Christian, sitting apart, with the gulf of shining mahogany between, bridged it often with her wistful eyes, but she never said a word.
She was not jealous, not in the slightest degree; for hers was the large nature which, deeply recognizing other's rights, and satisfied with its own, is incapable of any of the lower forms of jealousy; but she was sad.

The luxurious aimlessness of her present life was a little heavy to the once poor, active, hard-working young governess, who had never known an idle or even a restful hour.

The rest was sweet--oh! how sweet! but the idleness was difficult to bear.

She had tried sometimes in the long mornings, when the master was shut up in his study, to get the children with her, and teach them a little; but Miss Gascoigne had replied that "my late sister" did not approve of any but paid governesses, and that it was impossible the wife of the Master of St.
Bede's could go "trapesing about like a nursemaid," taking walks with the children.

Their own mamma never thought of doing such a thing.
And this reference to her predecessor, given about twenty times a day, always effectually silenced Christian, though it did not silence--it could not--the cry of her heart to be of some use to somebody; to have some young, fresh, happy creatures to love and be loved by, even though they were another woman's children.
So she sat this evening and many evenings, quiet but sad-eyed; and it was a relief when Barker entered with the tea-tray, and three or four letters for Mrs.Grey.
"How very odd! Who can be writing to me?
I know nobody!" At which simple speech Miss Gascoigne looked daggers, and, the minute Barker was gone, spoke them too.
"I must beg you, Mrs.Grey, if only for our sakes, to be a little more circumspect.