My wife. He said only those two words, yet somehow they brought a tear in her eye.  The sense of protection, so new and strange, was also pleasant.  She could have fought her own battles—­at least she could once—­without bringing him into them; but when he stood there, with his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words, which implied, or ought to imply, every thing that man is to woman, and every thing that woman needs, she became no longer warlike and indignant, but humble, passive, and content.

And long after Dr. Gray was gone away, with his big book under his arm, and Miss Gascoigne, in unutterable wrath and scorn, had turned from her and began talking volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the fireside, the feeling of content remained.

There was a long pause, during which the two children, Letitia and Arthur, who had listened with open eyes and ears to what was passing among their elders, now, forgetting it all, crept away for their usual half-hour of after-breakfast play in the end window of the dining-room.

Christian also took her work, and began thinking of other things.  She neither wished to fight or be fought for, particularly in such a petty domestic war.  One of the many advantages among the many disadvantages of a girlhood almost entirely removed from the society of women was that it had saved her from women’s smallnesses.  Besides, her nature itself was large, like her person—­large, and bounteous, and sweet; it refused to take in those petty motives which disturb petty minds.  Life to her was a grand romantic drama,—­perhaps, alas! a tragedy—­but it never could be made into a genteel comedy, with childish intrigues, Liliputian battles, tempests in teapots, or thunders made upon kettle-drums.

Thus, concluding the temporary storm was over, and almost forgetting it at the half-hour’s end, she called cheerfully to the children to get ready for a walk with her this sunshiny morning.

Miss Gascoigne rose, her black eyes flashing:  “Children, you will not leave the house.  You will walk with nobody but your own proper nurse.  It was your poor mamma’s custom and, though she is dead, her wishes shall be carried out, at least so long as I am alive.”

Christian stood utterly amazed.  Her intention had been so harmless; she had thought the walk good for the children, and perhaps good for herself to have their company.  She had meant to take them out with her the first available day, and begin a regular series of rambles, which perhaps might win their little hearts toward her, for they still kept aloof and shy; and now all her pleasant plans were set aside.

And there the children stood, half frightened, half amused, watching the conflict of authority between their elders.  One thing was clear.  There must be no bringing them into the contest.  Christian saw that, and with a strong effort of self-control she said to Miss Gascoigne,

“I think, before we discuss this matter, the children had better leave the room.  Go, Atty and Titia; your aunts and I will send word to the nursery by-and-by.”