Avonsbridge.

What Dr. Grey had gone through in domestic opposition before he
married, he alone knew, and he never told. But he had said, as every
man under similar circumstances has a right to say, "I _will_ marry,"
and had done it. Besides, he was a just man; he was fully aware that to
his sisters Christian was not--could not be as yet, any more than the
organist's daughter and the silversmith's governess, while they were
University ladies. But he knew them, and he knew her; he was not
afraid.

They were a strong contrast, these two, the ladies at the Lodge. Miss
Grey, the elder, was a little roly-poly woman, with a meek, round, fair-
complexioned face, and pulpy soft-hands--one of those people who
irresistibly remind one of a white mouse. She was neither clever nor
wise, but she was very sweet-tempered. She had loved Dr. Grey all her
life. From the time that she, a big girl, had dandled him, a baby, in her
lap; throughout her brief youth, when she was engaged to young Mr.
Gascoigne, who died; up to her somewhat silly and helpless middle-
age, there never was anybody, to Miss Grey, like "my brother Arnold."
Faithfulness is a rare virtue; let us criticise her no more, but pass her
over, faults and all.

Miss Gascoigne was a lady who could not be passed over on any
account. Nothing would have so seriously offended her. From her
high nose to her high voice and her particularly high temper, every
thing about her was decidedly _prononcé_. There was no
extinguishing her or putting her into a corner. Rather than be
unnoticed--if such a thing she could ever believe possible--she would
make herself noticeable in any way, even in an ill way. She was a