times, but missing him--and it felt a want, among all those strange
faces--she sat down by Miss Gascoigne, who, taking the turn of the
tide, now patronized "my sister, Mrs. Grey," in the most overwhelming
manner.

It was after a whispered conference with Miss Gascoigne that the wife
of the vice chancellor, herself young and handsome, and lately married,
came up to ask Christian to sing.

Then, poor girl! all her fears and doubts returned. To sing to a whole
roomful of people--she had never done it in her life. It would be as bad
as that nightmare fancy which used to haunt her, of being dragged
forward to find the ten thousand eyes of a crowded theater all focused
upon her, a sensation almost as horrible as being under a burning-glass.

"Oh no! not tonight. I would much rather not. Indeed, I can not sing."

"May I beg to be allowed to deny that fact?" said the gentleman--a
young gentleman upon whose arm the hostess had crossed the room--of
whom she, a stranger in Avonsbridge, knew only that he was a baronet
and had fifteen thousand a year.

"Well, Sir Edwin, try if you can persuade her. Mrs. Grey, let me
present to you Sir Edwin Uniacke."

It was so sudden, and the compulsion of the moment so extreme, that
Christian stood calm as death--stood and bowed, and he bowed too, as
in response to an ordinary introduction to a perfect stranger. She was
quite certain afterward that she had not betrayed herself by any
emotion; that, as seemed her only course, she had risen and walked