As he put his hands on her shoulders, Christian looked into his eyes—right into them, for she was as tall as he. There was a sad quietness in her expression, but there was no shrinking from him, and no distrust.
"My wife need never be afraid of any thing or any body in this house."
"I know that."
"And by-and-by, many things here which feel strange now will cease to feel so. Do you believe this?"
She smiled—a very feeble smile; but, at least, there was no pretense in it.
"One thing more. Whatever goes wrong, you will always come at once and tell it to me—to nobody in the world but me. Remember."
"I will."
Dr. Grey leaned forward and kissed his wife in his inexpressibly tender way, and then they went in together.
Letitia and Arthur occupied two little closets leading out of the nursery, which seemed spacious enough, and ancient enough, to have been the dormitory of a score of monks, as very likely it was in the early days of Saint Bede's. Phillis, sewing by her little table in the far corner, kept guard over a large bed, where, curled up like a rose-bud, flushed and warm, lay that beautiful child whom Christian had thought of twenty times a day for the last fortnight.
"Well, Phillis, how are you and your little folk?" said the master, in a pleasant whisper, as he crossed the nursery floor.