A faint light, half tearful, half tender, gleamed in those poor, faded blue eyes.  “Never mind that now Henrietta.  Consider Christian.  It will be a terrible thing if any ill-natured stories go about concerning poor dear Christian.”

“It will, and therefore I am determined, for your brother’s sake, to sift the story to the very bottom.  In fact, I think—­to end all doubt—­I shall put the direct question myself to Sir Edwin Uniacke.”

Speak of the—­But it would not be fair to quote the familiar proverb against the young man who appeared that instant standing at the wicket-gate.

“Well, I never knew such a coincidence,” cried Miss Grey.

“Such a providence rather,” cried Miss Gascoigne.  And perhaps, in her strange obliquity of vision, or, rather, in that sad preponderance of self which darkened all her vision, like a moral cataract in the eye of her soul, this woman did actually think Providence was leading her toward a solemn duty in the investigating of the past history of the forlorn girl whom Dr. Grey had taken as his wife.

“Speak of an angel and you see his wings,” said she, with exceeding politeness.  “We were just talking about you, Sir Edwin.”

“Thank you; and for your charming parody on the old proverb likewise, I hope I am not the angel of darkness anyhow.”

He did not look it—­this graceful, handsome young man, gifted with that peculiar sort of beauty which you see in Goethe’s face, in Byron’s, indicating what may be called the Greek temperament—­the nature of the old Attic race—­sensuous, not sensual; pleasure-loving, passionate, and changeable; not intentionally vicious, but reveling in a sort of glorious enjoyment, intellectual and corporeal, to which every thing else is sacrificed—­in short, the heathen as opposed to the Christian type of manhood—­a type, the fascination of which lasts as long as the body lasts, and the intellect; when these both fail, and there is left to the man only that something which we call the soul, the immortal essence, one with Divinity, and satisfied with nothing less than the divine—­alas for him!

A keen observer, who had lived twenty years longer in the world than he, might, regarding him in all his beauty and youth, feel a sentiment not unlike compassion for Edwin Uniacke.

He sat down, making himself quite at home, though this was only his second visit to Avonside Cottage.  But Miss Gascoigne, if only from love of opposition, had made it pretty clear to him that he was welcome there, and that she liked him.  He enjoyed being liked, and had the easy confidence of one who is well used to it.

“Yes, I am ready to avouch, this is the prettiest little paradise within miles of Avonsbridge.  No wonder you should have plenty of visitors, I met a tribe coming here—­your sister-in-law (charming person is Mrs. Grey!) your nephews and niece, and that gipsy-looking, rather handsome nurse, who is a little like the head of Clytie, only for her sullen, underlying mouth and projecting chin.”