, until they both slunk off to bed, sullen
and silent--at war with one another, with Phillis, and with the whole
world.

But children's woes are transient. By-and-by Titia's fretful face settled
into sleepy peace; the angry flush melted from Arthur's hot cheeks;
Oliver had already been transferred to his crib; and Phillis settled
herself to her sewing, queen regnant of the silent nursery.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the ghostly gallery, sat, over the dining-
room fire, the two other rulers, guardians, and guides of these three
children--"the aunts"--Miss Gascoigne and Miss Grey; for these ladies
still remained at the Lodge. Dr. Grey had asked Christian if she
wished them to leave, for they had a house of their own near
Avonsbridge, and she had answered indifferently, "Oh no; let them do
as they like." As she liked did not seem to enter into her thoughts.
Alas! that sacred dual solitude, which most young wives naturally and
rightfully desire, was no vital necessity to Christian Grey.

So the two ladies, who had come to the Lodge when their sister died,
had declared their intention of remaining there, at least for the present,
"for the sake of those poor, dear children." And, dressed in at their
best, they sat solemnly waiting the arrival of the children's father and
step-mother--"that young woman," as they always spoke of her in
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 M