Now it happened, unfortunately for Miss Gascoigne, that if Christian had one bright spot in the future of her married life to which she had looked forward earnestly, longingly, it was those children—­how she would take care of them; fill up her weary days with them; love them, and be loved by them; in short, find in them the full satisfaction of her motherly heart—­that heart in which she then thought there was no instincts or emotions left except the motherly.  How she yearned and craved for this, God and her own soul only knew.

Yet, how she hardly knew, but so it was, none of these hopes had been fulfilled.  She saw almost nothing of the children save during the one hour after dinner, when she sat silently watching them, one on each side of their father, and one on his knee, all so happy together.  Dr. Grey always looked happy when he was with his little folk.  And they, their very faults faded off into sweetnesses when they came within the atmosphere of that good, loving, fatherly nature, for love makes love, and goodness creates goodness.  Titia lost her prim conceit, Atty his selfish roughness, and Oliver became a perfect little angel of a child for at least one hour a day—­the hour they spent with their father.

It was a pretty picture.  Christian, sitting apart, with the gulf of shining mahogany between, bridged it often with her wistful eyes, but she never said a word.

She was not jealous, not in the slightest degree; for hers was the large nature which, deeply recognizing other’s rights, and satisfied with its own, is incapable of any of the lower forms of jealousy; but she was sad.  The luxurious aimlessness of her present life was a little heavy to the once poor, active, hard-working young governess, who had never known an idle or even a restful hour.  The rest was sweet—­oh! how sweet! but the idleness was difficult to bear.  She had tried sometimes in the long mornings, when the master was shut up in his study, to get the children with her, and teach them a little; but Miss Gascoigne had replied that “my late sister” did not approve of any but paid governesses, and that it was impossible the wife of the Master of St. Bede’s could go “trapesing about like a nursemaid,” taking walks with the children.  Their own mamma never thought of doing such a thing.

And this reference to her predecessor, given about twenty times a day, always effectually silenced Christian, though it did not silence—­it could not—­the cry of her heart to be of some use to somebody; to have some young, fresh, happy creatures to love and be loved by, even though they were another woman’s children.

So she sat this evening and many evenings, quiet but sad-eyed; and it was a relief when Barker entered with the tea-tray, and three or four letters for Mrs. Grey.

“How very odd!  Who can be writing to me?  I know nobody!”

At which simple speech Miss Gascoigne looked daggers, and, the minute Barker was gone, spoke them too.