Christian Mitford was thirteen years of age. She was a tall girl with a pale face, a little pronounced in expression, and quantities of thick, untidy, very bright fair hair, which had a habit of tumbling in a great mass over her eyes and round her shoulders. She was supposed to be much spoilt, and it was well known she had a will of her own.

Christian was an only child. Her home was in a big house in Russell Square. The house was large enough to have been the abode of princes in bygone days. It had enormous, lofty rooms, wide halls, great corridors, spacious landings, and, above all things, charming attics. The attics were not only very big and very roomy, but they were also not required for the use of the family at all. In consequence Christian took possession of them. She had adopted them for her own use when she was quite a little girl, not more than seven or eight years of age.

It was in the attics that Christian lived her real life. She made a fairy world for herself, and there she was happy. In the great front attic, which ran right across the house, she kept her dolls. Christian had twelve dolls, and they all had special characteristics and specially interesting histories. The adventures those dolls went through would have delighted any other little girl; Christian took these things as a matter of course. If Rosabel, the doll in the blue frock, would run away at night to live with the gypsies for a long time, she deserved punishment, and would be treated accordingly. If Abelard, who was dressed in the costume of an old crusader, would fight his enemies until he himself was all to pieces, and had to lie in bed without arms or legs, surely that also was his own fault, and his punishment served him right. Christian's cheeks used to blaze and her eyes grow bright as these adventurous dolls went through their career of naughtiness in her presence. She was so imaginative that she got herself to believe that they really did these things without any help from her, and sometimes she would sigh and shake her head and think herself much to be pitied for having such a fearfully troublesome, not to say dangerous family to manage.

But the dolls, with their dolls'-house for the respectable members of the family, and with their forests full of bandits, their crusades, their land of Palestine, their troubadours for the others, had had their day. Christian grew old enough to feel the glamour of the dolls depart. It was ridiculous to suppose that Abelard had really got that ghastly wound in his side, or that he had really lost his legs, fighting the Saracens. Yes, the dolls had had their day. But the fairy tales could be read and lived through, and she herself could be the heroine of adventure; and what a time she had when she was the voiceless Mermaid who loved a Prince and for his sake had her tongue cut out! Or how depressed she was when she acted the Ugly Duckling; and how she had, as the little Tin Soldier, adored the little Paper Princess!

But even the fairy-tale stage came to an end, and the history books had now their turn. Christian was William Tell, and her hand shook as she fired at the apple. Or she was Joan of Arc in prison, and putting on her armor when there was no one by to see. Or she was Charlotte Corday at the moment of her great inspiration. Or, again, she was on the way to the guillotine as that great hero of fiction, Sidney Carton.

The world knew nothing about Christian. They saw a dull little girl who flitted through life demurely and never expressed any strong feelings about anything.

"She is a child without character," her French governess said of Christian.

"She is a good girl, but she will never play—at least, except in the ordinary way," her music-master said.

"If she had only a little imagination she would do so much better over her poetry and history," her English mistress declared.

It was only her dancing-mistress who now and then expressed approval as Christian flitted about on her small feet, curvetting and curtsying, bending and bowing, and doing all these things with an inborn grace.

"Ah, that child!" said this discerning person; "has she not the very essence of poetry—the thing itself?"

But Christian did not even hear her dancing-mistress praise her. She was accustomed to being found fault with: even her mother only bestowed faint praise upon her; and as to her father, he scarcely noticed her at all.

Never mind, her real home was in the front attic. The grown people of the house had very little idea how much of Christian's time was spent in this attic. But however cold the weather, Christian never felt it up there. She would remain in the huge, desolate place hour after hour, crouching in a corner, her eyes gazing fascinated at the scene which she had conjured up. Of course, she got many a cold in this way. The colds were nursed and she was well treated, and no one ever for a moment traced them to their true cause.

There came an afternoon soon after Christmas, cold and dreary, when icy blasts of wind banged up against the dormer-windows of Christian's attic, and such piles of snow were heaped up on the roofs hard by that the young girl could only picture herself as the Ice Maiden. At last the cold became unbearable, and she stepped out of fairyland and ran swiftly downstairs.

On the floor just below the attics were the nurseries and her schoolroom. In the front nursery sat old nurse. She was mending some of Christian's stockings. She had spectacles on her nose, and was singing softly to herself. Christian loved her perhaps better than anyone else in the world, but she did not wait to speak to her now. She hurried past the nurseries; their day was over. She used to sigh when she remembered how many days were over. The dolls' day, the fairy-tales day, and of course the nursery day. But, thank goodness, the hero and heroine day would never be over!

"When I am grown up," thought the child, "I shall be a real one. I mean to do something very big, very great, very grand. I am preparing—I know I am preparing—all this time."

Christian also hurried past the schoolroom, which was quite comfortable and snugly furnished, with big fires in the grates. She passed the next floor, and presently found herself on the one where the drawing rooms were situated. Here, beyond the two great drawing rooms, was a small and very comfortable boudoir. The door of the room was slightly open, and Christian observed that heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. The logs on the fire blazed up merrily and a grateful breath of heat came out to the child. Christian went in at once and stood by the fire. She had just begun to thaw when she heard footsteps approaching. Now, if she made for the door she would certainly meet the intruder. This was not to be borne. She flew across the room, pushed aside the heavy curtains which sheltered one of the windows, and curling herself up on the window ledge, was completely lost to view. There were double windows and shutters, and the shutters were fastened. There was, therefore, not the slightest draught, and the window ledge itself was soft with cushions, and had a down pillow at one end. Christian had often lain there before to sleep. The little nook was warm and, compared with the attic, most comfortable. She cuddled herself up amongst the cushions and lay quiet. Of course, she would not stay long; she would just get warm, and then go upstairs to her lessons.

But the footsteps she had heard did not enter the room, and presently drowsiness stole over her and she fell asleep. When she awoke it was to the sound of voices. She raised herself very carefully, taking care not to make the slightest noise, and, dividing the curtains about a quarter of an inch, peeped out. Her mother, Mrs. Mitford, was sitting near the fire with her back to Christian. She was a pretty little woman, very young-looking for her age, and dressed in the height of fashion. A tempting looking tea equipage stood on a small table near, and as Christian watched, her mother raised a small silver teapot and poured out a cup of tea. She handed it across to a lady whom Christian knew well and hated violently. She was a certain Miss Neil, who often visited her mother. Christian had long ago pronounced Miss Neil a frumpy, tiresome, cross old woman.

"I do dislike her!" she said now to herself. "I wonder my darling mumsy can stand her."

As the child watched she saw Miss Neil help herself to a piece of buttered toast, and at the same time her mother said:

"Whatever happens, I shall give her a first-rate outfit; I have made up my mind to that."

Christian's heart made a great bound. She dropped back into the shadow, making a slight creaking noise as she did so. Mrs. Mitford glanced round her nervously.

"Don't you hear someone in the room, Julia?"

"No, dear; only mice in the wainscot," was Miss Neil's reply. "But, as you were saying, you will send Christian provided with a good outfit. That is so like you; you always were such a thoughtful, excellent mother."

Mrs. Mitford liked to be praised, and Miss Neil was aware of that fact. Mrs. Mitford's placid face shone with satisfaction.

"I should be sorry," she said, "if I failed in my motherly duties. The mother of one child has a great responsibility thrust upon her."

"Your poor little girl won't like the change—eh?" said Miss Neil.

"I'm afraid not," replied Mrs. Mitford, with a shrug of her dainty shoulders. "The school her father has selected for her is, I understand, very severe in tone. Discipline is much exercised there; but my dear husband insists. He says that we are spoiling Christian."

Christian, at the other side of the curtains, dug her nails into her flesh. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep from screaming aloud.

"I want you to help me, Julia," continued Mrs. Mitford. "We'll have the carriage out immediately after breakfast to-morrow and go round to the different shops. We really have no time to lose. I mean to give her two good, serviceable school frocks, two best frocks for Sunday—one is all that is necessary, but I want her to look really nice—an everyday evening frock, and a full-dress party one. Then she must have a tailor-made coat and skirt, and about half a dozen blouses."

"An abundance," said Miss Neil. "Too much, I should say. I never think there is any use in pampering young girls."

"Don't you, you old skinflint?" thought Christian at the other side of the curtain.

"Of course, there are a thousand and one other things," continued Mrs. Mitford; "but everything must be got in a great hurry, for she goes next week."

"Next week," thought Christian. "Oh!"

Her thoughts flew to the attic. In the attic she was Charlotte Corday: she had arrived at Paris; the greatest moment of her life was at hand. In the boudoir she was a little girl eavesdropping. Yes, it was an ugly position. She wriggled, then remained quiet, for the most awful thing of all would be to be found out.

"What day did you say the dear child was to go to her school?" asked Miss Neil.

"Next Tuesday. This is Wednesday—not a week off now."

"By the way, Mary," said Miss Neil suddenly, "have you told the child?"

"I have not Julia; and, what is more, I do not intend to. I shan't say anything whatever about it until the night before. What is the use in making her miserable? When she hears she will have no time to be sorry; she will be far too surprised; and when she gets to school her new and pleasant life will absorb her altogether. I want you to take her, by the way, Julia, for neither her father nor I can spare the time."

"When do you start yourselves?"

"Early on Tuesday morning. It is all so sudden. Of course, my dear husband is greatly pleased, for a great honor has been conferred on him. But for this we should not have sent Christian from home."

Miss Neil slowly and deliberately stirred her tea, and by-and-by she put down the empty cup and saucer.

Christian again raised herself and peeped through the curtain. She watched her mother's straight little profile—the pretty lips, the resolute chin, the low forehead, the pretty brown eyes.

"And yet she is hard," thought the child. "She speaks as though she did not care. I always thought mumsy pretty, but somehow I don't think her pretty to-night. She is hard; yes, that's it—hard."

Miss Neil began to draw on her gloves.

"I will call at eleven o'clock to-morrow," she said. "And rest assured, Mary, I shall help you by every means in my power."

"Thank you, dear; I am sure you will. Good-by for the present. Please make a list to-night of what you think will be required for a child whose parents will be in Persia for four or five years. Of course, she must have fresh things from time to time, but I want her to take all that is necessary for her."

"I will indeed; I will with pleasure do what I can for your little Christian. Good-by for the present."

Just as Miss Neil was leaving the room, and before Christian had fully made up her mind whether she would dart from her shelter and confront her mother with the fact that she had heard all, Mrs. Mitford took out her watch, uttered a shriek, and cried:

"Why, I ought to be at the War Office now to meet Henry!" and she rushed from the room.

Christian crouched back amongst her pillows. She stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to prevent her sobs from being heard. What did it all mean? She could not understand.