But, be he what he might, he could not force his presence upon Christian against her will.  “No, I am not afraid,” she said to herself; “how could I be—­with these?”

For, all the time she sat meditating Arthur lay half asleep, near her; and little Oliver, who had returned to his old habit of creeping about her room whenever he could, sat playing with his box of bricks on the hearth-rug at her feet, every now and then lifting up eyes of such heavenly depth of innocence that she felt almost a sort of compassion for the erring man who had no such child-angels in his home—­nothing and no one to make him good, or to teach him, ere it was too late, that, even in this world, the wages of sin is death, and that the only true life is that of purity and holiness.

Christian spent the whole afternoon with her children.  They tried her a good deal, for Arthur was fractious, and Oliver went into one of his storms of passion, which upon him, as once upon his elder brother, were increasing day by day.  It was impossible it should be otherwise under the present nursery rule.

She sat and thought over plan after plan of getting Oliver more out of Phillis’s hands—­not by any open revolution, for she was tender over even the exaggerated rights of such a long-faithful servant, but by the quiet influence which generally accomplishes much more than force.  Besides, time would do as much as she could, and a great deal more—­it always does.

Almost smiling at herself for the very practical turn which her meditations were beginning invariably to take—­such a contrast to the dreamy musings of old—­Christian sent the children away, and hastily dressed for dinner.

It was the first time she had taken her place at the dinner-table since Arthur’s illness, and she felt glad to be there.  She sat, with sweet, calm brow, and lustrous, smiling eyes, a picture such as it does any man good to gaze at from his table’s foot, and know that it is his own wife, the mistress of his household, the directress of his family, in whom her husband’s heart may safely trust forever.

Dr. Grey seemed to feel it, though he said no more than that “it was good to have her back again.”  But his satisfaction did not extend itself to the rest.

Miss Gascoigne was evidently greatly displeased at something.  Angry were the looks she cast around, and grim was the silence she maintained until Barker had disappeared.

“Now.” said Christian, “shall we send for the children?”

“No,” said Miss Gascoigne; “at least not until I have said a word which I should be sorry to say before young people.  Dr. Grey, I wish that you, who have some knowledge of the usages of society, would instruct your wife in them a little more.  I do not expect much from her, but still, now that she is your wife, some knowledge of manners, or even common civility—­”

“What have I done?” exclaimed Christian, half alarmed and half amused.