“I know that.”

“And by-and-by, many things here which feel strange now will cease to feel so.  Do you believe this?”

She smiled—­a very feeble smile; but, at least, there was no pretense in it.

“One thing more.  Whatever goes wrong, you will always come at once and tell it to me—­to nobody in the world but me.  Remember.”

“I will.”

Dr. Grey leaned forward and kissed his wife in his inexpressibly tender way, and then they went in together.

Letitia and Arthur occupied two little closets leading out of the nursery, which seemed spacious 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 table 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 fortnight.

“Well, Phillis, how are you and your little folk?” said the master, in a pleasant whisper, as he crossed the nursery floor.

He trod lightly, but either his step was too welcome to remain undiscovered, or the children’s sleep had been “fox’s sleep,” for there arose a great outcry of “Papa, papa!” Oliver leaped up, half laughing, half screaming, and kicking his little bare legs with glee as his father took him in his arms; Arthur came running in, clad in the very airiest costume possible; and Letitia appeared sedately a minute or two afterwards having stopped to put on her warm scarlet dressing-gown, and to take off her nightcap—­under the most exciting circumstances, Titia was such an exceedingly “proper” child.

What 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 seen the Master of Saint Bede’s, with all his children round him, hugging him, kissing him, chattering to him, while he hung over them in an absorption of enjoyment so deep that, for a moment, Christian 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 remember 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.  “I like her very much.  Who is she?  What is her name?”

Children ask sometimes the simplest, yet the most terrible of questions.  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 Christian’s dress, repeated again, “What is your name?  What must Olly call you?”