“Disagreeable!” echoed Christian, with a little forced sort of laugh, adding, in a strange, soft shyness, “I wish you would tell me what those vexatious things were.  I know I am young, and foolish enough too; still, if I could help you—­”

“Help me!” He looked at her eagerly, then shook his head and sighed.  “No, my child, you can not help me.  It is other people’s business, which I am afraid I have no right to tell even to you.  It is only that a person has come back to Avonsbridge, who, if I could suppose I had an enemy in the world—­But here I am telling you.”

“Never mind, you shall tell me no more,” said Christian, cheerily, “especially as I do not believe that in the wide world you could have an enemy.  And now give me your opinion as to this matter of Miss Bennett?”

“First, what is yours?”

Christian pondered a little.  “It seems to me that the only thing is for me to speak to her myself, quite openly and plainly, when she comes tomorrow.”

“And then dismiss her?”

“I fear so.”

“For having a lover?” said Dr. Grey, with an amused twinkle in his eye.

“Not exactly, but for telling Titia about it, and making use of the child for her own selfish needs.  Do you consider me hard?  Well, it is because I know what this ends in.  Miss Gascoigne does not see it, but I do.  She only thinks of ‘propriety.’  I think of something far deeper—­a girl’s first notions about those sort of things.  It is cruel to meddle with them before their time—­to take the bloom off the peach and the scent off the rose; to put worldliness instead of innocence, and conceited folly instead of simple, solemn, awful love.  I would rather die, even now—­you will think I am always ready for dying—­but I would rather die than live to think and feel about love like some women—­ay, and not bad women either, whom I have known.”

Mrs. Grey had gone on, hardly considering what she was saying or to what it referred, till she was startled to feel fixed upon her her husband’s earnest eyes.

“You need not be afraid,” said he smiling.  “Christian, shall I tell you a little secret?  Do you know why I loved you?  Because you are unlike all other women—­because you bring hack to me the dreams of my youth.  And here,” suddenly rising, as if he feared he had said too much, “we must put dreams aside, and arguments likewise, for Aunt Henrietta will never forgive us if we are late at this terrible evening party.”

Chapter 8.

    "Down, pale ghost! 
     What doest thou here? 
     The sky is cloudless overhead,
     The stream runs clear.

    "I drowned thee, ghost,
     In a river of bitter brine: 
     With whatever face thou risest up,
     Meet thou not mine!

    "Back, poor ghost! 
     Dead of thy own decay
     Let the dead bury their dead! 
     I go my way."