Still, when she had dressed herself in the violet silk and Honiton lace which Miss Gascoigne had informed her were necessary—­oh, how she had been tormented about the etiquette of this “at home”—­the cloud darkened over her again.  What should she do or say to these strange people?—­the worse, that they were not quite strangers—­that she knew them by report or by sight—­and, alack! from her father’s ill name they knew her only too well.  How they would talk her over and criticise her, in that small way in which women do criticise one another, and which she now, for the first time in her life, had experienced.  Was it the habit of all University ladies?  If so, how would she endure a whole lifetime of that trivial ceremoniousness in outside things, those small back-bitings and fault-findings, such as the two aunts indulged in?  It was worse, far worse, than poor Mrs. Ferguson’s stream of foolish maternalities—­vulgar, but warm and kindly, and never ill-natured; and oh! ten times worse than anything Christian had known in her girlhood, which had been forlorn indeed, but free; when she had followed through necessity her nomadic father, who had at any rate, left her alone, to form her own mind and character as she best could.  Of man’s selfishness and badness she knew enough; but of women’s small sillinesses, narrow formalities, and petty unkindnesses, she was utterly ignorant till now.

“How shall I bear them?  Let Dr. Grey be ever so good to me, still, how shall I bear them?” She sighed, she almost sobbed, and pressed her cheek wearily against the frosty pane, for she was sitting in a window-seat on the staircase, lingering till the last possible instant before the hour when Miss Gascoigne had said she ought to be in her place in the drawing-room.

“My dear, are you not afraid of catching cold?” said the hesitating voice of Miss Grey.  “Besides, will not the servants think it rather odd, your sitting here on the staircase?  Bless me, my dear, were you crying?”

“No,” answered Christian, energetically, “no!” and then belied her truthfulness by bursting immediately into tears.

Miss Grey was melted at once.  “There, now, my dear, take my smelling-bottle; you will be better soon; it is only a little over-excitement.  But, indeed, you need not mind; our friends—­that is, Henrietta’s—­for you know I seldom visit—­are all very nice people, and they will pay every respect to my brother’s wife.  Do not be frightened at them.”

“I was not frightened,” replied Mrs. Grey, more inclined to smile than to be offended at this earnest condolence.  “What troubled me was quite another thing.”

“Henrietta. perhaps?” with an uneasy glance up the staircase.  “But my dear, you must not mind Henrietta; she means well.  You don’t know how busy she has been all the morning, arranging every thing.  ‘For,’ says she to me, ’since your brother has married again, we must make the best of it, and introduce his wife into society, and be very kind to her.’  And I am sure I hope we are,”