Nevertheless, Dr. Grey bore them, and so did his wife, which was harder.  She did not mind rudeness to herself, but to hear her husband thus spoken to and spoken of was a sufficient trial to make her long for the time of release.  And yet through it all came the deep sense of pity that any woman who could show herself in so pleasant a light abroad—­ for many of the morning visitors quite condoled with Mrs. Grey on the impending change at the Lodge, and of the great loss she would have in her sister-in-law—­should be so obnoxious at home that her nearest relatives counted the days until her shadow should cease to darken their doors.

And so, gradually and often painfully, but still with a firm conviction on every body’s mind that the plan so suddenly decided on had been the best for all parties, came round the time of the aunts’ departure.

Christian had spent all the previous day at Avonside, which she found a very pretty cottage, all woodbine and roses, with nothing at all poverty-stricken about it, either within or without.  She had gone over it from garret to basement, making every thing as comfortable as possible, as she had carte blanche from her husband to do, and gladly did; for on her tender conscience rankled every bitter word of Miss Gascoigne’s as though it were real truth; and sometimes, in spite of herself, she could not suppress an uneasy feeling as if the aunts were being “turned out.”  The last day of their stay at the Lodge was so exceedingly painful, that, having done all she could, she at length rushed out of the house with Arthur for a breath of fresh air and a quiet half hour before dinner, if such were possible.

She did not go far, only just crossing the bridge to the cottage grounds opposite where, in sight of the Lodge windows, she could walk up and down the beautiful avenue, which still bears the name of the old philosopher who loved it.  If his wise, gentle ghost still haunted the place, it might well have watched with pleasure this fair, grave, sweet-looking young woman sauntering up and down with the boy in her hand, listening vaguely to his chatter, and now and then putting in a smiling answer.  She had a smiling, peaceful face, and her thoughts were peaceful too.  She was thinking to herself how pretty Avonsbridge was in its June dress of freshest green, how quietly and innocently life passed under shadow of these college walls, and how could any one have the heart to make it otherwise?

She would not after today.  She would cease to vex herself, or let her husband vex himself about Miss Gascoigne.  With a mile and a half between them, the Lodge would certainly feel safe from her.  And oh! what a wonderful peace would come into the house when she left it!  How good the children would be!  How happy their father!—­yes, he could be made happy, Christian knew that, and it was she who could make him so.  The consciousness of power in this sweet sense, and the delight of exercising