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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.