d by the words. At
last she began to have a distinct conception of the impending interview
with Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom every
one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much that she thought it
would be impossible to resist his wish. He believed that she loved
Maynard; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could
she tell him he was deceived--and what if he were to ask her whether she
loved anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, was
more than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so good
to her! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and the
more selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection.
Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopher
helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil's tenderness and
generosity.

'Dear, good Maynard!--what a poor return I make him! If I could but have
loved him instead--but I can never love or care for anything again. My
heart is broken.'

Chapter 13

The next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, stupified by the
suffering of the previous night, with that dull mental aching which
follows on acute anguish, was in Lady Cheverel's sitting-room, copying
out some charity lists, when her ladyship came in, and said,--'Tina, Sir
Christopher wants you; go down into the library.'

She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir Christopher, who was
seated near his writing-table, said, 'Now, little monkey, come and sit
down by me; I have something to tell you.'

Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the Baronet's
feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, and in this way she
could hide her face better. She put her little arm round his leg, and
leaned her cheek against his knee.

'Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. What's the matter, eh?'

'Nothing, Padroncello; only my head is bad.'

'Poor monkey! Well, now, wouldn't it do the head good if I were to
promise you a good husband, and smart little wedding-gowns, and by-and-by
a house of your own, where you would be a little mistress, and
Padroncello would come and see you sometimes?'

'O no, no! I shouldn't like ever to be married. Let me always stay with
you!'

'Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tiresome, and there
will be Anthony's children putting your nose out of joint. You will want
some one to love