She put the paper into his hands. "It's the notice for 'The Times;' James
and I made it up last night. James thought it would save you trouble,
master--" Mrs. Ferguson always hesitated between this common
University custom of address and plain, "Dr. Grey."

"Thank you; Mr. Ferguson is always kind," returned the Master of Saint
Bede's.

"You see," continued Mrs. Ferguson, lowering her tone to a
confidential whisper, "I thought it was better only to put 'Edward
Oakley, Esq.,' and nothing more. Wouldn't you like it to be so, sir?"

"I should like it to be exactly as--" he paused, and the color rushed
violently over his thin, worn, and yet sensitive face, as sensitive as
if he had been a young man still--"exactly as Mrs. Grey pleases."

Mrs. Grey! At the sound of her new name Christian started, and she,
too, turned scarlet. Not the sweet, rosy blush of a bride, but the dark
red flush of sharp physical or mental pain, which all her self-control
could not hide.

"Poor dear! poor dear! this is a great change for her, and only a year
since her father died," said Mrs. Ferguson, still in that mysterious,
apologetic whisper. "But indeed, my love, you have done quite right in
marrying; and don't fret a bit about it. Never mind her, sir; she'll be
better by-and-by." This oppression of pity would have nerved any one
of reserved temperament to die rather than betray the least fragment of
emotion more. Christian gathered herself up; her face grew pale again,
and her voice steady. She looked, not at Mrs. Ferguson, but at the good
man who had just made her his wife--and any one looking at him must