eagerly as if she had bees absent from him a week inated of half an hour, away | ‘Oh, mother, I am so tired! Here have I been lying on this sofa, and Titia and somebody else—a great, big, red-cheeked wo- man—Titia says she isn’t a lady, and I must not call her so—have been strum-strumming on your pretty piano, and laughing and OAKLEAY'S MISTAKE, do it. And you were so much occupied with Arthur. 1S whispering between whiles. They bother me so. Please don’t let them come again.” ‘“‘ But she must come and practice here, Arthur. She is Miss Bennett—Titia’s governess.” “‘Govyerness—a nice governess! Why, she hardly teaches her abit. They were chattering the whole time ; and [ heard them plan to meet in Walnut-tree Court at five o’clock every evening, and go a walk with a gentleman—a kind gentleman, who would give Titia as many sweet things as ever she could eat,” Mrs. Grey s aghast. This was the sort of thing that had one on—or would have gone on if not discovered—with the little ergusons. “Are you sure of this, Arthur? Ifso, I must ring for Phillis at once.” “Oh don’t—please don’t. Phillis will only fiy into a passion and beat her—poor Titia! I’m very sorry 1 told of her. I wouldn’t be a sneak if I could help it,” ‘‘My dear boy !” said Christian, fondly. ‘‘ Well, I will not speak about it just yet, and certainly not to Phillis. Lie here till I see if Titia is still in the nursery. It is just five o’clock.” Yes, there the little damsel was, sitting as prim as possible over a book, looking the picture of industry and innocence, ‘Miss Bennett has left for the day, has she not, Titia? You are not going out with her, or going out again at all?” ‘‘No,” said Titia, with her head bent down, It was always Christian’s belief—and practice—that to accuse a child, unproved, of telling a lie, was next to suggesting that lies should be told. She always took truth for granted until she had unequivocal evidence to the contrary. ‘‘ Very well,’’ she said, kindly. ‘‘ Is that a nice book you have? ‘Arabian Nights?’ Then. sit and read it quietly till you go to bed, . Good-night, my dear.” She kissed her, which was always a slight effort ; it was hard work loving Titia, who was so cold and prim, and unchildlike, with so little responsiveness in her nature. “‘I hope all is safe for to-day,” thought Christian, anxiously, and determined to speak to Titia’s father the first opportunity, He was dining in Hall to-day, and afterward they were to go the long-delayed entertainment at the vice-chancellor’s, which was to inaugurate her entrance into Avonsbridge society. Miss Gascoigne was full of it ; and during all the time that the three ladies were ee together, she talked incessantly, so that, even had she wished, Mrs, Grey could not have got in a single word of inquiry concerning Miss Bennett, She, however, judged it best. to. wait quietly till the cloth was removed and Barker vanished, Christian was not what is termed a ‘“‘ transparent” character; that is, she could ‘‘ keep herself to herself,” as the phrase is, bet- ter than most people. It was partly from habit, having lived so long in what was worse than loneliness, under circumstances when she was obliged to maintain the utmost and most cautious silence upon every. thing, and partly because her own strong nature prevented the necessity of letting her mind and feelings bubble over on all occasions and to every body, as is the manner of weaker but yet very amiable women. But, on the other hand, though she could keep a secret sacredly, rigidly—so rigidly as to prevent people’s even guessing that there was a secret to be kept—she dis- liked unnecessary mysteries and small deceptions exc ly. So, as soon as the ladies were alone, she said to Miss Gascoigne outright, without showing either hesitation or annoyance, “‘] met Miss Bennett in the hall to-day, Why did you not tell me that you and Aunt Maria had chosen a governess for Bons ue oihihg uzzles very cl ] h i metimes n puzzles yery clever people so much as a piece of direct simplicity. Aunt Henrietta actually blushed. _ ‘* Chosen a governess? Well, so we did. We were sag: ie to eed, I must say,” recovering herself from the defensive into the offensive position, “‘ that the way you made yourself a perfect slave to that child, to the neglect of all your other duties, was—” ‘Never mind that now, please. Just tell me about Miss Ben- nett. ‘When did she come, and how did you hear of her?” She spoke quite gently, in mere inquiry ; she was so anxious neither to give nor to take offense, if it could possibly be avoided. She bore always in mind a sentence her husband had once quoted —and, though a clergyman, he did not often quote the Bible, he only lived it : ‘‘As much asin you lieth, live. peaceably with all men.” Butshe sometimes wondered, with a kind of sad satire, whether the same could ever, under any circumstances, be done with all women. | | | ‘Excuse me, Mrs, Grey ; but I cannot see what right you have to question me, or I to answer, Am I not capable of the manage. ment of my own sister’s children, who have been under my care ever since she died, and in whom I never supposed you would take the slightest interest ?” ) This after her charge of Arthur—when she had nursed the child back to life again, and knew that he still depended upon her for every thing in life! But, knowing it was so, the secret truth was sweet enough to sustain her under any heap of eee ait eee ing falsehoods too, directly contradic one another; but Userdens neyer paused to consider Lax-tongued people seldom do,

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~ — — ee ee eee - ete " oe DOO ee | te Oe lee ——— entre a . - rs ne _— anu é ee eee - ~~ — . =a =. Z _— —— o.oo ° -_~ 1s CIINISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. “J will not question the point of my interest in the children. | If I can not prove it in other ways than words, the latter would | ing with that painful precocity of consciousness so sad to see in a pe very useless. All I wish to say is, that I should like to have been consulted before any thing was decided as to a governess. And I am afraid Miss Bennett is not exactly the person I should haye chosen.” | “Indeed! And “pray why not, may I ask? She is a most re- spectable person—a geene who knows her place. Iam sure the deference with which she treats me, the attention with which she listens to all my suggestions, have given me, the utmost confidence in the young woman; all the more, because, I repeat, she knows her place. She is content to be a governess; she never pretends to be a lady.” The insult was so pointed, so plain, that it could not be passed over. Christian rose from her seat. ‘‘ Miss Gascoigne, seeing that I am here at the head of my husband’s table, 1 must request you to be a little more guarded in your conversation. I, too, have been ’& governess, but it never occurred to me that I was otherwise than a lady.” There was a dead silence, during which r Aunt Maria cast imploring looks at Aunt Henrietta, who perhaps felt that she had gone too far, for she muttered some vague apology about “ differ- ent people being different in their ways.” ‘Exactly so; and what I meant to observe was, that my chief reason for doubting Miss Bennett’s fitness to instruct Titia is what hele yourself allow. If she is ‘not a lady,’ how can you expect er to make a lady of our little girl?” ‘* Our little girl |” «Yes, our”—the choking tears came as far as Christian’s thrvat, and then were swallowed down 7 new «My little girl, if you will; for she is mine—my husband’s daughter; and I wish to see her grow up every thing that his daughter ought to be. I say again, I ag) to have been consulted in the choice of her governess.” she stopped, for, accidentally looking out of the window, where the lengthened spring twilight still lingered in the cloisters, she fancied she saw creeping from pillar to pillar a child’s figure ; could it possibly be Titia’s? Yes, it ce ly was Titia herself, stealing through two sides of the quadrangle, and under the arch- way that led to Walnut-tree Court. Without saying a word to the aunts—for she would not accuse any body, a child, or even a servant, upon any thing short of abso- lute proof—Christian went up to her room, from the window of which she could see into Walnut-tree Court. There, walking round and round, in the solitude which at this hour was customary in most colleges, she distinguished, dim as the light was, three fig- ures—a man, a woman, and a child; in all probability, Miss Ben- nett, her lover, and Titia, whom, with a mixeure of cunning and short-sightedness, she had induced to play propriety, in case any discovery should be made. Still, the light was too faint to make their identity sure ; and to send a servant after them on mere suspicion would only bring trouble upon poor little Titia, besides disgracing, in the last man- ner in which any generous woman would wish to di another woman, the poor friendless governess, who, after all, wt ies only be taking an honest evening walk with her own honest lover, as every young woman has a perfect right to do. ‘And love is so sweet, and life so bitter! I'll not be hard upon her, poor girl!” thought Christian, with a faint sigh. ‘‘ Whatever is done I will do myself, and then it can injure no So she put on her shawl and bonnet, and was just slipping out at the hall door, rather thankful that Barker was absent from his ost, when she met Titia creeping stealthily in, not at the front oor, but at the glass door, which led to the garden behind ; to which garden there was only one ather entrance, a little door lead- ing into Walnut-tree Court, and of this door Barker usually kept the key. Now, however, it hung from the little girl’s hand, the poor frightened creature, who, the minute she saw her step-mother, tried to run away up stairs. ‘‘Titia, come back! Tell me where you have been, without Phillis or any body, and when I desired you not to go out again.” ‘It was only to—to fetch a crocus for Atty.” | ‘‘ Where is the crocus?” ‘*|—dropped it.” ‘* And this key. What did you want with the key ?” ‘*]—I don’t know.” The lies failed, if they were lies ; but perhaps they might have been partly true: the child hung her head and began to whimper. She was not quite hardened, then. — “Come here to me,” said Christian, sadly and gravely, leading her to the glass door, so that what light there was could dina upon her face; “let me look if you have been telling me the truth. Don’t be afraid ; if you have I will not punish you. I will not be hard upon you in any case, if you will only speak the truth. Titia, a little girl like you has no business to be in and out of her papas house like a thief. Tell at once, where have you been, and who was with you?” The chiid burst out ¢ ‘T daren’t tell, or Phillis will beat me. She said she would if I stirred an inch from the nursery, while she went down to have tea with cook and Barker. And I thought I might just run for ten minutes to see Miss Bennett, who wanted me so,” ‘‘ You were with Miss Bennett, then? Any body else?” ‘Only a gentleman,” said Letitia, hanging her head and blush- little girl. ; ““What was his name?’ “T don’t know. Miss Bennett didn’t tell me. She only said he was a friend of hers, who liked little girls, and that if I would come and have a walk with them, without telling Phillis or any re she would let me off all the hardest of my French lessons. And so—and so—oh, hide me, there’s papa at the hall door, and Aunt Henrietta coming out of the difiing-room. And Aunt Henri- etta never believes what I say, even if I tell her the truth. Oh, let me run—let me run.” The child’s terror was so. uncontrollable that there was nothing for it but to yield ; and she fled. “Titia! Titial” called out. her father. ‘‘ Christian, what is the matter? What was my little girl crying for?” There was no avoiding the domestic catastrophe, even had Christian wished to avoid it, which she did not. e felt it was acase in which concealment was impossible—wrong. Dr. Grey ought to be told, and Miss Gascoigne likewise. “ Your little girl has been very naughty, papa; but others have been more to blame than she. Come with me—will you come too, Aunt Henrietta ?—and I will tell you all about it,” She did so, as briefly as she could, and in telling it she discov- sred one fact—which she passed over, and yet it made her glad— that Dr. Grey, like herself, had been kept wholly in the dark about the engagement of Miss Bennett as corn | ‘‘T meant to have told you to-day, though, after I had given her sufficient trial,” said Miss Gascoigne, sullenly: ‘‘I had vith her the best of recommendations, and I do not believe one word of all this story—that is,” waking up to the full meaning of what she was saying, “‘not without the most conclusive evidence.” ‘‘Byvidence!” repeated Dr. Grey. ‘“‘ You have my wife’s word and my daughter's.” “ Your daughter is the most arrant little liar I ever knew !” The father shrank back. Perhaps he knew, by sad experi- ence, that Aunt Henrietta’s condemnation was not altogether with- out foundation. His look expressed such unutterable pain that Christian came forward and spoke out strongly, almost angrily. “It is fear that makes a liar, even as harshness and — create deceit and underhandedness. Love a child and trust it, and if it does wrong, punish it neither cruelly nor unfairly, and it will never tell falsehoods. Titia will not—she shall not, as long as I am alive to keep her to the truth.” Dr. Grey looked fondly at his wife’s young, glowing face ; and even Miss Gascoigne, the hard, worldly woman, viewing all thin in her narrow, worldly way, was silenced for the time. Then she began again, ae out a torrent of explanations and self-excul- ow eps which soon resolved themselves into the simple question, Vhat was to be done? There—she ended. ‘Don’t ask me to do any thing. I will not. I wash my hands of the whole matter. If the story be true, and Miss Bennett can be guilty of conduct so indecorous, it would never do for me to be mixed up in such an improper proceeding ; and if untrue, and I accused her of it, I should find myself in a very unpleasant posi- tion. So, Mrs. Grey, since you have interfered in this matter, you must carry it out on your own responsibility. If you have taken a grudge against Miss Bennett—which I did not expect, consider- ing your own antecedents—you must just do as you like concern- ing her. But, bless me! how the evening is slipping by! Come, Maria, I shall hardly have time to dress for the vice - chancel- lor’s.” ; ; So saying, Miss Gascoigne swept away, her silk skirts flowing behind her. Aunt Maris, followed, with one pathetic glance at “dear Arnold ;” and the husband and wife were left alone. Dr. Grey threw himself into his arm-chair, and there came across his face the weary look, which Christian had of late learned to notice, indicating that he was no more a young man, and that his life had been longer in trials than even in agit . «My dear, I wish you women-kind could settle these domestic troubles among yourselves. We men have so many outside wor- ries to contend with. It is rather hard !” It was hard. Christian reproached herself almost as if she had been the primary cause of this, the first complaint she had eyer heard him make, and which he seemed immediately to regret hav- ing allowed to escape him. ‘ ““T don’t mean, my dear wife, that you should not have told me this ; indeed, it was im ble to keep it from me, It all springs from Aunt Henrietta. I wishshe— But she is Aunt Henrietta, and we must just make the best of her, as I haye done for nearly twenty years.” | “ And why did you?” rose irrepressibly to Christian’s lips. The sense of wild resistance to injustice and wrong, so strong in youth, was still not beaten down. It roused in her something very like fierceness—these gentle creatures can be fierce sometimes—to see a good man like Dr. Grey trodden down and domineered over by this narrow-minded, -tempered woman. ‘I often wonder at your patience, and at all you forgive.” “Seventy times seven,” was the quiet answer. And Christian became silenced and grave. “ ” he added, pee ‘a sin against one’s self does not include a sin against another The '

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ne es ee ee a CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE, 17 next time Henrietta speaks as she spoke to you just now, she and i will have a very serious quarrel.” “Oh no, no! Not for my sake. I had rather die than bring dissension into this house.” | ‘* My poor child, people can not die so easily. They have to live onidnd endure. But what were we talking about? for I forget: I believe I do forget things sometimes ;” and he passed his hand over his forehead: ‘*l am not so young as you, my dear; and, though my life has looked smooth enough outside, there has been a good deal of trouble in it. In truth,” he added, ‘“‘I have had some yexatious pee perplexing me to-day, which must excuse my being so dull and disagreeable.” - em. rel echoed Christian, with a little forced sort of laugh, adding, in a strange, soft. shyness, ‘‘I wish you would tell me what those vexatious things were. I know Iam young, and foolish enough too ; still, if I could help you—” **Help' me!” | He looked at her eagerly, then shook his head and sig ed. ‘‘ No, my child, you can not help me. It is other le's business, which I am afraid I have no right to tell even to ou It is only that a person has come back to Avonsbridge, who, I could suppose I had an enemy in the world— But here I am telling you.” “Never mind, you shall tell me no more,” said Christian, cheerily, ‘‘ especially as I do not believe that in the wide world you could have am enemy, And now give me your opinion as to this matter of Miss Bennett.” “‘ First, what is yours?” _ Christian pondered a little, ‘‘ It seems to me that the only thing is for me to speak to her myself, quite openly and plainly, when she comes to-morrow.” ‘‘ And then dismiss her?” ‘* I fear so.” ‘For having a lover?” said Dr. Grey, with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Not exactly, but for telling Titia about it, and making use of the child for her own selfish needs. Do you consider me hard? Well, it is because I know what this ends in. Miss Gascoigne does not see it, but Ido, She only thinks of ‘propriety.’ It of something far deeper—a girl’s first notions about those sort of things. It is cruel to meddle with them before their time—to take the bloom off the peach and the scent off the rose ; to put worldli- mess instead of innocence, and conceited folly instead of simple, solemn, awful love. I would rather die, even now—you will think Iam always ready for dying—but I would rather die than live to think and feel about love like some women—ay, and not bad women either—whom I have known.” Mrs. Grey had gone on, hardly considering what she was saying or to what it referred, till she was startled to feel fixed upon her her husband’s earnest eyes. ** You need not be afraid,” said he, smiling, ‘Christian, shall I tell you a little secret? Do you know why I loved you? | Be- cause you are unlike all other women—because, you bring back to me the dreams of my youth. And here,” suddenly rising, as if he feared he had said too much, ‘‘we must put dreams aside, and ents likewise, for Aunt Henrietta will never forgive us if we are late at this terrible evening party.” CHAPTER. VIIL. “ le ghost | 7 att aval dee henet With whatever face thou risest up, Meet thou not mine. The sky is cloudless overhead, The stream runs clear. o¢ k, A append Dead of thy owndecay: o wned thee, ie . ys river of bitter be brine: | Pj ae ease ana) dead! Wurix she was dressing for it, the evening terrible even in Christian’s imagination. e kept thinkin over and over the talk she had with Dr. Grey; what he h said, and what she had said, of which she was a little ashamed, now that her impetuous impulse had faded. Yet why? Why should she not speak out her heart to her own husband? It was so pleasant to talk to him—so comfortable. The comfort of it lasted in her ‘heart all th her elaborate » Which was rather more weariness to her than to most young women of her age. Letitia assisted thereat—poor Titia ! who, being sent for, had crept down to ‘her step-mother’s room, very humble and fright- ened, and received a few tender, serious words—not many, for the white face was sodden with crying, and there was a sullen look I which not all Christian’s gentleness could chase away. illis had discovered her absence, and had punished her; not with whipping, that was forbidden, but with some of the innumerable nursery tyrannies which is called government. And Titia evidently shoagst with the suspiciousness of all weak, cowed creatures, that Mrs. Grey must have had some hand in it—that she had broken her promise, and betrayed her to this punishment. ~ She stood aloof, poor little girl, tacitly doing as she was bidden, and acquiescing in everything, with her thin fips pressed into that hopeless line, or now and then opening to give vent to sharp, un- dlike speeches, so exceedingly like Aunt Henrietta’s. “Those are very pretty bracelets, but yours are not nearly so big us poor mamma’s, and you don’t wear half so many.” 2 ceased to be Was it that inherent feminine quality, tact or spite, according as it is used, which teaches women to find out, and either avoid or wound one another’s sore places, which made the little girl so often refer to ‘‘poor mamma!” Or had she been taught to do it? Christian could not tell. But it had to be borne, and she was learning how to bear it. She answered kindly, ‘‘ Probably I do wear fewer ornaments than your mamma did, for she was rich, and I was poor. Indeed, I have no ornaments to wear except what your papa has given me.” ‘“‘He gives you lots of things, doesn’t he? Everything you have?” «< Yes. 9 ‘Then was that the reason you married him? Aunt Henrietta said it was.” Christian’s blood boiled. And yet Letitia only repeated what she had been told. ** My child,” she said, feeling that now was the time to speak, and that the truth must be spoken even toa child, ‘‘ your aunt Henrietta makes a great mistake. She says and believes what is not true. I married your papa because 1”—{oh that she could have said “loved him !”)}—‘‘I thought him the best man in the world. And so he is, as weall know well. Don’t we, Arthur?” ‘‘Hurrah! Three cheers for papa! The jolliest papa that ever was |” cried Arthur from the sofa, where, by his own special de- sire, he lay watching the end of the toilet. Letitia was too ladylike to commit herself to much enthusiasm, but she smiled. If there was a warm place in that r little gy heart, papa certainly had it, as in every heart belonging to ‘You look quite pretty,” said she, condescendingly. ‘‘Some day when you go to parties you’ll dress me and make me look pretty too, and take me with you? You won’t keep me shut up in the nursery till I am quite old, as Phillis says you will?” ‘Did Phillis say that?” Christian answered, with a sore sink- ing of the heart at the utter im bility that under such infiu- ences these children should ever learn to love her. ) ‘Phillis is a fool,” cried Arthur, angrily. ‘‘ When I get well again, if ever she says one word to me of the things she used to say about mother, won’t I pitch into her, that’s all!” Christian smiled—a rather sad smile, but she thought it best to take no notice, and soon Phillis came and fetched the two away. After they were gone the young step-mother stood by her bed- room fire, thinking anxiously of these her children, turning over in her mind plan after plan as to how she should make them love her. But it seemed a very hopeless task still. She looked into the blazing coals, and then began playing with a little chimney-piece ornament showing the day of the month— 21st of March. Could it be possible that she had been married three months? Three months since that momentous day when her solitary, self- contained life was swept out of the narrow boundaries of self for- ever—made full and busy, ay, and bright too! For it was not a sad face, far from it, which met her in the mirror above; it was a face radiant with youth and health, and the soft peacefulness which alone gives a kind of beauty. The clock struck eight, She was, after all, ready too soon ; so she wrapped her white opera cloak around her, and went down to the dra -room. To pass the time, she thought she would sing a little, as indeed she now made a point of doing daily, and woul have done, whether she cared for it or not, if only out of gratitude to the love which had delighted itself in giving her pleasure. But she did care for it. Nothing, nobody, could quench the artist nature which, the instant the heavy weight of sorrow was taken away, sprang up like a living fountain in this girl’s soul. She sang, quite alone in the room, but with such a keen delight, such a ect absorption of enjoyment, that she never noticed her husband’s entrance till he had stood for some minutes behind her chair. When he touched her she started, then smiled. ‘*Oh, it is oie 1” “Only me. Did I trouble you?” “Oh no ;' was I not troubling you?” **How, my dear?” Christian could not tell. Anyhow she found it impossible to ex- plain, except that she had fancied he did not care for music, “Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t. But I care for you. Tell me,” he sat down and took her hand, “‘does not Arthur’s ‘ bird’ some- times feel a little like a birdin acage? Do you not wish you lived in the world—in London, where you could ge to concerts and balls, instead of being shut up in a dull college with an old book-worm like me?” ' “Dr. Grey! Papa!” - Don’t look hurt, my darling. But confess ; isn’t it sometimes 80 ” *‘No! a thousand times no! Who has poy? f-nayd such thi into your head, for they never would come of themselves? It wicked—wicked, and you should not heed them.” ance tears are from her eyes, to her gerry Bie ; nishment. He appeared so rigvap. if lev t she con- trolled herself as belie as she could, for his sake. | ‘‘Hush! I hear Miss Gascoigne at the door. Please go and speak to her. Don’t let her see | have been crying.” Of this, happily, there was little fear, Miss Gascoigne being too

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Oe 2 eee = ee a ee ny 1 a == fe eR ek mee — ———=- “ — ce a Eg oe ene f< = eee i aan eetlcet © seats :s much absorbed in her own appearahce, which really was very fine. Her black satin rustled, her black lace fell airily, and her whole figure was thatof a handsome, well-preserved, middle-aged gentle- woman, So pleased was she with herself that she was pleasant to every one else; and when, half an hour after, Dr. Grey entered the reception-rooms of St, Mary’s Lodge with his wife on one arm and his; sister-on the other, any spectator would have said, how very nice they all looked; what a fortunate man he was, and what a happy family must be the family at Saint Bede’s. aah to her own surprise, when her first bewilderment was over, (hristian really did feel happy. Her artistic temperament rejoiced 1a the mere beauty of the scene before her—a scene to be found nowhere out of Avonsbridge—lofty, grand old rooms, resplendent with innumerable wax-lights ; filled, but not too full, with an evel moving, .gorgeously-colored’ crowd,,, Quite different from that of ordinary soirées, where the coup d’ei/ is that.of a bed of yanoge er! flowers, with a tribe of black emmets poised on their hind legs inserted between. Here the gentlemen made as goodl » show as the ladies, or more so, many of them being. in such turesque costumes that they might have just stepped down from he old pictures: which covered, the walls. Innumerable flowing xowns, ofall shapes and colors, marked the college dons ; then there were the gayly-clad gentlemen commoners, and two or three young noblemen, equally fine; while, painfully near the,door, a few meek-looking undergraduates struggled under the high honor of the vice-chancellor’s hospitality, As to the women, few were young, and none particularly lovely ; yet. Christian enjoyed. looking at them. | Actually,. for the: first time in her life, did she behold “‘ full dress”—the sparkle of dia- monds, the delicate. beauty of old point lace, the rustle of gor- geous silks.and satins, She liked it—childishly liked it. .It;was a piece of art—a picture, in the interest of which her own. part therein was utterly and_ satisfactorily forgotten. She. was so amused. with watching other people that she never thought whether. other people were watching her ; and when, after half an hour’s disappearance among a. ¢rowd of gentlemen, her husband came up and em her if she were enjoying herself, she answered ‘Oh, so much!” with.an ardor that made him smile, And she did enjoy herself, even: though a good many. people were brought up to her and introduced, and by their not too. bril- Jiant remarks on it.somewhat tarnished the brilliancy of the scene. But also she had some pleasant.conversation with. people, far eater, and, grander, and cleverer than she had ever met in her life; who, nevertheless, did not awe her at ail, but led her on to talk, and to feel pleasure in talking ; she being utterly unaware uhat her simple unconsciousness, was, making he ven times more charming,,more beautiful, than before, and that round the room were passing and repassing innumerable flattering comments on tne young wife of the Master of Saint Bede’s. Only she thought once or twice, with an amused wonder, which had yet, some,sadness ia it, how little these, people would have thought of her a ycar before—how completely they would ignore her now if she were not Dr. Grey’s wife, And there came into her - heart such a gush of—gratitude was it?—to that good man who had loved her just as she was—poor Christian Oakley, governess and orphan—in that saddest state.of. orphanage which is conscious that all the world would say she had need to be thankful for the same. She looked round for her husband. several times, but miss- ing him—she sat down by Miss Gascoigne,.who, taking the turn of the tide, now patronized ‘‘ my, sister, Mzs. Grey,” in the most overwhelming manner... ;»)... | | , _ it was. after a whispered conference with Miss Gascoigne that the wife of the vice-chancellor, herself young and handsome, and ately married,,came up to ask Christian to sing. . tn Then, poor girl! all her fears and doubts returned. To sing to _ whole. roomful of people—she had neyer done it in her life. It ould be as bad as that nig EaS fancy which used to haunt her, of being dragged . forw: the tei crowded theatre all focused upon her, asensation almost as horrible as being under a burning-glassw + pp fo ne wt ‘Oh no! not to-night. L.would much rather not. Indeed, I can not sing.” 17 ¥ ‘‘May 1 beg to be allowed to deny that fact?” said the gentle- man—a young gentleman upon whose arm the hostess had crossed the room—of whom she, a stranger in Ayonsbridge, knew only uat he was a baronet and had fifteen thousand a year, . bea al “Well, Sir Edwin, try if you can persuade her. Mrs, Grey, let me present to you Sir Edwin Uniacke,” ™ : ) It was so sudden, and the compnision of the moment so extreme, that Christian stood calm as death—stood and bowed, and he bowed too, as in response to an ordinary introduction to a perfect ~ er, She was quite certain afterward that she had not be- | bol trayed herself by any emotion ; tliat, as seemed her only course, she had risen and. walked straight to the piano, her fingers. just touching Sir Edward’s offered arm; that she had seated herself, and begun mechanically to take off her gloves, without one single word having been exchanged between them. _, TI ae, Be took his place behind her chair. § looked toward him—never paused to think how he had come there, er to wonder over the easy conscience of the world, which yg Sada adimittes! him into the very society whence he had lately been ignomi: ously expelled... Her sole thought was that there was a } P=, — =! to find the ten. thousand eyes .of a She never CHRISTIAN VOAKLEY'S MISTAKE, song to be sung and she had to sing it, and:go back as fast as sl" could into some safe hiding-place. ae accomplished this, she rose, | | . ‘Not yet, pray; one more song. Surely you know it—‘ Love in thine eyes.’ ” | ¥ As the voice behind her—a voice so horribly familiar—said this, Christian turned round. To ignore him was impossible; to betray, by the slightest sign, the quiver of fear, of indignation, which ran through all her frame, that, too, was equally impossible.’ One thing only presented itself to her as to be done. She lifted up her cold, clear eyes, fixed them on him, and equally cold and clear her few commonplace words fell : iad ¥m ‘“No, I thank you ;.1 prefer not to sing any more to-night.” What answer was made, or how, still touching Sir Edwin’s arm, she was piloted back through the crowd to Miss Gascoigne’s side, Christian had not the slightest recollection either them:or ‘after ward ; she only knew that she did it, and he did it, and: that he then bowed politely and left her. - r ov, * 1 So it was all over, They had met, she and her sometime lover, her preux chevalier of a month—met, and she:did not love him any more, Not) an atom! All such feelings had been swept away, crushed out of existence by the total crushing of that respect and’ esteem without which no good woman can go on ldving. « At least no woman, Jike Christian could.’ Call her not fickle, nor deem it unnatural for love so to perish. After learning what she had learned from absolute incontrovertible evidence (it ‘is useless to enter into the circumstances, for no one is benefited by wallowing in, unnecessary mire), that she,or any virtuous’ maiden, should continue to love this:man, would have been a thing still more un. natural—nay, wicked. : onto” ode No, she did not love him any more, she:-was quite sure of that. She watched his tall, elegant figure—he was as beautiful asi Luci- fer—moving about the rooms, and it seenied that his very facé' had ee ugly to her sight. She shivered to think that once+thank od, only once !|+-his lips had pressed hers:; that shé had let him say to her fond words, and write to her fond letters, and had even written back to him others, which, if not. exactly love-letters, were of the sort that no girl could write except to a man in»whom she wholly believed—in his goodness and in his love for herself. lo What had become of those letters she had no idea; what was in them she hardly remembered; but the thought of them made her grow pale and tremble. Im an agony of shame, as if all the world were pointing at her—at Dr, Grey's wife—she hid herself in a corner, behind the voluminous presence of Miss Gascoigne, and sat waiting counting minutes like hours till her husband should appear. rf w—esdtis e came... ast, his kind face all emt n | ell ‘‘ Christian, I have been having a long talk with— But yow are very tired.” His eye caught—she knew it) would at once+the C e in her face... ‘*My darling,” he whispered, ‘‘ would’ you not like to go home?” | : ole yoy ilar I ‘Qh: yes, home! Take me home!” Christian me almost. with a sob, She cons 4 to his arm, and passed through the crowd with him,- And whether she fully loved him or not, from the very bottom of her soul she thanked God for her husban Noni gis ERLE 3 ‘ O18 Ow Thé mercy I to others show, “ Teach me to feel for others’ woe,’ thet how t at mercy show to me.’ To hide the fault I see; | ata ctw 7 t te ‘ sewod” BREAKFAST was just over on the morning following the souwte at the vice-chancellor’s. Christian sat’with the two aunts, quietly sewing. Aye, Wery quietly, Sven after last night, Shia ia, tees sh counsel oe h many wakeful pat and grown calm still. N Miss Gascoigne had once named St awh’ did not know; him, and in the d ced to recognize him, a WV . his young baronet. © ne doubt he could @, and would soon = 7 ey ops to meet, have to m » th had, - » more, | ba she to to tell him now ? | Fayette’ bye .qetororg Jeg ag question recurred to her, fall of , Grey were not. like two yo

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CHRISTIAN OAKLEYW’'S MISTAKE. have been told long ago? He might feel it thus—or thus—she could not tell ; she did not, even yet, know him well enough to be uite sure. The misfortune of all hasty unions had been hers— she had to find out everything after marriage. The sweet famil- iarity of long courtship, which makes peculiarities and faults ex- juseblé, nay, dear, just because they are so familiar that the indi- vidual would not be himself or herself without them—this sacred guarantee for all wedded happiness had not been the lot of Chris- tian Grey. ~~ Even now, though it was the mere ghost of a dead love, or dead fancy, which she had to confess to her husband, she shrank from pe. it. She would rather let it slip back to its natural ades. | This was the conclusion she came to when cold, clear day- light put to flight all the bewilderments and perplexities which had troubled her through the dark hours ; and she sat at the head of her breakfast table, with her own little circle around her—the circle which, with all its cares, became every day dearer and more waives fe 5 if only because it was her own. And when she looked across to the husband and father, sitting so content, with the morning sun lighting up his broad forehead— wrinkled, it is true, but still open and clear, the honest brow of an honest man—it was with a trembling gratitude that made religious every throb of Christian’s once half-heathen heart. The other man, with his bold eyes that'made her shiver, the grasp of his hand from which her very soul recoiled—oh, thank God for having delivered her from him, and brought her into this haven of purity, peace; and love | | As she stopped her needlework to cross to Arthur’s sofa—he in- sisted on being carried everywhere beside her, her poor, spoiled, sickly boy—as she arranged his pillows and playthings, and gave him a kiss or two, taking about a dozen in return—she felt that the hardest duty, the most unrequited toil, in this her home, would be referable to that dream of Paradise in which she had once in- ulged, and out of which she must inevitably have wakened to find it_a living hell. i The thanksgiving was still. in her heart when she heard a ring at the hall bell, and remembered, with sudden compunetion, that this was Miss Bennett’s hour, and that she had to speak to her about the ba 4 painful matter which occurred yesterday. e had quite forgotten it till this minute, as was not surprising. Now, with an effort, she threw off all thoughts about herself ; this business was far more important, and might involve most serious consequences to the young governess if obli to be dismissed under circumstances which, unless Miss’ Gascoigne’s tongue could be stopped, would soon be parroted about to every lady in Avons- brie oor girl!” thought Christian, “she may never get another, situation. And yet perhaps sic has done nothing actually wronge— no worse wrong than many do—-thun I did !”—-she sighed—*“ in letting herself be made love to, and believing it all true, and sweet, and sacred, when it was all— But that is overhow. And perhaps she has no friends any more than I had—no home to cling to, no mother to comfort her. Poor thing! I must be very tender over her—very careful what J say to her.” °’ | _ And, following this intention, instead of sending for Miss Ben- nett into the dining-room, as Miss Gascoigne probably expected, for she sat in great state, determined to ‘* come to the root of the mat- 7 a she expressed it, Mrs. Grey went out and met her in the o are the lady whom my sister-in-law engaged’ as’ gover- ness?” — “Yes, ma’am. And youjare Mrs, Grey ?” peering at her with some curiosity ; for, as every body knew every thing in Avons- ee no doubt Miss Bennett-was perfectly well aware that Dr. Grey’s young wife. was the ci-devant governess at Mr. Ferguson’s. ~ Will you walk up into my room? I-wanted a word with you before lessons.” pet fe: | { Sertainly Mrs, Grey, I hope you are quite satisfied wit my ais on d, str of Miss Grey. Indeed, my reecommendations—as I told s Menediane,tncla e some of the yin hia! pa Li99 of “T have no doubt Miss Gascoigne satisfied,” interrupted Mrs. Grey, not quite liking the flippant manner, he showy style of dtess, and the air, at once subservient and forward; in truth, ething which, despite her prettiness, stamped ‘the. governess sg. underbred, exactly what Aunt Henrietta had said—*‘not a lady to Your qualifications for teaching I have no wish to inves- ; what pave to speak about is a totally different thing.” iss Bennet looked uneasy for a minute, but Christian’s man- ner was so studiously polite, even kindly, that she seemed to think Be ees et Bt Mad ae ‘crimson sofa, and began inyestigating, W curious, and rather envious eyes, the Sandiendt bod. half boudoir, half bedchamber. : “e art dea : “Oh, Mrs, Grey, what a nice room this.is! How you must en- joy it!” It’s a hard life, teaching children.” wie _**Tt ig a hard life, as I know, for I was once a governess my- ea oF Thi admission, given so frankly, without the least hesitation, evidently quite surprised Miss Bennett. With still greater curi- osity than the fine room, she regarded the fine lady who had once been a governess, and was not ashamed to own it. ; 19 ‘‘ Well, all I can say is you have been very lucky in your mar- riage, Mrs. Grey ; I only wish I might be the same.” “ That is exactly—” said Christian, catching at any thing in her nervous difficulty as to how she should open such an unpleasant subject—‘‘ no, not exactly, but partly, what I wished to speak to you about, Excuse a plain, almost rude question, which you cam refuse to answer if you like; but, Miss Bennett, I should be very glad to know if you are engaged ?” ‘*Engaged by Miss Gascoigne?” “No; engaged to be married.” Miss Bennett drew back, blushed a.little, looked much annoyed, and answered sharply, apparently involuntarily, ‘‘ No !” ‘ Then—excuse me again—I would not ask if I did not feel it absolutely my duty, in order that we may come to a right under- standing—but the gentleman you were walking with yesterday, when you asked Letitia to meet you in Walnut-tree Court, was he a brother, or cousin, or what?” Susan Bennett was altogether confounded. ‘‘ How did you find it all out? Did the child tell ?—the horrid little—but of course she did. And then you set on and watched me! That was a nice trick for one lady to play another.” «“ You are mistaken,’ replied Christian gravely ; ‘‘ 1 found this out by the merest accident; and as'I can not allow the child todo the same thing again, I thought it the most honest course to tell you at once of the discovery I made, and receive your explana- tions,” ) : * You can’t get them ; I have a perfect right to walk with whom lease.” * Mt Most certainly ; but not to take Dr. Grey’s little daughter with you.as a companion. Don’t you see, Miss Bennett ”—feeling sorry for the shame and pain she fancied she must be inflicting— ‘* how injurious these sort of proceedings must be to a little ge who ought to know nothing about love at all—(pardon my con ing this is a love affair)—till ‘she comes to it seriously, earnestly, and at a fitting age? And then the deception, underhandedness— can not you see how wrong it was to make secret appointments with a child, and induce her to steal out of the house unknown to both nursé and mother ?” ‘‘ You are not herown mother, Mrs. Grey ; it don’t affect you.” ‘‘Pardon me,” returned Christian, very distantly, as she per- ceived her delicacy was altogether wasted upon this impertinent young woman, who ap well able to hold her own under any circumstances, ‘‘it does affect me so much that, deeply as I shall regret it, I must offer you a check for your three months’ salary. Your engagement, I believe, was quarterly, and I must beg of you to consider it canceled.” | Miss Bennett turned red and pale ; the offensive tone sank into one pitifully weak and cringing. ‘Oh, Mrs. Grey ! don’t be hard upon me ; I’m a poor governess, doing niy best, and father has a large family of us, the shop isn’t as thriving as it was. Don’t turn me away, and I’llnever meet the young fellow again.” — | There was a little natura) feeling visible through the ultra-hu- mility of the girl’s manner, and when she took out a coarse but élaborately laced pocket-handkerchief, and wept upon it abundant- ly, Christian’s heart melted. “Tam very sorry for yous-very sorry indeed; but what can I do? nant you tell me candidly, are you engaged to this gentle- man?” | 0 f Jon-—eelo ya? 44 | bincs . ney “No, not exactly ; but Pam/sure I'shall/be by-and-by.”) ,‘‘ He is your lover, then? he ought to be, if, as Letitia says, you go walking together every rites Z WUE oy | « Well; arid if I dé, it’s nobody’s business but my own, I sup- pose ; and it’s very hard it should lose me my situation.” - So it was. Mrs. Grey remembered her own ‘‘ days,” as she now called them—remembered them with pity rather than shame ; for she had done nothing wrong. She deceived no one, only been herself deceived—in a very harmless fashion, just because, in her foolish, innocent heart; which knew nothing of the world and the world’s wiles, she thought no man would ever be 80 mean, so cowardly, as to tell a girl he loved her unless he meant it in the true; noble; knightly way—a lover ab bi “ Who loved one woman, and who clave to her” | = : —clave once and forever. A vague tenderness hung about those days yet, enough to make her cast the halo of her sympathy over éven commonplace Susan Bennett. eteih eoliar “© Will you give me your confidence? Who is this friend of yurs, and why does he not at once ask you for his wife? Per. aps he is poor, and can not afford to tBio ae Li, “Oh, dear me! I’m not so stupid as to think of yee man. Bless you! he has a title and an estate too. If I get I shalh ao Sah oe poe bee Fe Povon fies [ bon es Christian recoi Her sympathy was altogether thrown away. There evidently was not a point in common between foolish Christian Oakley, taking dreamy twilight saunters under the apple- trees—not alone ; looking up to her companion as something be- tween Sir Launcelot and the 1 Gabriel—and this girl, carrying on a clandestine flirtation, which she hoped would—and was de- termined to make—end in a marriage, with a young man much above her own station, and ‘just because he was so. As for loving him in the sense that Christian had understood love, Miss Bennett

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a x or re ee ae ae eae ee — == .-- i . } ; | j i | - . ~~ =. CR LCL CIEE, can ee Re genet * meh emage~ meena tare ee =o ey or Tm Wm em “=a —- 7 - _ ~—\ we ?- - = . - - CHAPTER X. “ Get thee behind me, Sa “The clear, sharp, stainless, glittering I know no other wel — ; sword There $9 s bassie nse Vidst be tyaghs, "| ru haw tay wey tiseagha hockee Sends, 0 roug Trchee ee Sie en “T wisH, Mrs. Grey, you would learn to hold yourself a lit- tle more upright, and look a little more like the master’s wife—a lady in as good a position as any in Avonsbridge—and a little less like a Resignation or a Patience on & monument.” “Tam sure I your pardon,” said Christian, laughing ; “I have not the slightest feeling either of resignation or agree I am afraid I was thinking over something much more worldly— that plan about Miss Bennett’s new situation of which I have just been telling you”—told as briefly as she could, for it was not very safe to trust Miss Gascoigne with an thing. ‘Also of the people we met last night at the vice-chancellor’s.’ ; ‘‘And that reminds me—why don’t you go and erree, fatd dress? I hate a morning-gown, and I wish you parti to look as respectable as you can. We are sure to have callers to. da Pa Are wet Why?” | ‘To inquire for our health after last night’s entertainment. It is a customary attention ; but, of course, you can not be ex to be acquainted with these sort of t Besides, one gentle- man especially asked my permission to to-day—a man of posi tion wealth, whose acquaintance—” ; 4 ‘Oh, please tell me about him after I come back,” said Chris- tian, hopelessty, “‘ and I will go and dress at once.”

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CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. “Take that boy with you. He never was allowed to be in the drawing-room. Get up, Arthur,” in the sharp tone in which the most trivial commands were always conveyed to the children, which, no doubt, Miss Gascoigne thought—as many well-meaning parents and guardians do think —is the best and safest assertion of authority, But it had made of Letitia a cringing slave, and of Arthur a confirmed rebel, as he now showed himself to be. Sete won't go, Aunt Henrietta! I like this sofa, I'll not stir an c ! ” ‘‘T command you ! Arthur pull boxed his ears. This sort of scene had been familiar enough to Christian in the early days of her marriage. It always made her unhappy, but she attempted no resistance. Either she felt no right, or she had no courage. Now, things were different. She caught Miss Gascoigne’s uplifted hand, and Arthur’s, already raised to return the blow. ‘Stop ! you must not touch that child. And, Arthur, how can you be so naughty! Beg your aunt’s pardon immediately.” But Arthur began to sob and cough—that ominous cough which was their dread and pain still. It did not touch the heart of Aunt Henrietta. ‘‘We shall see who is mistress here. Dr. Grey. Maria, ring the bell.” Poor Aunt Maria, the most subservient of women, was about to do it, when fate interfered in the shape of Barker and a visiting card, which changed the whole current of Miss Gascoigne’s inten- tions. ‘‘ Sir Edwin Uniacke !| the very gentleman I was speaking of. I shall be delighted to see him. Show him up immediately.” Which was needless, for he had followed Barker to the door. There he stood, a graceful, well-appointed, fashionable young man, with not a hair awry in his black curls, not a shadow on his handsome face, perfectly satisfied with himself and his fortunes a little flushed, perhaps, it might be, with what he would:call the ‘‘pluckiness” of coming thus to ‘‘beard the lion in his den,” to visit the master of his late college. All men have some good in them, and the good in this man was, that, if a scapegrace, he was not a weak villain, not a coward. ‘‘How kind of you! I am delighted to find a young gentleman so punctual in his engagements with an old woman,” said Miss Gascoigne, with mingled dignity and empressement. ‘‘Sir Edwin Uniacke, my sister, Miss Grey ; Mrs. Grey, my sister-in-law.” Certainly Aunt Henrietta’s ‘‘ manners” were superb. Arthur lay crying and coughing still, but his luckless condition before visitors was covered.over by these beautiful ‘‘ manners,” and by the flow of small-talk which at once began, and in which it was difficult to say who carried off the position best, the young inan or the elderly woman. Presently a diversion was created by Christian’s rising to carry Arthur away. | ‘‘ You need, not go,” said Miss Gascoigne. ‘‘ Ring for Phillis. The child has been ill, Sir Edwin, and Mrs. Grey has made herself a perfect slave to him.” ‘“How. very—ahem !|—charming?” said Sir Edwin Uniacke, Phillis appeared, but Arthur clung tighter than ever to his step- mother’s neck, .Nor did she wish to release him. ‘“T thank you, no, . L can carry him quite easily,” she replied to Sir Edwin’s politely offered help, which was, indeed, the only sentence she had attempted to exc with him. With her boy in her arms she quitted. the room, and did not return thither all the afternoon. : Obey me, sir!” an insolent face, at which his aunt rose up and I will at once send for It was impossible she could. Without any prudishness, with- out the slightest atom of self-distrust or fear to meet him, every womanly feeling in her kept her out of his way, ‘‘ How-dare he?” she thought, and nothing oom that. There was not one reviving touch of girlish admiration, not one thrill of self-complacent emotion, to see, what she could not help seeing, under his studiedly courteous manner, that he had forgotten, and meant her to feel he had forgotten, not a jot of the past. What- ever the episode of Susan Bennett might mean—if, indeed, such a man was not capable of carrying on a dozen such little episodes— his manner to Christian plainly showed that he admired. her still ; that he saw no difference between the pretty maiden Christian Onion and the paaen Christian Grey, -_ wr ma Bw this fact by tender tones and glances, alas! only too iliarly known by her of old. ‘‘How con he?” ¢ Christian was a very simple woman. She. knew nothing at all of that fashionable world which, in its blasé craving for excitement, delights, both in life and in books, to tread daintily on the very es of guilt. She was not ignorant. She knew what sin was, as. set forth in the Ten Commandments, but she understood abso- lutely nothing of that strange leniency or laxity which nowadays makes vice so interesting as to look virtue, or mixes vice and virtue together in a knot of circumstances until it is difficult to engnien right from wrong, Grey was a wife. Therefore, both as wife and as wo- man, it never oceurred to her as the remotest possibility that she could indulge in one tender thought of any man not her husband, er allow any man to lift up the least corner of that veil of matronly dignity with which every married woman, under whatever cireum- : 2k stances she has married or whatever may befall her afterward, ought to enwrap herself forever. , ut Christian was conscious of no dramatic struggles of con- science, no picturesque persistence in duty : she arrived at her end’ without any ethical or metaphysical reasoning, and took her course just because it seemed to her impossible there could be any other course to take. It was a very simple one—total passiveness and silence. The young man could not come to the Lodge very often, even if Miss Gascoi invited him ever so much, and was really as charmed with him as she appeared to be. And no wonder, He was one of those men who cake every body—perhaps because he was not deliberately bad, else how could he have attracted Christian Oak- ley? He had that rare combination of a brilliant intellect, an esthetic fancy, strong passions, and a weak moral nature, which makes some of the most dangerous and fatal characters the world ever sees. , But, be he what he might, he could not force his presence upon Christian against her will. ‘‘ No, I am not afraid,” she said to her- self; *‘how could I be—with these?” | For, all the time she sat meditating, Arthur lay half asleep near her ; and little Oliver, who had returned to his old habit of creep- ing about her room whenever he could, sat playing with his box of bricks on the hearth-rug at her feet, every now and then lifting up eyes of such heavenly depth of innocence that she felt almost a sort of compassion for the erring man who had no such child- angels in his home—nothing and no one to make him good, or to teach him, ere it was too late, that, even in this world, the wages of sin is death, and that the only true life is that of purity and holiness. | Christian spent the whole afternoon with her children. They tried her a good deal, for Arthur was fractious, and Oliver went into one of his storms of passion, which upon him, as on¢e upon his elder brother, were increasing day by day. It was impossible. it should be:otherwise under the present nursery rule. i She sat and thought over plan after plan of getting Oliver more out of: Phillis’s hands—not by any open revolution, for she ‘was tender over even the exaggerated rights of such a long-faithful servant, but by the quiet influence which generally accomplishes much more than force. » Besides, time would do as much as she could, and a great deal more—it always does. ri" Almost smiling at herself for the very practical turn which her meditations were beginning invariably to take—such ‘a contrast to- the dreamy musings of old—Christian sent the children away, and , hastily dressed for dinner. It was the first time she had taken her place at the dinner-table- since Arthur’s illness, and she felt glad to be there. Shesat, with ‘Sweet, calm brow, and lustrous; smiling eyes, a picture such as ‘it does any man good to gaze at:from his table’s foot; and know that it is his own wife, the mistress of his household, the directress of his family, in whom her husbané@’s heart may safely trust forever. Dr. Grey seemed to feel it, though he said: no more than’ ‘‘it was good to have her back again.” But his satisfaction did not. extend itself to the rest. Miss Gascoigne was evidently greatly displeaséd at something. Angry were the looks she east around, and grim was the silence she: maintained until Barker had disap ‘“ Now,” said Christian, ‘‘ shall we send for the children ?” ‘‘ No,” said Miss Gascoigne ; ‘‘at least not until I have said s word which I should be sorry to say before young people. Dr. Grey, I wish that you, who have some knowledge of the usuages of society, would instruct your wife in them a little more. I do not expect much from hier, but still, now that she is your wife, some knowledge of manners, or even common civility — Pe ‘‘ What have I done?” exclaimed Christian, “half alarmed ‘and half amused. but continued addressing Dr. = Miss Gascoigne took rio notice, rey * ‘‘Task you, asa gentleman, when other gentlemen come to this house to pay their res to me—that is, to the ladies generally— ought Mrs. Grey to take the earliést opportunity of escaping from the drawing-room, nor return to it the whole time ghe visitors stay ? No doubt she is unused to society, feels a little awkward in it, but still—” ilo’ ‘‘T understand now,” cn Pw Christian, ‘‘ Yes, I did this afternoon exactly as she says. 1 am fully aware of the fact.” ‘* And, rey who was the gentleman to whom you were 80 very rude?” Dr. Grey, smiling. | Christian replied without any hesitation—and ob | how thankful that she was able to do so—‘‘ It was Sir Edwin Uniacke.” But she was not prepared for the start and flash of sudden anger with which her husband heard the name, | ‘‘What! has he called at. my house? That is more effrontery than I gave him credit for.” | ‘“‘ Effrontery !” repeated Miss , indignantly. ‘‘Itis no effrontery in a gentleman of his rank and fortune, a visitor at Avonsbridge, to pay a call at Saint Bede’s Lodge. Besides, I gave him permission to do so. He was exceedingly civil to me Inst night, and I must say he is one of the pleasantest men I have met for a long time. What do you know him ?” “What do I know?” echoed the master, and stopped. Then aided, ‘‘ Of course you might not have heard ; the dean and I keep.

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22 E these things prizete as much as we ean; but he was ‘rusticated’ @ year and a half ago.” Miss Gascoigne might have known this fact or not ; anyhow, she was determined not to yield her point. ‘‘ Well; and if he were, doubtless it was for some youthful folly —debt, or the like.. Now he has come into his property, he will sow his wild oats and become perfectly respectable.” ‘*l hope so—I sincerely. hope so,’ said Dr. Grey, not without a trace of agitation in his manner deeper than the occasion seemed to warrant, . ‘‘ But, in the meantime, he is not the sort of person whom I should wish the ladies of my family to have among their visiting acquaintance,” The argument had now waxed so warm that both parties forgot, or appeared to forget Christian, who sat silent, ne to it all— listening with a kind of wondering eagerness as to what her hus- band would say—her husband, aman in every way the very —— of this man—Sir Edwin Uniacke. How would he feel about him? ae judge him?’ Or how much had he known him to judge him y ' On this last head Dr. Grey was impenetrable. He parried, or gave vague general replies to all Miss Gascoigne’s questions. She ained nothing except the firm, decided answer, “‘ I will not have ir Edwin Uniacke visiting at the Lodge.” ‘* But why not?” insisted Miss Gascoigne, roused by opposition into greater obstinacy. ‘‘ Did we not meet him at the vice-chan- eellor’s? And he told me of two or three houses where we should be sure to meet him n next. week,” ‘‘I can not help that, but in my own house I choose my own society.” ** Your reasons?” insisted Miss Gascoigne, now seriously angry. *‘It is unfair to act so oddly—I must say so ridiculously, without giving a reason.” Dr. Grey paused a moment, and seemed to ponder before he an- swered. ‘‘My reason, so far as I can state it, is, that this young man holds, and puts into open practice, ae which I wholly con- demn, and consider unworthy of a tian, an honest man, or even a decent member of society.” ** And, pray, what are they?” It is difficult to explain them toa woman. Do not think me hard,” he added, and his eyes wandered round to his wife, though he still addressed only his sister. ‘‘ A man may fall and rise again _-—and we know Who pitied and helped to raise all fallen sinners. But sin itself never ceases to be sin; and, while impenitent, can neither be forgiven nor blotted out. If a man or a woman—there is no difference—came to mé and said, ‘I have erred, but I mean to err no more,’ I hope I would never shut my door against either ; I would help, and comfort, and save both, in every possible way. But a man who continues in sin, hugs it, loves it, calls it manner of fine names, and makes excuses for it after the fashion of the world—the world may act as it chooses toward him, but there is only one way in which I can act.” ‘‘And what is that?” asked Miss Gascoigne in astonishing meekness, ‘‘I shut my door against him, Not in him, or pharisaic- ally condemning him, but merely showing to , and to all oth- ers, that I consider sin to be sin, and call it so. Likewise, that I will have no fellowship with it, whether it is perpetrated by the beggar in the streets or the prince on the throne. t no consid- eration, either of worldly advantage, or dread of what society ~~ gay, or do, or think, shall ever induce me to let cross my threshold, association with my family, any man who, to m ring personal knowledge, leads an unvirtuous life.’ yourself, but your wife apparently, was quite awareof. Very ex- trao re ich most indecorous fact, as regards Sir Edwin, not only This Parthian thrust was but Dr. Grey bore it. ‘‘If she was aware of it—which is not at all extraordinary—my wife did perfectly right in as she has done. It only shows, what I knew well before, that she and her husband think alike on this, as on most other subjects.” And he held out his to Christian. She could willingly - have fallen at his feet. Oh, how small seemed all of fancy, or folly of passionate youth, compared to the intense emotion— what was it, reverence or love?—that was slowly and surely into every fibre of her being, for the man, her own wedded omg who satisfied at once her conscience, her judgment, and er heart, 5 | While these two exchanged a hand-grasp and a look—no more ; but that was enough—Miss Gascoigne sat, routed, but unconquered ‘still. ‘She might have made one more effort at warfare but that Barker opportunely entered with the evening post-bag, | “ Barker!” said Dr. Grey, as the man was closing the door. : Thé master paused a.second before speaking. ‘‘ You know Sir “To bé sure, sir,” with a reprossed twitch of the mouth, which ‘showed he knew only too much, as Barker was apt to do of all col- 1 | ‘Tf he should call again, say the ladies are engaged ; but should he ask for me, show at once to my study.” yo Very well, master,” me 7 CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. “A warm hearth, and a bright hearth, And Barker, as he went out of the dining-room, broke into a broad grin; but it was behind the back of the master. CHAPTER XI. “A light boat, and a tight boat, and a boat that rides well, Though the waves leap around it and the nds blow snell: A full boat, and a merry boat, we'll meet and a hearth swept clean, Where the to don’t raise a dust, and the broom Isn’t seen ; Where the coals never fly abroad, and the soot doesn’t fall, any weather Oh, that’s the fire for a man like me,in | With a long pull, and a strong pull, and a cottage or in hall. pull altogether.” Sm Epwin Uniackn did not appear again at the Lodge, or not farther than the hall, where Christian, in passing, saw several of his cards lying in the card-basket.. And, two Sundays, in glancing casually down the row of strangers who so often frequented the beautiful old chapel.of St. Bede’s, she thought she caught sight of that dark, handsome face, which had once seemed to her the em- bodiment of all manly beauty. But she looked steadily forward, neither seeking nor shrinking from recognition. ‘There was no need, As she passed out of the chapel, leaning on her husband’s arm, the grave, graceful woman, composed rather than proud, Sir Edwin Uniacke must have felt that Christian Grey was as far re- moved from him and the like of him as if she dwelt already in the world beyond the grave. But. this, perhaps, only made him the more determined to see her. The domestic atmosphere of the Lodge was growing daily more difficult to breathe in. What is it that constitutes an unhappy household? Not necessarily a wicked or a household, but still not happy ; devoid of that sunniness which, be the home ever so poor, makes it feel like ‘‘a little heaven below” to those who dwell in it, or visit it, or even casually pass it by. ‘‘ See how these Christians love one another,” used to be said by the old heathen world ; and the world says it still—nay, it is compelled to say it— of any real Christian home. Alas! it could not always be said of Dr. Grey’s. Christian, though young, was neither ignorant nor inexperienced ; and when, day by day and week after week, she had to sit still and see that saddest of all sights to a tender heart, children slowly ruined, exasperated by injustice, embittered by punishment, made deceitful or cowardly by continual fear, her spirit wakened up to its full dignity of womanhood and rina eee. i a my children, and J will not have things thus,” was her continual thought. But how to effect her end safely and un- obnoxiously was, as it always is, the difficulty. She took quiet methods at first—principally the very simple one of loving the children till they began to love her. Their little hearts opened to it, and bathed in it as in a fountain of joy. It all | washed away all their small naughtinesses, made them strong and brave, gradually lessened the underhandedness of the , the roughness and selfishness of the boy, and turned the child Oliver into a little angel—that is, if children ever are angels except in poetry ; but it is certain, and Christian often shuddered to see it, — mismanagement and want of love can change them into little emons, . And at last there came a day when, ve resistance being use- less, she had to strike with strong hand ; the resolute hand which, as before seen, Christian, gentle as she was, could lift up against injustice, and especially injustice shown to children. t happened thus: One day Arthur had been very naughty, or so his Aunt Henrietta declared, when Mrs, Grey, who h the disturbance, came to inquire into it. She thought it not such great wickedness—rather a piece of boyish mischief than intentional ‘‘ insult,” as Miss Gascoigne affirmed it was. The lady had lost her spectacles ; Arthur had pretended deeply to sympathize, had aided in the search ; and finally, after his aunt had spent several minutes of fume and fuss, and angry accusations everybody, he had led her up to the dining-room mirror, where she saw the spec- tacles—calmly resting on her own nose | ‘But I only meant it as a joke, mother. And oh! it was so funny !” cried Arthur, between laughing and sobbing ; for his ears tingled still with the sharp blow which had proved that the qe was no fun at all to Aunt Henrietta, “it was a Miss Gascoigne. She had been personally offended— that greatest of all crimes in her eyes—and she demanded co punishment. | Now Mrs. Grey had a few rather strong opinions of her own on the subject of punishment, es ly corporal punishment. She thought it degraded rather than reformed, in most cases; and wherever she herself had seen it tried, it had always signally and fatally failed. At the utmost, the doubtfulness of the =.= ent was so great that she felt it ought never to be administered forany but grave moral offenses—theft, lying, or the like. «7 didn’t mean it | I didn’t, mother |” cried the boy. incessantly, as he mg to her for protection. And Christian held him fast, ‘Miss Gascoigne, if you will consider a little, I think you will see that orventagi wm 1ent had better be of some other sort than flogging. e will discuss it between ourselves. Phillis, you can go,”

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' Woman !” CHRISTIAN OAKLEYW’S MISTAKE, But Phillis did not offer to:stir. ‘“‘ Nurse, obey my orders,” screamed Miss Gascoigne. “that wicked boy and cane him soundly.” ** Nurse,” said Christian, turning very pale, and speaking in an unusually suppressed voice, “if you lay one finger on my son you quit my service immediately.” | | - The assumption of ‘authority was so unexpected, so complete, owt te not overstepping one inch the authority which Mrs. Gre really and offered no resistance, until Miss Gascoigue said, quivering with passion, “This can not go on, I must know at once my rights in this house, ‘or quit it. Phillis, knock at the study door and say I wish to speak to Dr. Grey—that is, if Mrs. Grey, your mistress, will allow you.” €©@ertainly,” said Christian. And then, drawing Arthur beside her, and sitting down, for she felt shaking in every limb, she waited the event ; for it was a struggle which she had long felt must come, and the sooner it came the better. So she sat still, uttering not a word except an occasional whisper of “*Be quiet, Arthur,” until Dr. Grey entered the room. Even then she restrained herself so far as to let Miss Gascoigne tell the story. She trusted—as she knew she could trust—to her hus- band’s sense of justice and quicksightedness, even through any amount of cloudy exaggeration. When the explanation came to an end, and Dr. Grey, sorely perplexed and troubled, looked to- ward his wife questioningly, all she said was a suggestion that both the children—for Letitia had watched the whole matter with eager curiosity from a corner—should be sent out of the room. ‘‘Yes, yes, certainly ; Arthur, let go your mother’s hand, and run up to the nursery.” But Arthur’s plaintive sobs began again. daren’t ; Phillis will beat me!” ‘* Is this true, Christian?” sakes afraid it is, Had not the children better wait in my room ?’ | This order given, and the door closed, Dr. Grey sat down witha very piteous countenance. He was sucha lover of peace and quiet- ness ; and now to be brought from his study into the midst of this domestic hurricane—it was rather hard. He looked from his wife to his sister, and back to his wife. There his eyes rested and brightened a little. 6 contrast between the two faces was great-—one so fierce and bitter, the other sad indeed, but composed and s Nature herself, who, in the long run, usually decides between false and true authority, showed at once who possessed the latter—which of the two women was the most fitted to govern children. ie | “Henrietta,” said Dr. Grey, ‘‘ what is it you wish metodo? If my boy has offended you, of course he must be punished. Leave him to Mrs. Grey ; she will do what is right.” “Then I have no longer any authority in this house ?” «© Authority in my wife’s house my sister could hardly desire. Influence she might always have ; and respect and affection will, I trust, never be wanting.” Dr. Grey spoke’ very kindly, and held out his hand, but Miss Gascoigne threw it angrily aside; and then, breaking t h even the unconscious restraint in which most women, even the most violent, are held by the presence of a man, and were: such a man as the master, she burst out—this poor passionate woman, cursed with that terrible predominance of self, which in men is ugly enough, in women absolutely hateful— “Never ! Keep your hypocrisies to yourself, and your wife too—the greatest MH pe ates I know. But she cannot deceive me. “Maria ”—-and she rushed at luckless Aunt Maria, who that instant, knitting in hand, was quietly entering the room—‘‘ come here, Maria, and’ be & witness to what your brother is doing. He is turning me out of his house—me, who, since my poor sister died, have been like a mother to his children. » He is taking them from “me, and giving them over to that woman—that bad, low, cunning ‘* Take ‘I can’t go, papa—I “Stop!” cried Dr. Grey. “One word more like that, and I will turn you out of my house—ay, this very night |! ” ‘There was a déad patise, Even Miss Gascoigne was frightened. Christian, he had never in all her life witnessed such a scene, wished she had done any thing—borne any thing—rather than have given cause for it: And yet the children! Looking at that furi- ous woman, she felt—any observer would have felt—that to leave _ ghildren in Miss inn power was to ruin them for life. No; ‘what must’ be done had ‘better be done now than when too late. Yet her heart failed her at sight of poor Aunt Maria’s sobs. «Oh, dear Arnold, what-is the matter? You haven’t been vex- ing Henrietta !' But you never vex any body, you are so good. Dear Henrietta, are we really to back to our own house at Avonside? Well; I don’t mind. It is a very pretty house, far more ¢heerful than the Lodge; and our tenants are just leaving, and they have kept the furniture in the best of order—the nice furniture that‘dear Arnold gave us, you know. Even if he does want Us to leave the Lodge, it is quite natural. I always said so. And wé "shall only be a mile away, andcan have the children to gpend Jong days’with us, and—” ssessed, that both sister-in-law and servant stood petrified,’ 23 Simple Aunt Maria, in her hasty jumping at conclusions, had effected more than she thought of—more harm and more good. ‘‘T assure you, Maria,” said Dr. Grey, with a look of sudden re- lief, which he tried hard—good man !—to conceal, ‘‘ it never was my intention to suggest your leaving, but since you have sug- gested it—” ““T will go,” interrupted Miss Gascoigne. ‘Say not another word ;'‘we will go. I will not stay to be insulted here; [ will re- turn to my own hdouse—my own poor humble cottage, where at least I can live independent and at peace—yes, Dr. Grey, 1 will, however you may try to prevent me.” “7 do not prevent you. On the contrary, | consider it would be an excellent plan, and you have my full consent to execute it when- ever vou choose.” | This quiet taking of her at her word—this brief, determined, and masculine manner of settling what she had no intention of doing unless driven to it through a series of feminine arguments, con- tentions, and storms—was quite too much for Miss ey: Ae ‘Go back to Avonside Cottage! Shut myself up in that poor miserable hole—” . ‘Oh, Henrietta!” expostulated Aunt Maria, ‘‘ when it) is )so nicely furnished—with the pretty little green-house that dear Ar- nold built for us too!” “ Don’t tell me of green-houses? I say itis only a hole, And I to settle down in it—to exile myself from Avonsbridge society, that Mrs. Grey may rule here, and boast that she has driven me out of the field—me, the last living relative of your dear lost wife, to say nothing of poor Maria, your excellent sister, to whom you owe so much—” ‘*Oh, Henrietta!” pleaded Miss Grey once more. her, dear, dear Arnold.” Dr. Grey looked terribly hurt, but he and Aunt Maria exchanged one glance and one long hand-clasp. Whatever debt there was between the brother and sister, love had long since canceled it all. ‘‘Pacify ber, Maria—you know you'can. Make her think bet- ter of all this nonsense, My wife and my sisters could never be rivals ; it is ridiculous to suppose such a thing. But, indeed, I believe we should all be much better friends if you were in your own house at Avonside.” ‘*] think so too,” whispered Aunt Maria. ever so long.” ‘Then it is settled,” replied Dr. Grey, in the mild way in which he did sometimes settle things, and after which you might just as 9 attempt to move him as to move the foundations of Saint e's. It was all so sudden, this total domestic revolution, which yet every body inwardly recognized as a great relief, that for a minute or two nobody found a word more to say, until Miss Gascoigne, who generally had both the first word and the last, broke out “« Yes, you may live to re the dust off m ‘* Never mind “‘T have thought so u have done it, and it shall never be undone, however nt it. Dr. Grey, I quit your house, shaking eet: see that it does not rise up in judgment against you. Maria—my poor Maria—your own brother may for- sake you, but I never will. We go away together—to-morrow,” ‘* Not to-morrow,” said Dr. Grey. ‘‘ Your tenants have only just left, and we must have the cottage made comfortable for you. Let me see, this is the 8th; su we settle that you leave on the 80th of June. Will that do, Maria?” As he spoke he took her little fat hand, patted it lovingly, and then kissed her. “You'll not be unhappy, sister? You know it is only going back to the old ways, and to the old country life, which you <a d liked much better than this.” 0% “‘Much—much better. You are quite right, as you always are, dear Arnold.” 7 This was said in a whisper, but Miss Gascoigne caught it. “Ah! yes, I see what you are doing—stealing from me the onl heart that loves me—persuading her to stay behind. Very well. Do it, Maria. _Remain with your brother and your brother’s wife. — me, who am nothing to any body—of no use to one creature vin » Poor woman ! without it, she had hit. upon something very near the truth. It always is so—always must be. People win what they earn ; those who sow the wind reap the whirlwind. Handsome, clever, showy, and admired, as she had been in her day, probably not one living soul did now really care for Henrietta Gascoigne except foolish, faithful Aunt Maria. And yet there must have been some good in her, something worth caring for, even to retain that affection, weak and submis- sive as it may have been. Christian’s heart smote as if she herself had been guilty of injustice toward Miss Gascoigne when she saw Miss Grey creep up to her old friend, the tears flowing like a mill- stream. r te ‘‘ No, dear, I shall not stay behind. Arnold,doesn’t want me. And I have always put up with you somehow—I mean, you have put up with me—we shall manage to doit still. We’ll live to- gether again, as we did for'so0 many years, in our pretty cottage and garden’ that dear Arnold gave us, and I will look after my poultry, and you shall do your visi Yes, dear Henrietta, it will e all for the best... We shall be.so independent, so happy.” Happy? Jt was nota word in Miss Gascoigne’s dictionary. But

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oe r she looked with a certain tenderness at the fond little woman who had loved her, borne with her, never in the smallest degree resisted her since they were girls together. ‘Come, then, Maria, we will share our last crust together. You, at least, have never wronged me. Come away.” Gathering her dress about her with a tragical air, and plucking it, as she passed Mrs. Grey, as though the possible touch were pol- lution, Aunt Henrietta swept from the room; Aunt Maria, after one deprecatory look behind, as if to say, ‘‘ You see I can’t do otherwise,” slowly following. And so it was all over—safely over—this great change, which, however longed for, had not been contemplated as a possibility one hour before. It had arranged itself out of the most trivial ele- ments, as great events often do. There could be no question that every body felt it to be the best thing, and every body was very thankful ; and yet Christian watched her husband with a little un- certainty until she heard him heave a sigh of relief, ‘‘Yes, | am sure it was right to be done, and I am glad itis done. Are not you, Christian?” ‘“‘Oh, so glad! I hope it is not wicked in me, but I am so glad |” ‘*‘ Why—to have me all to yourself?” said he, smiling at her energy. A strange, unwonted thrill ran through Christian’s heart as she recognized; beyond possibility of doubt, that this was the secret source of her delight—of the feeling as if a new existence were opening ‘before her—as if the heavy weight which had oppressed her were taken off, and she could move through those old gloomy rooms, which had once struck achill through her whole being, with a sense as if she were as light as air, and as merry as a bird in the spring. ‘« Yes; all to myself—Ill have you all to myself,” she mur- mured, as she put her arms round his neek, and looked right up into his eyes. , For the first time she was sure—quite sure that she loved him. And as she stood embraced, encireled and protected by his love, and thought of her peaceful life now and to come, full of. duties, blessings, and. delights; ay, though it had also no lack of cares, Christian felt sorry—oh, so infinitely sorry—for poor Aunt Hen- rietta, — | CHAPTER XII. “Twist, twist, twist, ‘With fingers dainty and small; Let the wily net be quietl set, That the innocent may fall.’ “Weave, weave, weave, The tiniest thread will do; The filmiest thread from a splder’s bed Is stout enough for you. A ARTHUR never got his ew The serious results, of which he had been the primary cause, for a while put his naughtiness out of every body’s head ; and when, after an hour or more, Chris- tian went up stairs, and found the poor little fellow waiting pa- tiently and obediently in mother’s bedroom, it seemed rather hard to punish him. | | | he went down again into the study, and had a long talk with her husband, in which she spoke her mind very freely—more freely than she had ever done before, and told him things which had come to her knowledge concerning’ the children of which he, poor man! had hitherto been kept in total ignorance. Thus taking counsel together, the father and mother decided that, except in very rare instances, corporal punishments should be entirely tholished, and never, under any circumstances, should be administered by Phillis. That. Phillis’s sway was to be nar- rowed as much as possible, without any absolute laws being made ee would wound her feelings, or show indifference to her long delity. Bp On i For,” said Dr, Grey, ‘‘ we must not forget, Christian, that she loved the children when they had not quite so much love as they have now.” No, Arthur was not thrashed—was promised faithfully that Phillis should never be allowed to thrash him any more ; but his step-mother made him write the meekest, humblest letter of apol- ogy to his Aunt Henrietta, which the lady returned unanswered. , however, as Christian took some pains to explain to him, was a matter of secondary consequence. Whatever she did, he had done only what was his duty. And he was enjoined, when they did meet, to address her politely and respectfully, as a nephew and a gentleman should—as his father always addressed her, even in answer to those sharp speeches which, though in the ehildren’s presence, Miss Gasciogne continually let fall. Nevertheless, Dr. Grey bore them, and so did his wife, which was harder. She did not mind rudeness to herself, but to hear her husband thus spoken to and spoken of was a sufficient trial to make her long for the time of release. And yet through it all came the deep sense of pity that any woman who could show her- self in so pleasing a light abroad—for many of the morning visitors quite condoled with Mrs. Grey on the im ing change at the Lodge, and the great loss she would have in her sister-in- law—should be so obnoxious at home that her nearest relatives ~—s the days until her shadow should cease to darken their oors. ; And so, gradually and often painfully, but still with a firm con- ‘viction on every body’s miud that the plan so suddenly decided on ‘the country—such a pensty gant with a pee CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE. had been the best for all parties, came round the time of the aunts’ departure. Christian had spent all the previous day at Avonside, which she found a very pretty cottage, all woodbine and roses, with nothing at all poverty-stricken about it, either within or without, She had gone over it from garret to basement, making every sm as comfortable as possible, as she had carte blanche from her hus- band to do, and gladly did ; for on her tender conscience rankled every bitter word of Miss Gascoigne’s as though it were real truth ; and sometimes, in spite of herself, she could not suppress an uneasy feeling as if the aunts were being ‘‘turned out.” The last day of their stay at the Lodge was so exceedingly painful, that, having done all she could, she at length rushed out. of. the house with Arthur for a breath of fresh air and a quiet half hour before dinner, if such were possible. She did not go far, only just crossing the: bridge to the —— grounds opposite, where, in sight of the e windows, she could walk up and down the beautiful avenue, which still bears the name of the old philosopher who loved it. She was thinking to herself how pretty Avonsbridge was in its June dress of freshest reen, how quietly and. innocently life passed under. shadow of these college walls, and how could any one have the heart to make it otherwise ? | She would not after to-day. She would cease to vex herself, or let her husband vex himself, about Miss Gascoigne. And oh! what a wonderful peace would come into the house when she left it! How good the children would be! How happy their father ! —yes, he could be made happy, Christian knew that, and it was she who could make him so, Every thing seemed ‘beautiful, for the beauty began in her own heart. | ‘Good morning, Mrs, Grey.” . People talk about ‘‘looking as if they had seen a ghost”—and perhaps that look was not unlike Christian’s.as she started at thi sulutation behind her. He must have come stealthily across the grass, for she had heard nothing, did not.even.know that any body was near, till she looked up and saw Sir. Edwim Uniacke; i The surprise’ was 80 great that it brought (oh,,what shame to feel it, and feel sure that he saw it !) the blood up to her face—-to her very forehead, She’half rose;,and then sat down again, with a blind instinct that any thing was better. than either to be.or,to ap afraid, | PWOt HOR | peor ithout waiting for either a reply or a recognition—which )in- deed came not, nothing but that miserable.blush—the young man —— himself on the bench and began to make acquaintance with Arthur, | | irra on - ‘‘T believe I, have seen you before, my little friend... You, are Dr. Grey’s son, and I once offered to carry. you, but; was. refused. Are you quite well now, Master Albert 2? Isn’t, that your name?” os No - Arthur,” said the boy, rather flattered at being “Are you one of the men at our college?:..You, haven't .your wn on.” cro tte, 2 | ver ee Not now,” with a queer look, half amusement, half irritation. ‘TI don’t belong to Avonsbridge. 1. have a house; of my own in k, and deer, and a lake, and a boat to row on it. ouldn’t you, like to. see it,” “Yes,” said Arthur, all eyes and @8@?8..¢)) 06) 6 oy ‘‘l live there, but I am always; coming,over to Avonsbridge. Do what I will, I cannot keep away.” +. ,yome The tone, the glance across, the child, were unmistakable. Christian rose, her momentary stupefaction gone. “Come, Arthur, papa will be waiting dinner. papa waiting, you know.” body i imple as the words were, they expressed yolumes.,......., For an instant her com matronly grace—her perfect indif- ference—silenced, nay, almost awed the young man, and then irritated him into resistance, He caught hold of Arthur in pass- at You need not go-yet. It is only just five, and: your papa dees not dine till six.”’ etd to df: Dot ech ‘* How do you know ?” asked the child)... .. > F aitad ‘Oh, I know every thing. I watch you in-and out of the Lodge, and am aware of all yonae. But about the boat I promised you. It is at my place, Lake Hall, near—” . | ce Arthur, we must go.” r ; = Arthur jumped up at once. Gentle as it was, he had learned that that voice must never be disobeyed. ‘“‘T can’t stay, sir; mother calls me. But I'll tell pa you, and ask him to let me come and see you, if you your name,” Sir Edwin hesitated. M4 | ‘There is no necessity,” said Mrs. Grey. . ‘‘ Arthur, 1 know ntleman ; I myself shall tell your papa that we,have met cee Gook-ntenans Sir Edwin Uniacke.’’ b ephtet ats She bowed with that perfect, repellent courtesy ag there is no appeal, and passed on. Had she seen—but had she seen the look of mingled hate and love which darkened over Sir Edwin’s face, it might have terrified her, _But:no, she was too us a woman to fear ar ser ¢ save doing wrong. After a minute’s beating of his boot with his stick, the young man rose and followed them down the avenue, contriving, y dint of occasional conversation with Arthur, to mecp alenaes ¥ of them the whole way as far as the bridge which the We never keep , we met tell me it ~*~ / — . ; . . mT ae ‘ td the which noticed. ~

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CHRISTIAN OAKLEYW’S MISTAKE. collere grounds with the college buildings, and which was over- looked by the whole frontage of the Lodge. With a vague sense of relief and protection, Christian glanced to the windows of her home, and there, at the open nursery casement, she saw a group, Phillis, Oliver, Letitia, and behind Letitia another person—Miss Susan Bennett, who had come with a message from old Mrs. Ferguson, and whom, in her kindness, Mrs. Grey had sent to have a cup of tea in the nursery before returning to the village, where the girl said she was ‘‘ quite comfortable.” ‘Chere she stood, she and Phillis, watching, as they doubtless had watched the whole interview, from the time Sir Edwin sat down on the bench till his parting shake of the hand to Arthur, and farewell bow to herself, which bow was rather easy and familiar than distantly ceremonious. Had he done it on purpose? Had he too seen the group at the window, and, moved by a contemptible vanity, or worse, behaved so that these others might notice his manner to Mrs. Grey, and put upon it any construction they pleased? That overpowering dread, ‘‘ What will people say?” for the first time in her life began to creep over Christian’s fearless heart. Such an innocent heart it was, and oh! such a contented one only half an hour ago. ‘‘ How dare he?” she said fiercely, as she found herself alone in her own room, with but just time enough to dress and take her place as the fair, stately, high-thoughted, pure-hearted mistress of her husband’s table. ‘‘ How dare he?” and, standing at the lass; she looked almost with disgust into the beautiful face that urnt hotly still only at the remembrance of the last ten minutes. ‘‘But he must see—he must surely understand how utterly I despise him. He will not presume again. Oh, if I had only told my husband! It was a terrible mistake |” What was—her secret or her marriage? or both? Christian did not stop to think. hatever it was, she knew that, like most of the mistakes and miseries of this world, it was made to be remedied--made possible of remedy. At all events, the pain must be endured, fought through, struggled with, any ing but succumbed to. In the five minutes that, after all, she found she had to wait in the drawing-room before the aunts or her husband appeared, Christian took herself seriously to task for this overwhelming, cowardly fear. What had she really to dread? What harm could he do her—the bad man of whom she had so agereetty made a gir ’sideal? The only testimony thereof was her letters, if he still ad them in his possession—her r, innocent, ‘very few—just two or three. Foolish they might have been, sen- timental and ridiculous, but she could not remember any thing wrong in them—any thing that a girl in her teens need blush to have written, either to friend or lover, save for the one fact that a girl is wiser to have no friend at all among men—except her lover. d, whatever they were, most likely he had destroyed them long ‘No, no,” she thought, ‘‘ he can not do me any harm ; he dare not!” It was difficult to say what Sir Edwin Uniacke would not dare ; for, going back to her room for some trifle forgotten, she dis- covered that he was still lounging, in mouth, up and down the river-side ayenue opposite, where he could plainly see and be geen from almost every window in the Lodge. A vain woman might have been flattered, perhaps allured, by this istence. In Christian it produced only repulsion, actual hatred, if so gentle a spirit could hate. An honest love, from the very humblest man alive, she would have been tender over ; but this, which to her, a wife, was necessarily utter insult and wickedness, awoke in her nothing but abhorrence—the same sort of richteous abhorrence that she would have felt—she knew she would—toward any woman who had tried to win her husband from herself. Win her husband? The fancy almost made her smile, and then filled her with a br sense of joy that he was—what he was, a man to whom the bare idea of Cand any woman but his own wife was so impossible that it became actually ludicrous. She smiled, she even laughed, with an ever-growing sense of all he was to her and she to him, when she heard him open his study-door and call ‘‘ Christian.” She went quickly, to explain in a word or two, before they went down to dinner, her rencontre with Sir Edwin Uniacke. A fter- ward, in their long quiet evenings, to which she so looked for- ward, she would tell her husband the whole story, and give herself the comfort of feeling that now at last he was fully ac- — — her whole outer life and inmost soul, as a husband ought to be. ) t there stood the two aunts, one stately and grim, the other silent and tearful; and it took all Dr. Grey’s winn ways to smooth matters so as to make their last meal together before the tion any thing like a ful one. e seemed so anxious for this—nervously anxious—that his wife forgot every — in helping him to put a cheerful face on every thing. And when she watched him, finding a pleasant ‘ond for every one, and patient even with Miss Gascoigne, who to-day seemed in her sharpest mood, gray-haired, quaint, and bookish-looking as he was, it appeared to Christian that not a young man living could bear a moment’s comparison with Dr. sn Grey. irlish letters— mo He tried his best, and she tried her best; but it was rather a dull dinner, and she found no opportunity to say, as at last she had decided to say publicly, just as a piece of news, no more, that she had to-day met Sir Edwin Uniacke, And so it befell that the ‘first who told the fact was Arthur, blurting out between his straw- berries, ‘‘Oh, papa! I want you to let me go to a place called Lake Hall.” ‘* Lake Hall !” ‘‘ Yes; the owner of it invited me there; he did indeed, He is the kindest, pleasantest gentleman I ever met. A ‘Sir,’ too, His name is Sir Edwin Uniacke.” ‘‘My boy, where did you meet Sir Edwin Uniacke?” So the whole story came out. Dr. Grey listened in grave silence —even a little displeasure, or something less like displeasure than pain. At length he said, “T think you must have made some mistake, Arthur. Your mother could never have allowed—” ‘‘She did not say she would allow me to go. She looked rather vexed ; I don’t think she liked Sir Edwin Uniacke. And if she is very much against my going—well, I won’t go,” said Arthur, heroically. ‘‘ You are a good boy ; but I think this gentleman ought to have hesitated a little before he thus intruded himself upon my wife and my son.” _*I think so too,” said Christian, the first words she had spoken. Dr. Grey glanced at her sharply, but the most suspicious hus- band could have read nothing in her face beyond what she said, ‘‘ And I think,” burst in Miss Gascoigne, who had listened to it all, her large eyes growing every minute larger and larger, ‘‘ that it must be somehow a lady’s own fault when a gentleman is intru- sive. I never believed—lI never could have believed—after all Dr. Grey has said about Sir Edwin, that. the three figures—a lady, and gentleman, and a child, whom I saw this afternoon sitting so com- fortably together on the bench—as comfortably, I vow and declare, = if they had been sitting there an hour, which perhaps they ad—’’ ' ‘‘ Not more than two minutes,” interrupted Christian, speaking very quietly, but conscious of a wild desire to fly at Miss Gas- coigne and shake her as she stood, putting forward, in her custom- ary way, those mangled fragments of truth which are more irri- tating than absolute lies, ‘‘ Indeed, it was only two minutes. I did not choose, even if I had no other reason, that a man of whom ree ae did not approve should hold any communication with ur.” ‘“Thank you, that was right,” said Dr. Grey. ‘Yet you let him walk with you—I know you did, up to the very Lodge door.” ‘‘To the bridge, Miss Gascoigne.” ‘Well, it’s all the same. And I must confess it is most extraor- dinary conduct to refuse a gentleman’s visits—his open visits here —on the pretext that he is not enough for your society, and then meet him, sit with him, walk with him in the college grounds! What will people say ?” Christian turned like a hunted creature at bay. —not a jot, what people say.” ‘‘T thought not. People like you neverdocare. They fly in the face of society ; they—” ‘‘Husband !” with a sort of wild appeal, the first she had ever made for protection—for at least justice. Dr. Grey looked up, started out of along fit of thoughtfulness —sadness it might ie) during which he had let the conversation pass him by. ‘*The Pp thing I care for is what my husband thinks. If he blames me—” * What for, my dear?” ‘‘ Because, when I was walking in the college grounds, as any lady may walk, that man, Sir Edwin Uniacke, whose acquaintance I desire as little as you do, came up and spoke to me, or rather to Arthur. I could not help it, could 1?” ‘‘No, my child,” with a slight emphasis on the words ‘‘m child,” that went to Christian’s es, surely, if she had only had co e to tell him in his large tenderness he could have un- derstood that childish folly, the dream of a day, and the long mis- ery it had brought her. She would tell him all the very first o portunity ; however much it pained and humiliated her, she would tell her good husband all. «And, papa, have I been naughty too?” said Arthur. ‘I am sure I did not see anything so very dreadful in Sir Edwin, He came up and spoke to mother as if he knew her quite well, and then he talked ever so much to me, and said if I would visit him he would give me a boat to row, and a horse to ride, And I’m sure he seemed the very kindest, pleasantest gentleman.” ‘So he is ; and nothing shall ever make me believe he isn’t,” cried Miss Gascoigne, always delighted to pull against the tide. ‘« And I must say, Dr. Grey, the way you*and your wife set up our opinion against that of really good society is perfect nonsense. or my part, when I have a house of my own once more, and can invite whomsoever I please—” ‘I would nevertheless advise, so far as a brother may,” inter- rupted Dr. Grey, very seriously, ‘‘that you do not invite Sir Ed- win Uniacke. And now, aunts both,” with that sunshiny smile which could disperse almost any domestic cloud, ‘‘ as this conver- ‘*7 do not care

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mala de wwe a = eh ee a te nt 6 — = ‘ow . —_am = ky we De: : od — ee ~~ * 4 ~~ Ene, Reig ase ee x 3 | ~ | I TT na NT erect ——_ : ™~. d , 4 + a 26 , CHRISTIAN OAKLLEY’S AMISTAKE. sation is not particularly interesting to the children, suppose we ‘‘Oh, Henrietta,” cried Miss Grey, the womanly feeling within end it. When do you intend to have us all to tea at Avonside?” | her forcing its way, even through her placid non-resistance, ‘ do ; stop | you surely don’t consider what you are saying ? ‘I am not in the habit of speaking without consideration, and I L am, I assure you, perfectly aware what I am pe fae I sa , CHAPTER All that such conduct was not creditable to Miss Oakley, ve there- “Forgive us each his daily sins, They who are merciless to us, fore lam determined, for bt brother’s sake, to sift the story to alt fow or many, great or small; . | Be merciful to them. the very bottom. In fact, I think—to end al] doubt—lI shall put Bote Latdt fornive them ali “And ff the cruel storm should pass, be —— —* a. to rj an Peng mon pee Roy nd let Thy heaven of peace appear, peak of the— But it would not be fair to quo e familiar “. : k t ight th ht—or mi : . : con Sacn napeten Sicen i But make the right shine clear.” seis proverb against the young man who appeared that instant standing at the wicket-gate, ‘‘ WELL, the least I can say of it is that it is very extraordi-| ‘‘ Well, I never knew such a coincidence,” cried Miss Grey. nary |” ‘‘Such a providence rather,” cried Miss Gascoigne... And per- ‘What is extraordinary?” asked Miss Grey, looking up pla-| haps, in her strange obliquity of vision, or, rather, in that sad cidly from her knitting, which did not get on very fast now. reponderance of self which darkened all her vision, this woman ‘Maria, I don’t think you ever do listen to me when I’m talk-| did actually think Providence was leading her toward a solemn ing. I am afraid all I say goes in at one ear and out at the other,” | duty in the investigating of the past history of the forlorn girl which was not impossible, perhaps not unfortunate ; otherwise, | whom Dr. Grey had taken as his wife. : since Miss Gascoigne talked pretty nearly all day long, Miss Grey’s| ‘‘Speak of an angel and you see his wings,” said she, with ex- whole life might have been spent in listening. She replied, with | ceeding politeness, ‘‘ We were just talking about. you, Sir Edwin.” a meek smile, ‘‘ Oh no, dear Henrietta |” ‘‘ Thank you ; and for your charming parody on the old proverb «Then you surely would have made some observation on what | likewise. I hope I am not the angel of darkness, anyhow.” I have been telling you—this very extraordinary thing which Miss| He did not look like it—this graceful, handsome young man, Smiles told me last night at the Lodge, while Mrs. Grey was sing- | gifted with that peculiar sort of beauty which you see in Gethe’s ing—as I forewarned you, Mrs, Grey sings every where now—and | face, in Byron’s, indicating what may be called the Greek tempera- her husband lets her do it—likes it, too |—he actually told meit was ment—the nature of the old Attic race—sensuous, not sensual ; a pleasure to him that his wife should make herself agreeable to pleasure-loving, passionate, and changeable ; not intentionally other people. They mean to give tea-parties once a week to the | vicious, but reveling in a sort of glorious enjoyment, intellectual undergraduates at Saint Bede’s, because she says the master ought and corporeal, to which every thing else is sacrificed—in short, the to be like a father over them, invite: them and make his house heathen as opposed to the Christian type of manhood. pleasant to them. Such a thing was never heard of in our days.” | He sat down, making himself quite at home, a this was ‘No; but I dare say dear Arnold knows best. And what about only his second visit to Avonside Cottage. But Miss Gascoigne, if Miss Smiles ?” only from love of opposition, had made it pretty clear to him that “T’ve told you twenty times already, Maria, how Miss Smiles | he was welcomed there, and that she liked him. He enjoyed be- said that Mrs. Brereton said that her new governess, who happens | ing liked, and had the easy confidence of one who is well used to be Miss Susan Bennett, whom, you may remember, I once got | to it. for Letitia—told her along story about Mrs. Grey and Sir Edwin} ‘‘ Yes, I am ready to avouch, this is the prettiest little paradise Uniacke—how he was an old acquaintance of hers before she was | within miles of Avonsbridge. No wonder you should have plenty married.” | of visitors. I met a tribe coming here—your sister-in-law ichasien ‘Of Christian’s? She never said so, Oh no! it can’t be, or she | ing person is Mrs, Grey !), your nephews and niece, and that gipsy- would have said so.” looking, rather handsome nurse, whv is a little like the hot of ‘« Don’t be too sure of that,” said Aunt Henrietta, mysteriously. | Clytie, only for her sullen, under-lying mouth and projecting chin.” ‘ Besides, she dislikes him, You know, Henrietta, that when| ‘‘How you notice faces, Sir Edwin!” — he called here last week, and she happened to be with us, she put ‘*Of course. Iam a little bit of an artist.” on her bonnet and went home immediately, without seeing him.” | ‘And a great piece of a musician, as I understand. Which “And a very rude thing, too, on her part. Any visitors whom reminds me,” added Miss Gascoigne, eager to plunge into her I choose to invite to my house—” mission, which, in her strange delusion, she earnestly believed was ‘* But he invited himself.” a worthy and righteous one, in which she had embarked for the ‘No matter, he came; and I certainly had no reason to turn him | family benefit—‘‘I wanted to ask whether you did not know Mrs. out. . I consider Dr. Grey’s objections to him perfectly ridiculous. | Grey’s father, the organist? And herself too, when she was Miss Why, one meets the young man everywhere, in the very best so- | Oakley?” ciety, and his manners are charmjng. But that is not the ques-| ‘‘ Every body knew Mr. Oakley,” was the evasive answer. ‘‘ He tion. The question is just this: Was he, or was he not, an ac-| was a remarkable man—quite a genius, with all the faults of a quaintance of Mrs. Grey’s before her marriage? and if he were, | genius. He drank, he ate opium, he—” why did she not say so?” ‘«Nay, he is dead,” faintly said Aunt Maria. ‘* Perhaps she did.” “Which, you mean, is a good reason why I should speak no “Not to me; when he called at the Lodge and I introduced | more about him. I obey you, Miss Grey.” them, they bowed as if they were just ordinary strangers. Now); ‘‘ But his daughter? Did you say you knew his daughter?” that was a rather odd thing, and a very disrespectful thing to my- | pursued Miss Gascoigne. self, not to tell me they had met before, I certainly havearight| ‘‘Oh yes, casually. A charming girl she was! very retty, to be displeased. Don’t you feel it so, Maria?” though immature. Those large, fair women sometimes do not Whether she did or not, Maria only answered with her usual | look their best until near thirty. And she had a glorious voice. deprecatory smile, She and I used to sing duets together continually.” ‘‘There is another curious circumstance, now I recallit. Sir| ‘‘Sing duets together! a young man in your position, and a Edwin showed great surprise, which, indeed, I could scarcely won- | young woman in hers! Without a mother, too!” | der at, when I told him who it was your brother had married—j}| ‘‘Oh, her father was generally present, if you think of propriety. Miss Oakley, the organist’s daughter.” But I do assure you, Miss Gascoigne, there was not the slightest ‘Don’t you think,” said Aunt Maria, with a sudden sparkle of | want of propriety. She was a very pretty girl, and I was a yo intelligence, ‘‘it might have been her father he was acquainted | fellow, rather soft, perhaps, and so we had a—well, you might with? Sir Edwin is so very musical himself that it is not unlikely | it a trifling flirtation, But nothing of any consequence—nothing, he should seek the company of musicians. As for Christian ”— | 1 do assure you.” “ — as she was, Aunt Maria had not lived fifty yearsin the| ‘‘Of course it was of no consequence,” said Aunt Maria, world, and twenty with Miss Gascoigne, without some small| breaking in with a desperate — And still more desperate acuteness——‘‘ I can see, of course, how very bad it would have been | were the nods and winks with which she at last arou even for poor Christian to have any acquaintance wea, 3 young gowns- | Aunt Henrietta to a sense of the position into which the conversa- men, and especially with a person like Sir Edwin Uniacke.’ tion was bringing them both, so that she, too, had the good feel- “He is no worse than his neighbors, and I beg you will make no remarks upon him,” said Miss Gascoigne, with dignity, ‘‘ As A Bedsane taal ted Aunt Maria, appealing] ‘* Perhaps,” sugges unt &, app y, ‘‘ per- haps it isn’t true. People do say such untrue hiens Mrs, Brereton may have imagined it all,” ‘‘It was no imagination. Haven’t I told you that Miss Bennett gave the whole story, exactly as she had learned it lately from the servant at the farm where Mr, Oakley and his daughter once lodged, and where Mr. Uniacke used to come regularly? Not one day did he miss during a whole month. Now, Maria, I should be sorry to think ill of her for your brother’s sake ; but you must al- low, when a young person in her station receives constant visits fron) youn f gentesied--gehiieaten so much above her as Sir Ed- | win is—it very like—” ing to add, ‘Certainly it is not of the slightest consequence. Dr, Grey is probably aware of it all.” t dhs ‘Which may be the reason I am never invited to the Lodge,” laughed the young man, s0 ey that one would hardly have the-by, I hear they had such a pleasant gathering there last = —a musical evening, where every body sang a great deal, and Grey only once, but then, of course, divinely. I should like to hear her again. But look, there are the children. Shall I take the liberty of unfastening for them the latch of your garden gate?” He sp out of the low window, and came. heading the small battalion of visitors—Phillis, Arthur, Letitia, and Oliver. But Mrs. Grey was not there, She had come half wey, and tre turned home alone, ; paused to consider what he laughed at or what it implied. ‘ - 7 - ca st} 4 : “ “<< + 4 » _— a _ : ine ots ae i ‘e,¢ ny SAD. Bos » 2 f ? - . gy ‘ae aa” Bity Fe Fey |, es ——em «

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eel — ee - — CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. ~—7 ‘Well, I must say that is very odd, considering I invited her to | ing, with a fairy-like wreath of mist rising up above the low-lying spend tl e day, and, | think, rather disrespectful to me—to us both, | meadows of the Avon, and climbing slowly up to the college Maria.” towers, and the far-off sunset clouds, whose beauty she never “‘She might have been tired after the party last night,” put in | noticed, Miss Gascoigne condescended to some passing conversa: Aunt Maria. tion with Phillis, and elicited from her, without betraying any ‘‘No, she wasn’t tired, for she never told me so,” said Arthur. | thing, as she thought, a good deal—namely, that Sir Edwin ‘She told me to say—not you, Phillis, mother always trusts me | Uniacke was often seen walking up and down the avenue facing with her messages—that she had gone back on account of papa’s.| the Lodge, and that once or twice he had met and spoken to the wanting her, and that if he came to fetch us, she would come here | children. with him in the evening.” ‘*But Mrs. Grey doesn’t like it. I think she wants to drop his “Very devoted! ‘An old man’s darling and a young man’s | acquaintance,” said the sharp Phillis, who was gaining quite as slave,’ runs the proverb; but Mrs. Grey seems to reverse it. She | much information as she bestowed. «3]] soon:never stir out an inch without your brother, Maria.” “Why, did they ever—did she ever ”—and then some lingering ‘‘ And I am sure my brother never looks so happy as when she | spark of womanly feeling, ae ete prudence, made Miss Gascoigne is beside him,” said Aunt Maria, ‘‘ We shall quite enjoy seeing | hesitate, and add with dignity, ‘“Yes, very likely Mrs. Grey may them both + gue to-night,” not choose his acquaintance. He is not approved of by every ** And [only wish it had been my good fortune to join such a| body.” pleasant family party,” observed Sir Edwin Uniacke, ‘‘T know that,” said Phillis, meaningly. It was rather too broad a hint, presuming even upon Miss Gas-| The two women, the lady and the servant, exchanged looks. coigne’s large courtesy. In dignified silence she passed it over, | Both were acute persons, and the judgment either passed on the sending the children and Phillis away to their early dinner, and | other was keen and accurate. Probably neither judged herself, after an interval of that lively conversation, in which, under no | or recognized the true root of her judgment upon the third person, circumstances, did Sir Edwin ever fail, allowing him also to! unfortuntate Christian. depart. Nevertheless, when in the hall of the Lodge they came suddenly As he went down the garden, Miss Grey, with great dismay, | face to face with Mrs. Grey, entering, hat in hand, from the door watched him stop at her beautiful jessamine bower, pull half a| of the private garden, the only place where she ever walked alone dozen of the white stars, smell at them, and throw them away, | now, they both started as if they had been detected in something He would have done the same—perhaps had done it—with far| wrong. She looked so quiet and gentle, grave and sweet, modest diviner things than jessamine flowers. as a girl and dignified as a young matron—so perfectly unconscious. ‘ Yes,” said Miss Gascoigne, looking after him, and then sitting | of all that was being said or planned against her, that if these two down opposite Miss Grey, spreading out her wide silk skirts, and | malicious women had a conscience—and they had, both of them— preparing herself solemnly for a wordy war—that is, if it could be | they must have felt it smite them now. called a war which was all on one side—‘‘ yes, I have come to the ‘Miss Gascoigne, how kind of you to walk home with the bottom of it all. I knew I should. Nothing ever escapes me. | children! Papa and I would have come, but he was obliged to And pray, Maria, what do you think of her now?” dine in Hall. He will soon be free now, and will walk back with ‘Think of whom ?” you. Pray come in and rest ; you look tired.” ‘You are so dull when you won’t hear. Of your sister-in-law,| Mrs. Grey’s words and manner, so perfectly guileless and natural, Christian Grey.” for the moment quite confounded her enemy—her enemy, and yet Poor Aunt Maria looked up with a helpless pretense of igno-|an honest enemy, Of the number of cruel things that are done in rance. ‘‘ What about her, Henrietta dear?” this world, how many are done absolutely for conscience sake by ‘““Pshaw! You know as well as I do, only you are so obtuse, or people who deceive themselves that they are acting from the so meek.” (A mercy she was, or she would never have lived a noblest, purest. motives, And from their list of commandments week, not to say twenty years, with Henrietta Gascoigne.) ‘‘ Once | they obliterate one—‘‘ Judge not, that ye be not judged ; condemn for all, tell me what you propose doing ?” | ‘not, and ye shall not be condemned,” ‘Doing? 1?” | | |» But, for the time being, Miss Gascoigne was puzzled. Herstern ‘Yes, you. Can’t you see, my dear Maria, that it is your busi-| reproof, her patronizing pity, were alike disarmed. The heap of ness to inform your brother what you have discovered concerning accusing evidence which she had accumulated dwindled into the his wife?” most ordimary and commonplace facts at sight of Christian’s in- ‘Discovered ?” -nocent face and placid mien, Nothing could be more unlike a “Certainly ; it is a discovery, since she has never told it—never | woman who lod ever contemplated the ordinary “ iliMing” of told her husband that before her marriage she had been in the society. As for any thing worse, the idea was impossible to be habit of singing duets (love-songs, no doubt, most improper for entertained fora moment. It was simply ridiculous. any young woman) with a young gentleman of Sir Edwin’s birth .. Aunt Henrietta sat a good while ma quite mildly for her, of and position, who, of course, never thought of marrying her, and | ordinary topics, before she attempted to broach the real object of who, by the light way he speaks of her, evidently shows how little | her visit. It was only as the hour neared for Dr. Grey’s coming respect he had for her. in that she nerved herself to her mission. She had an uneasy ‘* Perhaps,” mildly suggested Aunt Maria, ‘* perhaps she really | sense that it would be carried out better in his absence than in his has told dear Arnold.” presence, ‘Then why did he not tell us—tell me? Why did he place me| Without glancing often at Christian, who sat so peaceful, look- in the very awkward position of not knowing of this previous ac- | ing out into the fading twilight, she launched her thunderbolt at quaintance of his wife’s? Why; in that very unpleasant conversa- | once. tion we had one day at the Lodge, was I the only person to be kept ‘“‘ We had a visit to-day from Sir Edwin Uniacke.” in ignorance of his reasons—and very. good reasons I now see they| ‘‘ So I supposed, since I and the children met him on the way to were—for forbidding Sir Edwin’s visits? Singing duets together | | Avonside.” Who knows but that they may meet and sing them still? Thatnew! In this world, so full of shams, how utterly bewildering some- piano ! and we turned out of the house directly afterward—liter- | times is the direet innocent truth! At this answer of Christian's ally turned out! But vag & that was the very reason she did it | Miss Gascoigne looked more amazed than if she had been told a hat she might meet him the more freely. Oh Maria! your poor | dozen lies. deluded brother !” ‘“‘ Was that the reason you turned back and went home?” In vain did poor Maria ejaculate her pathetic “Oh, Henrietta!”} ‘Partly; I really had forgotten something which Dr. Grey and try. in her feeble way, to put in a kindly word or two; noth-| wanted, but I also wished to avoid meeting your visitor.” ing availed, Miss Gascoigne had lashed herself up into believing| ‘‘ Why so?” firmly every thing she had tinagined ; and it was with an honest| ‘‘ Surely you must guess. How can I voluntarily meet any one expression of real rad and pain that she repeated over and over| who is not a friend of my husband’s?” ain, “‘ What ought we todo? Your poor, dear brother |” ‘* Not though he may have been a friend of yourown? For, as For, with all her faults, Miss Gascoigne was a conscientious | I understand, you once, had a very close acquaintance with Sir woman; one who, so far as she saw her day, tried to fulfill it, and | Edwin Uniacke.” as “wet perhaps a little more so, insisted on other people’s ful- |. The thrust was so unexpected, so unmistakable in its meaning, filling theirs. She stood aghast at the picture, her own self-painted | that Christian, in her startled surprise, said the very worst thing picture, of the kind brother-in-law, of whom in her heart she was | she could have said to the malicious ears which were held open to really fond, married to a false, wicked woman, more than twenty | every thing and eager to misconstrue every thing, ‘‘ Who told you years his junior, who mocked at his age and peculiarities, and | that?” | flirted behind his back with any body and every body. ‘‘Told me! Why, all Avonsbridge is talking about it, and about ‘“‘T must speak to her myself, poor thing ! I must open her eyes | you.” to the danger she is run e- tov ¢ consider, Maria, if that story| This was a lie—a little white lie ; one of those small exagger- did go about Avonsbridge, she would never be thought well of in| ations of which people make no account; but Christian believed I must speak to her. If she will only confide in me | it, and it seemed to wrap her round as with a cold mist of fear. society implicitly, so that I can take her part, and assure every body I meet | All Avonsbridge talking of her—her, Dr. whi Ay wife, who had that, however bad appearances may be as regards this unlucky | his honor as well as her own in her keeping— ing about herself story, there is really nothing in it—nothing at all—don’t you ie, and Sir Edwin Uniacke! What? how much? how had the tale Maria?” come about? how could it be met? In her walk to the Lodge, through the still, sweet autumn even-| With a sudden instinct of self-preservation, she forcibly sum-

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2S CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. moned back hercomposure. She knew with whom she had to deal, She must guard every look, every word. | ‘‘ Will you tell me, Miss Gascoigne, exactly who is talking about me, and what they say? Iam sure I have never given occa- sion for it.” ‘Never? Are you quite certain of that ?” ** Quite certain. Who said I had ‘a very close acquaintance ’— were not these your words—with Sir Edwin Uniacke?” ** Himself.” “* Himself |” Then Christian recognized the whole amount of her difficulty— nay, her danger ; for she was in the power, net of a gentleman, but of a villain. Any man must have been such who, under the circumstances, could have boasted of their former acquaintance, or even referred to it at all. And it was with almost contemptuous indignation that she repeated, ‘‘ What ! he told it himself?’ ‘‘He did. I first heard it through Miss Bennett, your portégée, who has come back, and is now a governess at. Mrs. Brereton’s, But when I questioned Sir Edwin himself, he did not deny it.” ‘* You questioned him ?” ‘Certainly. I felt it to be my duty. He says that he knew you in your father’s lifetime ; that he was intimate with you both ; that you and he used to sing duets together ; in short, that—” ‘‘Go on. 1 wish to hear it all.” ‘‘That is all. And Iam sure, Mrs. Grey, it is enough.” ‘‘It is enough. And he has been saying this, and you have been listening to it, perhaps repeating it to all Avonsbridge. What a wicked woman you must be!” The words were said, not fiercely or resentfully, but in a sort of meditative, passive despair. A sense of the wickedness, the cruelty there was in the world, the hopelessness of struggling against it, of disentangling fact from falsehood, of silencing malice and disarming envy, came upon Christian in a fit of bitter- ness uncontrollable. Even if she were not blameless—who is blameless in this mor- tal life ?—even if she had made a mistake-—a great mistake—her punishment was sharp. Just now, when happiness was dawning upon her, when the remorse for her hasty marriage and lack of love toward her husband had died away, when her heart was be- ginning to leap at the sound of his step, and her whole soul to pa itself in the tender light of his loving eyes, it was very, very ‘Well, Mrs. Grey, and what have you to say for yourself?” Christian looked up instinctively—lifted her passive hands, and folded them on her lap, but answered nothing. ‘ You must see,” continued Miss Gascoigne, ‘‘what an exceed- ingly unpleasant story it is, and how necessary it was for me speak about it. Such a matter easily might become the whole town’s talk, An acquaintance before your marriage, which y8u kept so scrupulously concealed that your nearest connections—I myself even—had not the slightest idea of it! You must perceive, Mrs. Grey, what conclusions people will draw—indeed, can not help drawing. Not that J believe—I assure you I don’t—one word against you. Only confide in me, and I will make the matter clear to “os Avonsbridge. You hear me?” sé es.” ‘And now, my dear”—the energy of her protection rr Aunt Henrietta actually affectionate—‘‘ do speak out. Tell me gou have to say for yourself.” ‘** Nothing.” ‘Nothing? What do you mean?” It may seem an odd thing to assert, and a more difficult thing till to ) pee but Miss Gascoigne was not at heart a bad woman. xe had a fierce temper and an enormous egotism, yet these two ‘qualities, in the strangely composite characters that one meets svith in life, are not incompatible with many good qualities. Pain, most sincere and undisguised, not unmingled with actual pity, was visible in Miss Gascoigne’s countenance as she looked on the young creature before her, to whom her words had caused auch violent emotion. For this emotion her narrow nature—al- ways so ready to look on human nature in its worst side, and to suspect wherever suspicion could alight—found but one interpre- tation—guilt. She drew back, terrified at what her interference had done, What if the story should prove to be, not mere idle ip, but actual scandal—the sort of scandal which would cast aslur forever on the whole Grey family, herself included ? There, above all, the fearstruck home. Sup she had med- dled in a matter which no lady could touch without indecorum, perhaps actual defilement? Suppose, in answer to her entreaty, Christian should confide to her something which no lady ought to hear? What a fearful position for her—Miss Gascoigne—to be placed in!. What should she say to Dr. Grey? Hard as her heart might be, this thought touched the one soft place in it, Her voice actually trembled as she said, “Your poor husband ! what will become of him?” Christian sprang up with a shrill ery. ‘‘ Yes, yes! I know| sp what I willdo, I wil f° and tell my husband.” Miss Gascoigne thought she was mad. And, indeed, there was something almost frenzied in the way her victim rushed from the room, like a creature driven desperate by misery. Aunt Henrietta did not know how to act. To follow Christian was quite beneath her dignity ; to go home, with her mission un- fulfilled, her duty undone, that too was impossible, She deter- mined to wait a few minutes, and let things take their chance, Miss Gascoigne was not a bad woman, only an utterly mistaken and misguided one. She meant no harm—very few people do de- liberately mean harm—they only do it. Yet she had not a cruel nature, and the misery she endured during the few minutes that she sat thinking of the blow that was about to fall on Dr. Grey and his family, heaping on the picture every exaggerated imagination of a mind always prone to paint things in violent colors, was enough to atone for half the wrong she had done, She started up like a guilty creature when the door opened, and Phillis entered with a letter in her hand. ‘‘Beg pardon, ma’am. I thought you were Mrs. Grey.” “She is just gone up stairs—will be back directly,” said Miss Gascoigne, anxious to keep up appearances to the last available moment. ‘‘Is that letter for her? Shall I give it to her?” ‘No, thank you, I’ll give it myself; and it’ll be the last that ever I will give, for it isn’t my business,” added Phillis, flustered and indignant, so much so that she dropped the letter on the floor. By the light of a small taper there was a mutual search for it— - why mutual Miss Gascoigne best knew. It was she who picked it up, and before she had delivered it back she had clearly seen it all—handwriting, seal, and tinted envelope, with the initials «B®. U.” on the corner. Some hidden feeling in both of them, the lady and the servant, some last remnant of pity and poet prevented their confiding openly in one another, even if Miss Gascoigne could have conde- scended so far. But she knew as well as if Phillis had told, and Phillis likewise was perfectly aware she knew, that the note came from Sir Edwin Uniacke. Poor Aunt Henrietta! She was so horrified—literally horrified, that she could bear no more. She left no message—waited for nobody—but hurried back, as fast as she could walk, through the twilight, to her own cottage at Avonside. | CHAPTER XIV. ‘Peace on earth, and mercy mild, ** He that has a victory lost Sing the angels, reconciled ; Over each sad warfare done, Each soul-battle lost and won. May discomfit Divs: host: And, it often doth befall He who conquers loses all.” CHRISTIAN, after is waiting in the study for a long hour, received a message from her husband that he would not be home that night. He had to take a sudden journey of twenty miles on some urgent affairs. This was not unusual. Dr. Grey was one of those people whom all their friends come to in any emergency, and the amount of other people’s business, especially painful busi- ness, which he was expected to transact, and did transact out of | pure benevolence, was incalculable. So his wife had to wait still, She submitted as to fatality, laid her head on her pillow, and fell at once into that dull, stupid sleep which mercifully comes to some —_— and always came to her, in heavy trouble. She did not wake from it till late in the follow- ing morning. : A great dread, like a great joy, always lies in ambush, ready to leap upon us the instant we open our eyes. Had Miss Gascoigne known what a horrible monster it was, like a tiger at her throat, which sprang upon Christian when she waked that morning, she, even she, might have felt remorseful for the pain she had caused. Christian rose and dressed ; for her household ways must go on as usual ; she must take her place at the breakfast-table, and make it cheerful and pleasant, so that the children might not find out any thing wrong with mother. She did so, and sent them away to their morning play—happy little souls! Then she sat down to think for a little, all alone. Not what to do—that was already decided ; but how todo it— how to tell Dr. Grey in the least painful way that his love had not been the first love she had received—and given ; that she had had this secret, and kept it from him, though he was her husband, for six whole months. Oh, had she but told him before her marriage, long, long ago Now, he might think she only did it out of fear, dread of public opinion, or seeking protection from the public scandal that might overtake her, however innocent. For was she not in the hands of an unscrupulous man and @ malicious woman ? What the world thought of her—what Miss Gascoigne thought of her—became of little account. All she dreaded was what Dr. Grey would think. Would he, in his large, tender, compassionate heart, on hearing her confession, say only ‘‘ Poor thing! she could not help it; she was foolish and young,” or would he feel she had deceived him, and cast her off from his trust, his respect, his love for overmore? In either case she hesitated not fora moment. She hated, de- ised herself for having already suffered day after day to pass by without telling him, though she had continually intended to do it. All this was a just punishment for her cowardice ; for she saw now, as she had never seen before, that every husband, every wife, before entering into the solemn bond of , hasa right to be made acquainted with every secret of the other’s heart, every event ~ ee -

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——y- —— a Se i, gf i et CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. ' of the other’s life ; that such confidence, then and afterward, should ;in the morning determined to ‘‘do her duty,” as she express know no reservations, save and except trusts reposed in both be- | it, but looking miserably pale, and vainly restraining her agitation fore marriage by other people, which marriage itself is not justified | so as to keep up a good appearance ‘‘ before the servants.” in considering fires ‘That will do, Barker. You need not disturb the master ; ] But, the final moment being come, when a day—half a day— | came at this early hour just fora little chat with your mistress would decide it all—decide the whole future of herself and her | and the children.” husband, Christian’s courage seemed to return. And then entering the parlor, she sat down opposite to Christian She sat trembling, yet not altogether hopeless ; very humble, | to take breath. a and yet strong, with the strength that the inward consciousness of| Miss Gascoigne was really to be pitied. Mere gossip she en- deeply loving—not of being loved, but of loving—always gives a/ joyed ; it was her native element, and she had plunged into this woman, and waited till Dr. Grey came home. matter of Sir Edwin Uniacke with undeniable eagerness, But now, When the parlor door opened she rushed forward, thinking it was | when it wat Yo not be gossip, but disgrace, her terror overpowered. he, but it was only Phillis—Phillis, locking insolent, self-impor-| her. For disgrace, discredit in the world’s eye, was the only form tant, contemptuous, as she held out to her mistress a letter. the matter took to this worldly woman, who rarely looked on ‘There ! I’ve took it in for once, and given it to you, by yourself, | things except on the outside, as he bade me, but I’ll never take in another. I’m an honest wo-| Therefore, as her looks showed, she was not so much shocked as man, and my master has been a good master to me.” simply frightened, and had come to the Lodge with a frantic notion ‘* Phillis |” cried Mrs, Grey, astonished, But when she saw the | of hushing up the matter somehow, whatever it was. Her princi- letter she was astonished no more. pal terror was not so much the sin itself, but lest the world might. ear of it The tinted perfumed paper, the large seal, the dainty handwrit- ing, all were familiar of old. ‘* You see, Mrs, Grey, lam come again,” said she, very earnestly. Fierce indignation, unutterable contempt, and then a writhing | ‘‘ In spite of every thing, I have come back to advise with you. IL sense of personal shame, as if she were somehow accountable for | am ready to overlook every thing, to try and conceal every thing. this insult, swept by turns over Christian’s soul, until she recol-| Maria and I have been turning over in our minds all sorts of plans lected that she must betray nothing ; for more than her own sake to get you away till this has blown over—call it going to the sea- —her husband’s—she must not put herself in her servant’s power. | side, to the country with Arthur—any thing, in short, just that you So she did not throw the letter in the fire, or stam a A it, or may leave Avonsbridge,” do any of the frantic things she was tempted to do; she helditin| ‘I leaye Avonsbridge? Why?” her hand like a common note, and said calmly, “You know why. When you had a lover before your cpt. tha ‘Who brought this ? and when did it come?” , of whom you did not tell your husband or his friends—when this ‘Last night, only I couldn’t find you. It was nigh dropping | gentleman afterward meets you, writes to you—I saw the letter—” into Miss Gascoigne’s hands, and a pretty mess that would have} ‘‘ You saw the letter!” been. And I warn you—you had better mind what you are about} There was no hope. She was hunted down, as many an. inno- —Miss Susan Bennett told me all about it; and a nice little story | cent person has been before now, by a combination of evidence, it is, too, for a married lady. And Miss Gascoigne has scented it half truths, half lies, or truths so twisted that they assume the out, I’ll be bound ; and if Dr. Grey once gets hold of it—” aspect of lies, and lies so exceedingly ge ge that they are by ‘‘Stop |” said Christian, firmly, though she felt her very lips! even keen observers mistaken for truth. Passive and powerless turning white. ‘“‘You are under some extraordinary delusion. | Christian sat. Miss Gascoigne might say what she would—all There is nothing to be got hold of. Take this letter to my hus- | Ayonsbridge might say what it would—she would never open her band’s study—it is his affair. 1 have no communications whatever | lips more. with Sir Edwin Uniacke.” | At that moment, to preserve her from going mad—(she felt as if Phillis looked utterly amazed. Though her mistress did not speak | she were—as if the whole world were whirling round, and God another word, there was something in her manner—her perfect, had forgotten her)}—Dr, Grey walked in, quiet conviction of innocence, self-asserted, though without any) “ Oh, husband! save me from her—sayvye me—save me!” she oven self-defense—which struck the woman more than any amount shrieked, again and again. And without one thought except that >of anger would have done. ‘‘If I’ve made a mistake, I’m sure 1 he was there—her one pfotector, defender, and stay—she sprang veg ont pardon, ma’am,” began she, quite humbly, ‘to him, and clung desperately to his breast. hat for? Except for receiving and bringing to me privately | And so, in this unforeseen and unpremeditated manner, told— 3 letter which should have been left with Barker at the door, it | how or by whom, herself, Miss Gascoigne, or both together, Chris- being Barker’s business, and not yours. Remember that another | tian never clearly remembered—her one secret, the one error of time. Now take the letter to the study, and go.” her sad girlhood was communicated to her husband. Phillis hesitated. She looked again and again at that calm,|} He took the revelation calmly enough, as he did everything ; proud, innocent lady, whom she had so wickedly misjudged and| Dr. Grey was not the man for tragic scenes, The utmost & maligned, how far and how fatally her own conscience alone could | seemed to think of in this one was calming and soothing his wife tell. And Phillis knew what innocence was, for, poor woman, she | as much as possible, carrying her to the sofa, making her lie down, had known what it was not. Malice also she knew ; and, judging | and leaning over her with a sort of pitying tenderness, of which her mistress by herself, she trembled. the only audible expression was, ‘‘ Poor child | poor child |” ‘Tf you're going to bear spite against me for this, I’d best give Christian tried to see his face, but could not. She sought warning at once, Mrs, Grey—only it would nigh break my heart to | feebly for his hand—his warm, firm, protecting hand—and_ felt. leave the children,” him take hers in it, Then she knew that she was safe. ‘‘T have no wish for you to leave the children, and I néver bear! No, he never would forsake her. He had loved her—once and spite against any body. Life is not long enough for it,” added for always—with the love that has strength to hold its own Mrs. Grey, sighing. Then, with a sudden mi derit? if by any through every thing and in spite of every thing. Whatever she means she could smooth matters and win a little household peace, | was, whatever the. world might think her, she was his wife, and he ‘I desire to be a good mistress to. you, Phillis ; why should you! loved her. She crept into her husband’s bosom, knowing that it not be a good servant tome? You love the children ; you are to/ was her sure refuge, never to be closed against her until she died. them a most faithful nurse; why can not you believe that I shall} The next thing she remembered was his speaking to Miss Gas- be a faithful mother? Let us turn over a new leaf, and begin coigne—not eon Bay or as if in great mental suffering, but in. his again.” natural voice. She held out her hand, and Phillis took it; looked hardin her} ‘ And now, Henrietta, just tell me the utmost you have to allege mistress’s face—the kind, friendly face, that was not ashamed to be against my wife. That Sir Edwin was known to her father and a friend even to a ae servant ; then, with something very like a | herself, of which acquaintance she never told her husband ; that sob, she turned and ran out of the room. she has accidentally met him since a few times; and that he has. But when she was gone Christian sank down exhausted, With! been rude enough to address a letter to her—where is it?” a desperate self-control she had wrenched herself out of Phillis’s|/ It was lying on the table, for Phillis, in her precipitate disap- wer, she had saved herself and her husband from the suspicion pearance, had forgotten it. Dr. Grey put it into. his pocket un- that it was possible Dr, Grey’s wife could receive, or give occasion opened. as tu receive, a secret letter, a love-letter, from any man; but when ‘Well, Aunt Henrietta, is that all? Have you any more to sa the effort was over she broke down. Convulsive sobs, one after| anything else of which to accuse my wife? Say it all y= sgn the other, shook her, until she felt as if her very life were depart- | remember one thing, that you are saying it to a man, and about And in the midst of this agony appeared—Miss Gascoigne. | his wife.” Aunt Henrietta had spent the whole night, except a brief space| Brief asthe words were, they implied volumes—all that Dr, Grey for sleeping, in thinking over and talking over her duties and her! was, and every honest man should be, toward his wife, whom he wrongs, the two being mixed up together in inextinguishahle con- | has taken to himself to cherish and protect, if necessary, against the fusion, Almost any subject, after being churned up in such a! whole world—every thing for which the bond of marriage was. nature as hers for twelve mortal hours, would at the end look quite | ordained, to be maintained unannulled by time, or change, or faulti- different from what it did at first, or what it really was. And 50, | ness, perhaps even actual sin, | with all honesty of purpose, and with the firmest conviction that! But in his manner was not only protection, there was also love— it was the only means of saving her brother-in-law and his family | the sort of love which passionate youth can seldom understand ; from irretrievable misery and disgrace, poor Miss Gascoigne had | but Paul the apostle did, unmarried though he was, when he i broken through all her habits, risen, dressed, and breakfasted at |in such mystical language of a Sasbants ‘nourishing and cher- an unearthly hour, and there she stood at the Lodge door at nine | ishing” his wife ‘as the Lord the Church.” And now Christian

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30 ’ geemed to comprehend this, when, looking up to her husband, she felt that he was also her ‘‘ lord,” ruling and guiding her less by harsh authority than by the perfect law of love. ‘* Nay,” she said, faintly, ‘‘don’t blame your sister ; she meant mo harm, nordid Il. lonly—” ‘Hush !” Dr. Grey replied, laying his hand upon her mouth ; ‘** that is a matter solely between you and your husband,” But whether, thus met at all points, Miss Gascoigne began to doubt whether her mountain were not a mere molehill after all, or whether she involuntarily succumbed to the influence of such honest love, such unbounded trust, and felt that to interfere farther between this husband and wife would be not only hope- less, but wicked, is impossible to say. Perhaps—let us give her the credit of a good motive rather than a bad one—she really felt she had been wrong, was moved and softened, and brought to a better mind, | | In any case, that i pipet which had never been known to happen before in Miss Gascoigne’s existence—when asked to speak she had literally nothing to say ! “Then,” continued Dr. Grey, good-humoredly, still holding his wife’s hand, and sitting beside her on, the sofa, ‘‘ this mighty matter may come to an end, which is, indeed, the best thing for it. Since I am quite satisfied concerning my wife, I conclude my sister may be, We will consider the subject closed. Make friends, you two. Christian, will you not?” Christian rose, She had never kissed Miss Gascoigne in her life, had had no encouragement to doit, and it would have seemed a iece of actual hypocrisy. Now it was not, The kiss of affection it could hardly be, but there is such a thing as the kiss of peace. She rose and went, white and tottering as she was, across the room to where Miss Gascoigne sat, hard, bitter, and silent, deter- mined that not a step should be taken on her side—she would not be the first to ‘‘ make friends.” “‘Forgive me, Aunt Henrietta, if I ever offended you. I did not mean it. Let us try to get on better for the future. We ought, for we are both so fond of the children and of Arnold.” Such simple words, such a natural feeling! if that hard heart were only natural and soft enough to take itin, And it was—for OBCE, Miss Gascoigne looked incredulously up, then down again, in a shamefaced, uncomfortable way, then held out her hand, and kissed Christian, while two tears—only two—gathered and dropped from her eyes. But the worst was over. The ice was broken and the stream ran clear. How long it would run good angels only could tell. But they sang, and kept on singing, all that day, in Christian’s heart, the song of ‘peace on earth”—for the battle was over and the foes were reconciled. — —>— CHAPTER XV. “It may be under palace roof “It may be ’twixt four lowly walls, Princely and e; No inew, no pride; y No pomp fo ne, no pleasure lost, Where sorrows ofttimes enter in, No wish denied ; But ne'er abide. But if beneath the dlamond’s flash Yet, if she sits beside the hearth, A poole t Sade ahaedy place Apion a ~ SE. . nl , esse e, a heave lace, bs our fireside, Is our ke side.” 7 THE very instant Miss Gascoigne was gone, Christian, throwing herself on her husband’s neck, clasping him, clinging to him, ready almost to herself at his ata Fl in her passion of hu- mility and love, told him without reserve, without one pang o hesitation or shame—perhaps, indeed, there was little or nothing Mees Me of—every thing concerning herself and Edwin acke, He listened, not making any answer, but only hol her fast in his arms, till at length she took courage to look up in his face, “What ! you are not angry or grieved? Nay,.I could fancy you were almost a ‘* Yes, my child! Because, to tell you the plain truth, I knew all before.” ‘* Knew it before !” cried Christian, in the utmost astonishment. “‘T really did. Nobody told me, I found it out—found it out veoh erey I knew you. It was the strangest thing, and yet quite na ”? And then he explained to her that, after the ful circum- stance occurred which caused Mr, Uniacke’s rustication, he had fled, from justice it might be, or, in any case, from the dread of it, leaving all his papers open, and his rooms at the mercy of all comers. But, of course, the master and dean of the college had taken immediate possession there ; and Dr. Grey, known to the gprs man’s widowed mother, from whom he had received much kindness in his youth, was deputed by her to overlook every ching and investigate every thing, if by any means his relatives t arrive at the real truth of that shameful story which, now as heretofore, Dr. Grey passed over unexplained. **It would serve no purpose to tell it,” he said, ‘and it is all safely ended now.” How far his own strong, clear common sense and just judgment had succeeded in hushing it up, and sa the aig wan fom, a ruined life, and his family from intolerable Dr, Grey was not likely to say. But his wife guessed all, then and after- CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTARBE. He proceeded to tell her how, in penrening these papers, among a heap of discreditable letters he had lighted upon two or three, pure as white lilies found lying upon a refuse heap, signed ‘* Christian Oakley.” ‘I read them—I was obliged to read them—but I did soe private- ly, and I put them in my pocket before the dean saw them. No one ever cast eyes upon them except myself. I took them home with me and kept them, And I ae them now, for they first taught me what she was—this chosen wife of mine. They let me into the secret of that simple, gentle, innocent, girlish heart ; they made me feel the worth of it, even thoughit was cing thrown away on a worthless man. And I suspect from that time I wanted it for my own.” He went on to say how he had first made acquaintance with her —on business grounds partly, connected with her father’s sudden death, but also intending, as soon as he felt himself warranted in taking such a liberty, to return these letters, and tell herin a plain, honest, fatherly manner what a risk she had run, and what a mer- ciful escape she had made from this young man, who, Dr. Grey then felt certain, would never again dare to appear at Avons- bridge. But the opportunity never came. The “fatherly” feeling was swallowed up in another, which effectually sealed the good man’s tongue, He determined to make her his wife, and then the letters, the whole story, in which he had read her heart as clear as a book, and was afraid of nothing, concerned himself alone, He felt at liberty to tell her how or when he chose, At least so he persuad- ed himself, ‘‘But perhaps I, too, was a little bit of a coward, my child. I, too, might have avoided much misery if I had had the stre to speak out. But we all make mistakes sometimes, as I told you once. The great thing is not to leave them as mistakes, not to sink under them, but to recognize them for what they are, and try to remedy them if possible. Even if we married too hastily—lI, be- cause it was the only way in which I could shelter and protect m darling, and you—well, perhaps because I overpersuaded you, still, we are happy now.” Happy! It was a word too small—any word would be, The only expression for such happiness was silence, * d what are we to do about him?” “Him! Who?” Christian said it quite naturally ; for, woman-like, in that rap- ture of content, the whole world dwindled down into but two be- , herself and her husband. r. Grey smiled—not dissatisfied. ‘‘I meant Sir Edwin Uniacke. May I read his letter?” ** Certainly.” She turned her face away, blushing in bitter shame. But there was no need, LEither ‘‘ the de’il is not so black as he’s painted,” or, what was more probable, that person himself, incarnate in man’s evil nature, Binks from pig worst blackness upon the white purity of a good woman. Probably never was an illicit or disgraceful love-letter written to any woman for which she her- self was quite blameless. Dr. Grey perused very composedly Sir Edwin’s epistle to his wife, saying at the end of it, ‘‘Shall I read this aloud? There is no reason why I should not.” And he read : ‘“‘My DEAR CHRISTIAN, ‘If you have forgotten me, I have not forgotten you. A man f | does not generally meet with a girl like you twice in his lifetime. If, pressed by circumstances, I let you slip throug it was the worse for me, and, perhaps, the better for you. I nD oO grudge against that worthy don and most respectable old fogie, your husband.” Christian recoiled with indignation, but Dr. Grey laughed— actually laughed in the content of his heart—and, Y payoy Se arm es orate fe’s waist, made her read the remainder of the letter t > ‘‘T have followed you pretty closely for some weeks. I can not tell why, except that I was once y in love with you, and per- haps I am still—I hardly know. But I am a gentleman, and not a fool either. And when a man sees & woman cares no more for him than she does for the dust under her feet, why, if he keeps on wart tae her, he és a fool. ‘‘The purport of this letter is, therefore, nothing to which you can have the slightest objection, it being merely a warning. is a young woman in Avonsbridge, Susan Bennett by name, who, from an unfortunate oy oe the tongue of mine, hates you, as all women do hate one another (except one woman, whom I ence had the honor of meeting every day for four weeks, which fact ay / have made me a less fellow than I used to be, God knows— there is a God, and if He does know any thing), Well, what I had to say is, Beware of Susan Bennett, and beware of another person, who thinks herself much superior to Bennett, and yet they are as like as two peas—Miss Gascoigne, Defend gre ; you may need it. And as the best way to defend you, I mean immediately to leave Avonsbridge—per for personal reasons also, discretion the better part of valor, and you being so confoundedly like an angel still. Good-by. Yourstruly, EDWIN UNIACKE,” A strange ‘‘love-letter” certainly, yet not an ill one, and one .

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CHRISTIAN OAKLEY'S MISTAKE. 3L which it was better to have received than not. Better than any | customed place, round Christian’s new piano in the drawing-room ; uncomfortable mystery to have had this clearing up of the doings for, since Miss Gascoigne’s departure, she had carried out her and intentions of that strange, brilliant, erratic spirit which had flashed across the quiet atmosphere of Saint Bede’s, and then van- ished away in darkness—-darkness not hopelessly dark. The husband and wife sat silent for a little, and then Dr. Grey said, ‘‘I always thought he was not altogether bad—there was some good in him. And he may be the better, poor fellow, all his life for having once had a month’s acquaintance with Christian Oakley.” Christian pressed her husband’s hand gratefully. That little word or two carried in it a world of healing. But she was not able to say much ; her heart was too full. . ‘‘ And now, what is to be done?” said Dr. Grey meditatively. ‘‘He must have had some motive in writing this letter—a not unkindly motive either. He must be aware of some strong reason for it when he tells you to ‘defend yourself.’ He forgets,” added Christian’s husband, tenderly, ‘‘that now there is somebody else to do it for you.” Christian burst into tears. All her forlorn, unprotected youth, the more forlorn that in her father’s lifetime it was under a certain hollow sham of protection ; the total desolation afterward, exposed to every insult of the bitter world, or at least that bitter portion of it which is always ready to trample down a woman if she is helpless, and to hunt her down if she is strong enough to help herself—all this was gone by forever. She was afraid of nothin any more. She did not need to defend herself again. She h been taken out of all her misery, and placed in the safe shelter of a good man’s love. What had she done to deserve such blessed- ness? What could she do to show her recognition of the same? She could only weep, poor child! and feel like a child, whom the Great Father has ceased to punish—forgiven and taken back to peace. ‘‘I think,” she said, looking up from her hiding-place, ‘‘ I am so happy, I should almost like to die,” | ‘No, no. Not just yet, my foolish little woman,” said Dr. Grey. ‘‘ We have, I trust, a long lifetime before us, Mine seems only just beginning.” trange, but true. He was forty-five and she twenty-one, and yet to both this was the real springtime of their lives. After a pause, during which he sat thinking rather deeply, the master rose and rang the bell. 7 ‘Barker, do you know whether Sir Edwin Uniacke is still in Avonsbridge ?” Barker had seen him not an hour ago near the senate-house. ‘‘ Will you go to his lodgings?—let me see ; can you make out this address, my dear?” and Dr. Grey pointedly handed over the letter—the fatal letter, which had doubtless been discussed by every servant in the house—to his wife. ‘Yes, thatisit. Go, Barker, present my compliments, and say that Mrs. Grey and my- self shall be happy to see Sir Edwin at the cet ingen r+ bs ‘Very well, master,” said Barker, opening round eyes to their roundest as he disappeared from the room. ‘‘ What shall you say to him?” asked Christian. “The plain truth,” answered Dr. Grey, smiling. ‘‘It is the only weapon, offensive or defensive, that an honest man need ever use.” But there was no likelihood of using it against Sir Edwin, for Barker brought word that he was absent from his lodgings, and that his return was quite indefinite. Soin some other way must be inquired into and met this cruel gossip which had been set afloat, and doubtless was now swimming about every where on the slow cufrent of Avonsbridge cen! “But perhaps it may be needless, after all,” said Dr. Grey, cheerfully. ‘‘ We give ourselves a good deal of trouble by fan- our affairs are as important to the world as they are to our- selves. Whether or not, be content, my darling. e and one makes two. I think we two can face the world.” Long after her husband had gone to his study, and Christian had returned to her routine of household duties, one of which was ous Arthur and Letitia—not the pleasantest of tasks—the peace of his words remained in her heart, comforting her through- out the day. She ceased to trouble or perplex herself about what was to come ; it seemed, indeed, as if nothing would ever trouble her’any more. She rested in a deep dream of tranquility, so per- fect that it beautified and glorified her whole appearance. Arthur more than once stopped in his lessons to say, in his fondling way, in which to the clinging love of the child was added a little of the chivalrous admiration of the boy, ‘* Mother, how very pretty you do look!” “Dol? pecan! 3% At which answer Letitia, who was still prim and precise, though a little less so than she used to be, looked perfectly — with astonishment. And her step-mother could not possibly explain to the child why she was ‘“‘so glad.” Glad, for the only reason which makes a real woman care to be lovely, because she loves and is beloved. The day wore by; the days at the Lodge went swiftly enough now, even under the haunting eyes of the pale foundress, and the grim, defunct masters, which Christian used to fancy pursued her, and glared at her from morning till night. In the evening the family were all gathered together in their ac- own pleasure in a long-contested domestic feud, and persisted in using the drawing-room every night. She did not see why its pleasant splendors should gratify the public and not the family ; so she let Arthur, and Letitia, and even Oliver enjoy the sight of the beautiful room, and learn to behave themselves in it accord- ‘ingly ; even toward her lovely piano, which was kept open for a full hour every evening, for a sort of family concert. She had taken much pains, at what personal cost keen lovers of music will understand, to teach her little folk to sing. It was possible, for they had all voices, but it had its difficulties, espe- cially when Oliver insisted on joining the concert, as he did now, tossing his curls, and opening his rosy mouth like a great round O, but, nevertheless, looking so we ewe like a singing cherub that rh ios caught him up and kissed him with a passionate delight. And then she proceeded gravely with the song, words and music of which she had to compose and to arrange, as she best could, so as to suit the capacity of her performers. And this was what her musical genius had come to—singing and making baby-songs for little children, to which the only chorus of applause was a faint ‘‘Bravo!” and a clapping of hands from the distant fireside. “Papa, we never thought you heard us. We thought when you were deep in that big book you heard nothing.” ‘‘Indeed? Very well,” said papa, and disappeared below the surface again, until he revived to take out his watch and observe that it was nearly time for little people to be safe asleep in their little beds. Papa was always unquestioningly and instantaneously obeyed, so the young trio ceased their laughing over their funny songs, and prepared for one—a serious one—which always formed the conclusion of the night’s entertainments. Every body knows it ; most people have been taught it, the first song they ever were taught, from the mother’s lips. Christian had learned it from her mother, and it was the first thing she taught to these her children—the Evening Hymp— “Glory to Thee, my God, this night.” She had explained its meaning to them, and made them sing it seriously—not carelessly. As they stood round the piano, Titia and Atty, one at each side, and Oliver creeping in to lean upon his step-mother’s knee, there was a sweet grave look on all their faces, which made even the two eldest not unpretty children ; for their hearts were in their faces—their once frightened, frozen, or bad and bitter hearts. They had no need to hide any thing, or be afraid of any thing. They were loved. The sunshine of that sweet nature, which had warmed their father’s heart, and made it blos- som out, when past life’s summer, with all the freshness of ce had shined down upon these poor little desolate, motherless chil- dren, and made them good and happy—good, perhaps, because men were happy, and most y happy because they were goo Clear and sweet rose up their voices in the familiar words, over which their step-mother’s voice, keeping them all steady with its soft undertone, faltered more than once, especially when she + of all the “‘ blessings” which had come to herself since the dawning “‘ light :” | "Glory to Thee, my S00, Oe night, Teach me to die, that so I may For all the blessings e light. With behold the judgment day. Keep me, 28 keep me, King kings, “se ' Beneath Thine own almighty wings “Oh, may my soul in Thee repose, And with sweet sleep my eyelids close; “ Teach me to live, that I may dread Sleep that may me more active make, The grave as little as my bed ; To serve my when I awake.” The strain had just ended—as if he had waited for its ending— when the drawing-room door opened, and there entered for the nse oi time into the family circle at the Lodge—Sir Edwin Uni- acke. Certainly the yo man was no coward, or he never would have entered there, en he did so, bold as he looked, with his easy ‘‘ fast” air, his handsome face flushed, as if with just a little too long lingering over wine, he involuntarily drew back a step, apparently feeling that the atmosphere of this peaceful home was _ fitted for him, or that he himself was not fitted to be pres- ent there. “IT fear I may be intruding, but I have only just received a message you sent me; I had been out all day, and I leave Avons- bridge early to-morrow,” he began to say, hesitatingly, apologet- ically, * Fees glad to see you,” said the master. ‘‘ Christian, will you send the children away? or rather, Sir Edwin, will you come to my study?” ‘With pleasure,” was the answer, as with an altogether per. plexed air, and vainly striving to keep up his usual exceeding cour- tesy of manner, the young man bowed to Mrs. Grey and passed out. “* How funny ! at’s Sir Edwin Uniacke, Titia—the gentleman that met me, and—” ‘ And that you were always talking about, till Phillis told us we mustn’t s of him any more. And I think I know why, mother,” hanging down her head with blushes that made the thin face almost pretty. ‘‘ Mother, I think I ought to tell you—I always do tell you everything now—that that was the gentleman

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Se who met me and Miss Bennett. But I will never do anything, or meet anybody you don’t like again.” ‘No, dear.” ‘* And, mother,” said Arthur, sidling up to her, “‘don’t you think, if you were to say some- thing yourself abvut it, Sir Edwin would ask me again to go and see him, and let me row on the lake at Lake Hall?’ “I don’t know, my boy; but I can not speak to Sir Edwin. We must leave every thing to papa—papa always knows best.” And in that firm faith, almost as simple and unreasoning as that of the child, and which, it sometimes seemed, God had specially sent this ood man to teach her—her, who had hitherto ad so little cause to trust or reverence any bod —Christian rested as completely and contented- ly as Arthur himself. appy son and happy ata RO could so rest upon father and hus- an For nearly an hour Dr. Grey and Sir Edwin remained in the study together. What between them the former never told, even to his wife, and she did not inquire. She was quite certain in this, as in all other matters, that s papa knew best.” en he did come in he found her sitting uietly sewing. She looked up hastily, but saw that he was alone, and smiled. ** My dearest,” said Dr. Grey, sitting down beside his wife and taking her hand, ‘‘ you may be quite content; all is well.” ‘*l am very giad.” ‘We have talked over everything, and come toarigat understanding. But it is necessary to bring our neighbors to a right understanding also, aud to. stop people’s mouthsif wecan, To- morrow is Sunday. I have arranged with Sir Edwin that he shall meet me in chapel, and sit with me, in the face of all the world, in the —7 pew. Do you dislike this, Christian?” sé oO.’ ‘* We have likewise settled that he shall start off for a long tour in Greece and Egypt with an old friend of mine, who will be none the worse for the companionship of such a brilliant young fellow. Besides, it will break off all bad asso- ciations, and givehim achanceof ‘turning over a new leaf,’ as people say. Somehow! feel per- suaded that he will.” ** Thank God!” “T too say ‘thank God, for his mother was a good friend to me when I was his age. Heis only just one-and-twenty, he tells me. There may bea lon successful life before him yet.” ‘**]| hope so,” said Christian, earnestly. ‘‘ And perhaps a Happy one too,” Thus did these two, secure and content, rejoice over the * lost piece of silver,” believing with a pertinacity that some may smile at, that it was'silver after all. ‘*One thing more. He will be at least three years away; and no one knows what may hap- pen to him in the mean time, he says. e would like to shake hands with you before he Have you any objection to this?” ‘* None.” ‘*Come then with me into the study.” They found Sir Edwin leaning against the mantelpiece, with his bead resting on his arms, When he raised it, if was the same dashing, handsome head, which a painter might. have painted for an angel or an evil spirit, according as the mood seized him. But now ‘it was the former face, with the mouth quivering with emotion, and something not unlike tears in the brilliant eyes. ‘Sir Edwin, according to your desire, my wife has come to wish you good-by and good ” speed. Fat age held out her hand gently and gravely: , : i do wish it you—good speed wherever you ‘Thank you, Mrs. Grey. Good-by.” “ Good-by.” And so they parted—these two, whose fates had so mors ig met and nen, for a little while—parted kindly, but tota ly without one desire on either side that it should be otherwise. They never have met, probably never will meet niale in this world. CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION. AND what became of every body—the eve body of this simple record of six eo Malet 4 hold history, such as might have happened in any life? For it includes no extraordinary events, and is the nistory of mere ordinary peo- le, neither better nor worse than their neigh- rs, making mistakes, suffering for them, re- trieving them, and then struggling on, rhaps to err again. Is not this the chronicle of all existence? For we are none of us either bad or good, all perfect or wholly depraved, and our merits go as often unrewarded as our sins. Whether the future career of Sir Edwin Uni- acke be fair or foul, time alone can prove. At present the chances seem in favor of the former, especially as he has done the best thing a man of fortune, or any man who earns an honest liveli- hood, can do—he has married early, and, report says married well, She is an earl’s daughter, not beautiful, and rather poor, but gentle, sim- ple-minded, and good, as many a nobleman’s daughter is, more so than girls of lesser degree and greater presumption. Except sending eerie er Sir Edwin has attempted no communication with Dr. and Mrs. Grey. Nor do they wish it. The difference between themselves and him, in wealth, rank, habits, tastes, would always make such associa- tion undesirable, even bad they expected it re- newed. But they did not. In their complete and contented life they had—until the marriage- cards came—almost forgotten the young man’s existence. The aunts still live at Avonside Cottage, one pe flowers and the other society with equal assiduity. As Aunt Henrietta grows to be no longer a middle-aged, but an elderly lady, léss active, less clever, and more dependent upon other people’s kindness, and especially upon that of the Lodge—which never fails her—she sometimes is thought to be _schatging | a little gentler in her manner and ways, a little less suspicious, less ill-natured, less ready to see al- wavs the black and hard side of things instead of the sunny and sweet, At any rate, there is never now the shadow of dispute between herself and her brother-in- law’s family; and she always talks a great deal about ‘‘dear Mrs. Grey,” her elegant looks and manners (which are Paden A patent to all), what a very good wife she has settled down into, and how much attached she is to the master. Even darkly hinting—in moments confidential—that ‘‘to my certain knowledge” Mrs. Grey had, as Christian Oakley, the oppor- tunity of making an excellent marriage with a gentleman of family and position, who was devotedly in love with her, but whom she refused for the love of Dr. Arnold Grey. Which statement, when she came to hear it— which of course she did; every body hears every ary Mey Avonsbridge—only made Chris- tian smile, half amused, half sad, to think how strangely truth can be twisted sometimes, even by well-meaning people, who are perfectly con- vinced in their own minds and consciences that they never tell a lie, and wouldn’t do such a thing for the world. Nevertheless, Mrs, Grey sighed, and wondered if there was any absolute truth and absolute goodness to be found any where except in her own husband—her well-beloved and honored husband, He is “turnin’ auld” now, like John Ander- son in the song, and the great difference in age between himself and his wife is beginning to tell every year more plainly, so that she thinks sometimes, with a sharp pain and dread, of her own still remaining youth, fearing lest it may not be the will of God that they two should “totter down” the hill of life together. But she knows that all things—death and life in- cluded—are in His safe hands, and that sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, It has pleased Him to drop one other bitter drop into what would otherwise have been the entire sweetness of Christian’s overflowing cup. She has no children—that is, no children of her very own, Year by year that hope of mother- hood, in all its exquisite bliss, slipped away. At last it had quite to be let go, and its substitute accepted—as we most of us have, more or less, to accept the will of Heaven instead of our will, and go on our way resignedly, nay, cheerfully, ae that, wheter we see it or not, all is we | Christian Grey had to learn this lesson, and sho did learn it, not at first, but graaeny. She smothered up all regrets in her silentheart, and took to her bosom those children which Pro- vidence had sent her, She devoted herself en- tirely to them, brought them up wisely and well, and in their love and their father’s she was wholly satisfied. | CHRISTIAN OAKLEY’S MISTAKE. Waverley Library. 1 Tue Masxep Brive. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell... 2 WasIt Love? By Wm. Mason Turner. 8 Toe Girt Wire. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Bessiz Raynor, THE WORK Girt Wm. M. Turner 6 Tae Secret Marriace. By Sara Claxton. 7 A DAvuGHTER or Eve. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 8 HEART TO Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN THE WoRLD. 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