The two maiden aunts rose ceremoniously.  Either their politeness sprang from their natural habit of good-breeding, or it was wrung from them by extreme surprise.  The apparition before them—­tall, graceful, and dignified—­could by no means be mistaken for any thing but a lady—­such a lady as Avonsbridge, with all its aristocracy of birth and condition, rarely produced.  She would have been the same even if attired in hodden gray, but now she was well-dressed in silks and furs.  Dr. Grey had smiled at the modest trousseau, and soon settled every thing by saying, “My 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 (to follow Barker’s pompous announcement) “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 hesitating glance at Miss Gascoigne, was accepted timidly by Miss Grey.  “I 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 surprise 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 Christian before her marriage, she would have appeared greatly altered, as if some strange mental convulsion had passed over her—­passed, and been subdued.  In two weeks she had grown ten years older—­was, a matron, not a girl.  Yet still she was herself.  We often come to learn that change—­which includes growth—­is one of the most blessed laws in existence; but it is only weak natures who, in changing, lose their identity.  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 it 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?”

“I sent them to bed,” said Miss Gascoigne, with dignity.  It was impossible they could be kept up to this late hour.  “My poor sister would never allow it.”

The color flashed violently over Dr. Grey’s face.  With the quick, resolute movement of a master in his own house, he crossed the room and rang the bell.

“Barker, inquire of nurse if the children are in bed.  If not, say I wish them sent down to me; otherwise I will come up to them immediately.”