The children went obediently, though Christian heard Arthur whisper to his sister something about “such a jolly row?” But there was none.

Miss Gascoigne burst forth into a perfect torrent of words directed not to Mrs. Grey, but at her, involving such insinuations, such accusations, that Christian, who had never been used to this kind of things stood literally astounded.

She answered not a word; she could not trust herself to speak.  She had meant so kindly:  was so innocent of any feeling save a wish to be good and motherly to these motherless children.  Besides, she had such an intense craving for their affection, and even their companionship, for there were times when her life felt withering up within her—­chilled to death by the gloom of the dull home, with its daily round of solemn formalities.  If she had spoken, she would have burst into tears.  To save herself from this, she rose and left the parlor.

It might have been weak, unworthy a woman of spirit; but Christian was, in one sense—­not Miss Gascoigne’s—­still a very child.  And most childlike in their passionate bitterness, their keen sense of injustice, were the tears she shed in her own room, alone.  For she did not go to Dr. Grey:  why should she?  Her complaints could only wound him:  and somehow she scorned to complain.  She had not been a governess for two years without learning that authority propped up by extraneous power is nearly useless, and that, between near connections, love commanded, not won, generally results in something very like hatred.

Besides, was there not some truth in what the aunt said?  Had she—­the second wife—­authority over the first Mrs. Grey’s children?  Would it not be better to let them alone, for good or for evil, and trouble herself about their welfare no more?  But just that minute Oliver’s little feet went pattering outside the door—­Oliver, who, still a nursery pet, was freer than the others, and who had already learned where to come of forenoons for biscuits to eat or toys to be mended.  There was now a one-wheeled cart and a three-legged horse requiring Christian’s tenderest attention; and as she sat down on the crimson sofa, and busied herself over them, with the little eager face creeping close to hers, and the little fat arm steadying itself round her neck, her wet eyes soon grew dry and bright, and her heart less sore, less hopeless.  The small, necessities of the present, which make children’s company so soothing, quieted her now; and by the time she had watched the little fellow run away, dragging his cart and horse down the oak floor, shouting “Gee-ho!” and turning round often to laugh at her, Christian felt that life looked less blank and dreary than it had done an hour ago.