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She blew out the candles, gave a little sigh of relief, and ran downstairs. Her mother was waiting for her. Mrs. Mitford was very prettily dressed, the boudoir looked charming, the fire burned brightly, the lamps were pretty with their shaded globes, but Christian could not help giving a guilty glance towards that window behind whose thick, soft curtains she had listened to the story of her proposed fate.

"Only it isn't my fate," thought the child, "for I am determined—quite determined—to choose the life of the free."

Supper was already on the table, and Christian had to take her place.

"I hope you will like the meal I have had prepared for you, Chris," said her mother. "Johnston, you need not wait," she continued, turning to the footman; "we will ring when we want anything: I have quite thought about this little meal with you, Chris," continued Mrs. Mitford, "and I ordered soles. You love soles, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, mumsy; we never have anything nice and tasty of that sort in the schoolroom."