a strong effort of self-control she said to Miss Gascoigne,

"I think, before we discuss this matter, the children had better leave the
room. Go, Atty and Titia; your aunts and I will send word to the
nursery by-and-by."

The children went obediently, though Christian heard Arthur whisper to
his sister something about "such a jolly row?" But there was none.

Miss Gascoigne burst forth into a perfect torrent of words directed not
to Mrs. Grey, but at her, involving such insinuations, such accusations,
that Christian, who had never been used to this kind of things stood
literally astounded.

She answered not a word; she could not trust herself to speak. She had
meant so kindly: was so innocent of any feeling save a wish to be good
and motherly to these motherless children. Besides, she had such an
intense craving for their affection, and even their companionship, for
there were times when her life felt withering up within her--chilled to
death by the gloom of the dull home, with its daily round of solemn
formalities. If she had spoken, she would have burst into tears. To
save herself from this, she rose and left the parlor.

It might have been weak, unworthy a woman of spirit; but Christian
was, in one sense--not Miss Gascoigne's--still a very child. And most
childlike in their passionate bitterness, their keen sense of injustice,
were the tears she shed in her own room, alone. For she did not go to
Dr. Grey: why should she? Her complaints could only wound him: and
somehow she scorned to complain. She had not been a governess for
two years without learning that authority propped up by extraneous