"It is a musical party," explained Miss Gascoigne, when, Dr. Grey having quitted the room, Christian, for want of something to converse about, began to make a few polite inquiries concerning it. "So you have got your piano just in time, and may practice all day long, to be ready for your performance. Of course you will be asked to perform, since every body knows about your father and his musical genius. By-the-by, I met lately a gentleman who said he knew Mr. Oakley, and was exceedingly surprised--at which I must confess I scarcely wondered--when he heard who it was that my brother-in-law had married." "Oh, Henrietta!" pleaded poor Aunt Maria, with her most troubled look. But it was too late. Even Christian--quiet as her temper was, and strong her resolution to keep peace, at any price which cost nobody any thing excepting herself--was roused at last. "Miss Gascoigne," she said, and her eyes blazed and her whole figure dilated, "when your brother married me, he did it of his own free choice. He loved me. Whatever I was, he loved me. And whatever I may be now, I at least know his dignity and my own too well to submit to be spoken to, or spoken of, in this manner. It is not of the slightest moment to me who among your acquaintances criticises myself or my marriage, only I beg to be spared the information afterward. For my father"--she gulped down a great agony, a sorrow darker than that of death--"he was my father. You had better be silent concerning him." Miss Gascoigne was silent--for a few minutes. Perhaps she was a little startled, almost frightened--many a torturer is a great coward--by the sight of that white face, its every feature trembling with righteous indignation or, perhaps, some touch of nature in the hard woman's heart pleaded against this unwomanly persecution of one who bad never injured her. But she could not hold her peace for long. "There is no need to be violent, Mrs. Grey. It would be a sad thing, indeed, Maria, if your brother had married a violent-tempered woman." "I am not that. Why do you make it seem so?" said Christian, still trembling. And then, her courage breaking down under a cruel sense of wrong. "Why can not you see that I am weak and worn out, longing for a little peace, and I can not get it? I never did you any harm--it is not my fault that you hate me. Why will you hunt me down and wear my life out, while I hear it all alone, and have never told my husband one single word? It is cruel of you--cruel." She sobbed, till Arthur's sudden waking up--he had been fast asleep on the sofa, or she might not have given way so much--compelled her to restrain herself. Miss Gascoigne was moved--at least as much as was in her nature to be. She said hastily, "There--there--we will say no more about it;" took up her work, and busied herself therewith.