Long after her husband had gone to his study, and Christian had returned to her routine of household duties, one of which was teaching Arthur and Letitia—­not the pleasantest of tasks—­the peace of his words remained in her heart, comforting her throughout 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 perfect 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!”

“Do I?  I am so glad!”

At which answer Letitia, who was still prim and precise, though a little less so than she used to be, looked perfectly petrified 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.  Now the sad queen seemed to gaze at her with a pensive envy, and the dark-visaged mediaeval doctors to look after her with a good-natured smile.  They had alike become part and portions of her home—­the dear home in which her life was to pass—­and she dreaded neither them nor it any more.

In the evening the family were all gathered together in their accustomed place, round Christian’s new piano in the drawing-room; for, since Miss Gascoigne’s departure, she had earned out her 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 accordingly 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, especially 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 exceeding like a singing cherub that Christian 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.