“There is no need to be violent, Mrs. Grey.  It would be a sad thing, indeed, Maria, if your brother had married a violent-tempered woman.”

“I am not that.  Why do you make it seem so?” said Christian, still trembling.  And then, her courage breaking down under a cruel sense of wrong.  “Why can not you see that I am weak and worn out, longing for a little peace, and I can not get it?  I never did you any harm—­it is not my fault that you hate me.  Why will you hunt me down and wear my life out, while I hear it all alone, and have never told my husband one single word?  It is cruel of you—­cruel.”

She sobbed, till Arthur’s sudden waking up—­he had been fast asleep on the sofa, or she might not have given way so much—­compelled her to restrain herself.

Miss Gascoigne was moved—­at least as much as was in her nature to be.  She said hastily, “There—­there—­we will say no more about it;” took up her work, and busied herself therewith.

For Aunt Maria, she did as she had been doing throughout the contest—­ the only thing Aunt Maria ever had strength to do—­she remained neutral and passive—­cried and knitted—­knitted and cried.

So sat together these three women—­as good women in their way, who meant well, and might have lived to be a comfort to one another.  Yet, as it was, they only seemed to live for one another’s mutual annoyance, irritation, and pain.

A thunder-storm sometimes clears the air; and the passion of resistance into which Christian had been goaded apparently cooled the family atmosphere for a few days.  But she herself felt only a dead-weight—­a heavy chill—­which lay on her heart long after the storm was spent.

For the “gentleman” and his rude remark—­if indeed he had made it, which she more than doubted, aware how Miss Gascoigne, like all people who can only see things from the stand-point of their own individuality, was somewhat given to exaggeration—­Christian heeded him not.  The world might talk as it chose; she knew her husband loved her, and that he had married her for love.

And her boy loved her too, and needed her sorely, as he would need for many a long day yet.  It would take a whole year, Dr. Anstruther said, before the injury to the lung was quite recovered, and all fear of Arthur’s falling into continued ill health removed.

Thus duties, sweet as strong, kept continually weaving themselves about her once forlorn life; binding her fast, it is true, but in such pleasant bonds that she never wished them broken.  Every day she grew safer and happier and every day, as she looked on Dr. Grey’s kind, good face, which familiarity was making almost beautiful, she felt thankful that—­whether she loved it or only liked it—­she should have it beside her all her days.

Chapter 7.

    "And do the hours slip fast or slow,
     And are ye sad or gay? 
     And is your heart with your liege lord, lady,
     Or is it far away?