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.  Then she felt a little weary, and half wished that she, too, had a big book into which she could plunge herself instead of having to sit there, politely smiling, saying “Yes,” and “No,” and “Certainly.”  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 weary years!  Perhaps; for many another year before; but into that Christian would not allow her lightest thoughts to penetrate:  the sacred veil of Death was over it all.

“If I can only make him happy!” This was already beginning to be her prominent thought, and it warmed her heart that morning 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 condescendingly, “which is one good result of not having been used to a servant to do it for her.  And she must have had such excellent practice at Mrs. Ferguson’s.  I believe those sort of people always feed together—­parents, children, apprentices and all.”

“I 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 you know, I always prefer having children about me at meal-times.  I think it makes them little gentlemen and gentlewomen in a manner that nothing else will.  If I had a house”—­she stopped and blushed deeply for having let old things—­ah! they seemed so very old, and far back now—­make her forget the present.  “I mean, I 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.”