Was it fancy if, glancing at her, Dr. Grey half sighed? Only for a moment; then he said cheerily: "Arthur was right. Children, tell your mother that she is the best singer we ever heard in all our lives." "That she is. She sings just like a bird in a tree. And, then, you see, papa, she is our own bird." Christian came down from the clouds at once, and laughed heartily at the idea of being Arthur's own bird. "Titia," said Dr. Grey, with sudden energy, as if the thought had been brewing in his mind for many minutes, "is there not a piano in the drawing-room? There used to be." "Yes, and I practice upon it two hours every day," answered Letitia, with dignity. "But afterward Aunt Henrietta locks it up and takes the key. She says it is poor mamma's piano, and nobody is to play upon it but me." As the child said this in a tone so like Aunt Henrietta's, her father looked--as Christian had only seen him look once or twice before, and thought that there might be circumstances under which any body displeasing him would be considerably afraid of Dr. Arnold Grey. "Did you know of this, Christian?" "Yes," she answered, very softly, with a glance, half warning, half entreating, round upon the children. "But we will not say anything about it I never did, and I had rather not do so now." "I understand. We will speak of it another time?" But he did not, neither that night, nor for several days and Christian felt only too grateful for his silence. Sometimes, when, after ringing at intervals of five minutes for some trifling thing, Barker had sent up "Miss Gascoigne's compliments, and the servants couldn't be spared to wait up stairs;" or the cook had apologized for deficiencies in Arthur's dinner by "Miss Gascoigne wanted it for lunch;" and especially when, to her various messages to the nursery, no answer was ever returned--sometimes it had occurred to Christian--gentle as she was, and too fully engrossed to notice small things--that this was not exactly the position Dr. Grey's wife ought to hold in his--and her--own house. Still she said nothing. She trusted to time and patience. And she had such a dread of domestic war--of a family divided against itself. Besides, some change must come, for in a day or two she would have to resume her ordinary duties, to take her place at the head of her husband's table, and once more endure the long mornings, the weary evenings, to meet and pass over the sharp speeches, the unloving looks, which made the continual atmosphere of the Lodge. "Oh!" she thought to herself, glancing round upon those four walls of the sick-chamber, which had seen, with much of anxiety, much also of love that never failed, and patience that knew no end, "I could almost say with Arthur, 'It is so nice to be ill!'"