it was becoming the most exquisite happiness Christian had ever known.  She sat dreaming over it almost like a girl in her first love-dream—­only this dream was deeper and calmer, with all the strength of daily duty added to the joy of loving and being loved.  Not that she reasoned much—­she was not given to much analyzing of herself—­she only knew that she was content, and found content in every thing—­in the ripple of the river at her feet, the flutter of the leaves over her head, the soft blue sky above the colleges, and the green grass gemmed with daisies, where an old man was mowing on the one side, and a large thrush, grown silent with summer, was hopping about on the other.  Every thing seemed beautiful, for the beauty began in her own heart.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Grey.”

People talk about “looking as if they had seen a ghost”—­and perhaps that look was not unlike Christian’s as she started at this salutation behind her.  He must have come stealthily across the grass, for she had heard nothing, did not even know that any body was near, till she looked up and saw Sir Edwin Uniacke.

The surprise was so great that it brought (oh, what shame to feel it, and feel sure that he saw it!) the blood up to her face—­to her very forehead.  She half rose, and then sat down again, with a blind instinct that any thing was better than either to be or to appear afraid.

Without waiting for either a reply or a recognition—­which indeed came not, nothing but that miserable blush—­the young man seated himself on the bench and began to make acquaintance with Arthur.

“I believe I have seen you before, my little friend.  You are Dr. Grey’s son, and I once offered to carry you, but was refused.  Are you quite well now, Master Albert?  Isn’t that your name?”

“No; Arthur,” said the boy, rather flattered at being noticed.  “Are you one of the men at our college?  You haven’t your gown on.”

“Not now,” with a queer look, half amusement, half irritation.  “I don’t belong to Avonsbridge.  I have a house of my own in the country—­such a pretty place, with a park, and deer, and a lake, and a boat to row on it.  Wouldn’t you like to see it?”

“Yes.” said Arthur, all eyes and ears.

“I live there, but I am always coming over to Avonsbridge.  Do what I will, I can not keep away.”

The tone, the glance across the child, were unmistakable.  Christian rose, her momentary stupefaction gone.

“Come, Arthur, papa will be waiting dinner.  We never keep papa waiting, you know.”

Simple as the words were, they expressed volumes.

For an instant her composed matronly grace—­her perfect indifference, silenced, nay, almost awed the young man, and then irritated him into resistance.  He caught hold of Arthur in passing.

“You need not go yet.  It is only just five, and your papa does not dine till six.”

“How do you know?” asked the child.