you, having known what a good, obedient wife really is, can submit to
such unwarrantable dictation; and if I, or Maria, your own sister
(Maria, why don't you speak?), can not offer one word of advice to a
young person, who, as might be expected, is entirely ignorant of the
usages of society--is, in fact, a perfect child--"

"She is my wife!" said Dr. Grey, so suddenly and decisively that even
Christian, who had been reading the note with a grateful heart for
kindness shown for her sake, involuntarily started.

_My wife._ He said only those two words, yet somehow they brought a
tear in her eye. The sense of protection, so new and strange, was also
pleasant. She could have fought her own battles--at least she could
once--without bringing him into them; but when he stood there, with
his hand on her shoulder, simply saying those words, which implied, or
ought to imply, every thing that man is to woman, and every thing that
woman needs, she became no longer warlike and indignant, but
humble, passive, and content.

And long after Dr. Gray was gone away, with his big book under his
arm, and Miss Gascoigne, in unutterable wrath and scorn, had turned
from her and began talking volubly to poor Aunt Maria at the fireside,
the feeling of content remained.

There was a long pause, during which the two children, Letitia and
Arthur, who had listened with open eyes and ears to what was passing
among their elders, now, forgetting it all, crept away for their usual
half-hour of after-breakfast play in the end window of the dining-room.

Christian also took her work, and began thinking of other things. She