Monday night had arrived. The long days of waiting and suspense were nearly over. Christian looked paler than ever. She no longer asked questions or tried to draw people into betraying themselves. She often sat for half an hour at a time staring straight before her. Nurse was frightened when she looked at her; even Miss Thompson did not care to meet her gaze.

Shortly after tea on Monday evening Miss Thompson ran downstairs and burst suddenly into Mrs. Mitford's presence. Mrs. Mitford was engaged with her own packing, which had to be done in the most judicious way. She had given the child to understand that she and her father were going to the south of France for a time.

"We are going there," she said to the governess. "Don't look at me so reproachfully. You know we are going to Marseilles, and surely that is the south of France."

"Well," said Miss Thompson, "I must speak. I don't like it, Mrs. Mitford; I don't like it at all. I'm glad the time of deception is over. Sometimes, do you know, I think Christian guesses."

"Christian guesses!" cried her mother. "How could she? I hope you have been careful. I told you all her things were to be packed in the north spare-room. She is taking almost everything new with her. She needn't have known anything. You have told; you have betrayed your trust."

"No, I have not," said Miss Thompson quietly. "I have been as careful as a woman could be. But Christian is a sharp child, and she can put two and two together. I suppose, Mrs. Mitford, you will soon tell her now?"

"She is coming down to see me after dinner this evening. Her father will be present. We will tell her then," said Mrs. Mitford.

The governess was turning to leave the room. Once again she came back.

"I know you won't do it," she said, "and yet I long to ask you to. I do so wish you would let me take her to school instead of——"

"Really!" said Mrs. Mitford.

She was a very imperious little woman; she hated anyone even to suggest that her way was not the right way.

"Really!" she repeated. "I am sorry, but I cannot have my plans interfered with. My friend Miss Neil will take Christian to the school."

Tears sprang to Miss Thompson's eyes.

"It is only that she loves me, and she does not care for Miss Neil."

"Very silly of her!" said the mother. "She will have to see a good deal of Miss Neil while we are away. You would like me to write that recommendation for you to-night, Miss Thompson? Well, I have nothing but good to say of you. I hope you will get a comfortable situation before long."

"Thank you," said Miss Thompson a little coldly.

She left the room and returned to the schoolroom, where Christian was pretending to read a new story-book her father had given her that morning. It was rather old-fashioned. She did not exactly care for it; she thought there were too many characters, and that the plot was not brisk enough. Nevertheless she went on reading it. It would probably interest her later on; she knew that her mind was not with the written words that night.

"Do you know that you are to go down to see your father and mother after dinner?" said Miss Thompson.

"Yes, of course I do," said Christian.

She turned very white and dropped her book.

"You are not well, dear; you don't look at all well."

"I am quite well, thank you, Miss Thompson."

"What dress will you wear, Christian?"

"I don't think it matters much."

"They would like to see you looking nice. Your pink frock is new; will you put it on?"

"If you like."

It was between eight and nine that evening when Christian, beautifully dressed as usual, and looking tall and straight, and with a certain curious defiance about her, and yet with an inward trembling, passionate love vibrating through her frame, entered the presence of her father and mother. Of course she knew what was coming. They did not guess that, but the very fact, although it reduced her to despair, kept her also calm. There was no uncertainty about the moment that lay before her.

Mr. Mitford felt extremely nervous. He was fond of Christian—fonder than he cared to own. He was a very busy man, and seldom had more than a minute or two to devote to his wife and child, but he felt that Christian and he could be great friends if they had enough time to get better acquainted with each other.

Mrs. Mitford was certain that she would burst into passionate tears, and thus disgrace herself forever in her husband's eyes. Therefore, when Christian entered with her bold, firm step, she could not help looking at the child with admiration.

"She will be a beauty by and by," thought the mother; "she is remarkable-looking now."

The father, as he glanced at her, thought, "She is my mother over again; it is a sin to leave her."

Filled with a sudden tenderness, he moved up an inch or two on the sofa in order to make room for Christian to sit by his side.

"We have sent for you, Christian," said her mother; "we have—— You tell, won't you, Patrick?"

He was silent, looking straight across the room at his wife; his very lips were trembling. Christian pitied him so much that she almost prompted him. She very nearly said, "Go on about the school—the strict-discipline school, you know."

Mrs. Mitford in the interval rushed into the breach, and continued:

"You know, Christian, that we are going to the south of France to-morrow."

Christian did not answer. She gave a brief nod; her lips were firmly pressed together; her eyes were bright. She was saying to herself, "I won't cry. I won't let tears come; I won't—I won't—I won't!"

"Yes," said Mr. Mitford, "we are going to Marseilles; and on a longer journey."

Christian looked up at him. He took her hand. Once the ice was broken he continued more fluently:

"I am appointed Consul-General of Teheran in Persia. It is a very honorable position, and——"

Christian stirred restlessly. Mrs. Mitford looked at her.

"Why doesn't she speak?" she thought. "I quite expected her to say, 'And you will take me with you?'—to say those words very earnestly, and be passionate and troublesome about it."

But Christian did not say anything. She did not even express surprise.

"We go to-morrow morning," continued Mr. Mitford—"your mother and I. Christian, child, why don't you speak?"

"I am listening, father," she said gravely.

"You are a good child," said her father, flinging his arm round her waist and squeezing her to him.

But she detached herself suddenly.

"I'd ever so much rather you didn't pet me while you are telling me."

"Oh, very well!" said Mrs. Mitford in a displeased tone. "I have always thought it, and I must say it: I don't think you have a scrap of heart, Christian. You are the only girl I have ever heard of who would submit to her parents leaving her for six years without even a murmur."

"You didn't say the number of years, mother," answered Christian.

"Stop, Mary," said her husband; "you must allow me to speak to the child. I am very pleased with you, Christian, for having control of your feelings. I don't for a moment think that you are heartless. Far from it," he added, putting his hand under her chin and looking into the deep eyes that could scarcely meet his gaze—"far from it," he continued, and he patted her on the shoulder. "You are a good girl, just like your grandmother, and you have got pluck and endurance. Now, do you know what we are going to do with you? You are our little girl, and very, very dear to us."

"Of course, Christian, you are our only child," said her mother. "We shall be very proud of you when we come back; you will be accomplished then. You will remember what I wish: you are to be a great musician and a great singer, and your French is to be——"

"My dear," said her husband, "had you not better let me explain to Christian what her position will be during our absence?"

"All right, Patrick; only I did think that the child would like her mother to talk to her."

"So I do, mother," said Christian.

She had a sudden wild impulse to rush up to that pretty little figure and fling herself into its arms; but she knew that her mother would not understand her. She had a sort of feeling that her father would, but she was not sure of him; so she sat still and held herself up for all she was worth, and thought at intervals under her breath, "I won't let the tears come—I won't!"

"We have considered this," said Mr. Mitford. "The thing has come suddenly, and there has been very little time. We could not take you with us, for the country is not suited for young people. No girl who is not grown up could go there. We shall be away for a long time, and during that time, Christian, you must be going on with your education in the best sense of the word. Threefold must that education be—don't forget that—body, soul, and spirit. When we return you will be—— How old are you now, Christian?"

"Thirteen," said Christian.

"Yes, dear, thirteen in August," interrupted Mrs. Mitford. "Can you not recall that hot August morning when we first saw our little Christian?"

"Yes, dear," replied her husband. "Well, Christian, you are thirteen. In six years you will be nineteen—a grown-up woman, ready to take up life seriously—a woman like your grandmother."

"You may as well turn Christian into a Quakeress at once," said the mother.

"The religious part of the question we need not discuss," said Mr. Mitford. "In six years' time Christian will be grown up. We shall return with pride and pleasure to embrace our dear daughter. Now, Christian, we have found a school for you—not an ordinary school by any means. The lady who is the Principal is Miss Peacock. She is a splendid woman; her character is superb. She is a great favorite with the girls who live under her roof. There are only forty girls, so it is a comparatively small school. The house is a beautiful old mansion, and the end of the garden is washed by the waves of the wide Atlantic. The school is in Cornwall, in one of the most healthy spots possible. In the summer you will have boating and yachting, in the winter riding. The climate, compared with that of London, is temperate, and you, who are fond of flowers, will have them in plenty. Each holiday Miss Peacock has promised to take you somewhere."

Christian's eyes grew bright.

"You will love her, for she is worthy of love. You are to be treated with singular indulgence."

"What about the strict-discipline school?" said Christian to herself.

"You are to have your own pretty room, and you are to be allowed to write your letters without having them looked over—that is, to your parents. There are some charming girls at the school, and they are all prepared to love you and be good to you when you arrive. My own dear girl, you will be there by this time to-morrow night. You will leave here early in the morning, and—— Don't cry, child; you really have been very brave."

"Do let me just for a minute," said Christian, flinging her arms round her father's neck.

Her reserve was broken; she sobbed as though her heart would break.

"Come and kiss me too, Christian," said her mother.

Mrs. Mitford was crying also. Christian sobbed more and more uncontrollably. Mr. Mitford got up and left the room.

"I couldn't expect her to keep up all the time," he thought. "She was very brave at first, but those tears are terrible. Mary at least might have controlled herself. Mary is pretty, adored by society, but, compared to Christian, heartless. Poor girl, what a face was hers! I could have stood those tears, but that face of tragedy hurt me. Poor Christian! I could almost wish I had not taken that brilliant appointment. But there! it may lead to many things, and when a man has a child he ought not to be selfish. I do what I do for Christian, after all. Poor darling! somehow I never seemed to quite understand her or to appreciate her until to-night."