“You are crumpling your pretty white silk dress.  Won’t that vex you very much?”

“Not very much—­if it can not be helped.”

“That is odd.  I thought you liked fine clothes, and married papa that he might give you them:  Phillis said so.”

“Phillis was mistaken.”

More than that Christian did not answer; indeed, she hardly took in what the child said, being fully engrossed with her charge.

Letitia spoke again.

“Are you really sorry for Atty?  Aunt Henrietta said you did not care for any of us.”

“Not care for any of you!” And almost as if it were a real mother’s heart, Christian felt hers yearn over the poor pale face, growing every minute more ghastly.

“I wonder where papa can be!  Letitia, go and look for him.  Tell him to send Barker for the doctor at once.”

And then she gave her whole attention to Arthur, forgetting everything except that she had taken upon herself toward these children all the duties and anxieties of motherhood.  How many—­perhaps none—­would she ever win of its joys?  But to women like her duty alone constitutes happiness.

She felt happier than she had done for very, very long, when at last Arthur lay soothed and quieted in her arms, which clasped round him close and warm, as finding in him something to comfort, something to love.  She had almost lost sigh of danger and fear, when the door opened and Phillis entered, Dr. Grey following.

On Christian’s first look at the latter, she found out one thing—­which hardly so much lessened her reverence as converted it into a strange tenderness—­that her husband was one of the many men who, brave enough morally, are the most utter cowards at sight of physical suffering.  Completely unhinged, trembling all over, Dr. Grey knelt down by his boy’s side.

“What must we do, Christian?  What must we do?”

She knew at once that whatever was done she must do it; but before she had time to say a word there appeared Miss Gascoigne.

“What is wrong?  Why is the doctor sent for?  That child hurt?  Nonsense!  Hurt seriously with just a mere slip down a few stairs!  I will never believe it.  It is just making a fuss about nothing.  Dr. Grey, we must go to the dinner-party, or what would people say?  Phillis, take Arthur from Mrs. Grey and carry him up to the nursery.”

But Arthur screamed, and clung with all his might to his step-mother’s neck.

“He is hurt,” said Christian, firmly, “and I can not have him moved.  Hush, Atty! you grieve papa.  Be quiet, and nobody shall touch you but papa and me.”

Miss Cascoigne stood mute—­then again ordered Phillis to take the child.

“I won’t go!  She will beat me again.  Please, please;” and he clung again to his step-mother.  “I’ll be good—­I’ll be so good, if you will only take care of me.”

“I will,” said Christian.  And the desperate instinct of protection, which some women have toward all helpless things, gleamed in her eyes as she added, “Miss Gascoigne, you must leave this child to me.  I know what to do with him.  Shall it be so, Dr. Grey?”