The Moorland Cottage

If you take the turn to the left, after you pass the lyke-gate at

Combehurst Church, you will come to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep

along the field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, in half a mile or

so, you will be in a breezy upland field, almost large enough to be called

a down, where sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You look down

on Combehurst and its beautiful church-spire. After the field is crossed,

you come to a common, richly colored with the golden gorse and the purple

heather, which in summer-time send out their warm scents into the quiet

air. The swelling waves of the upland make a near horizon against the sky;

the line is only broken in one place by a small grove of Scotch firs, which

always look black and shadowed even at mid-day, when all the rest of the

landscape seems bathed in sunlight. The lark quivers and sings high up in

the air; too high--in too dazzling a region for you to see her. Look! she

drops into sight; but, as if loth to leave the heavenly radiance, she

balances herself and floats in the ether. Now she falls suddenly right into

her nest, hidden among the ling, unseen except by the eyes of Heaven,

and the small bright insects that run hither and thither on the elastic

flower-stalks. With something like the sudden drop of the lark, the path

goes down a green abrupt descent; and in a basin, surrounded by the grassy

hills, there stands a dwelling, which is neither cottage nor house, but

something between the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though surrounded

by living things. It is, or rather it was, at the time of which I speak,

the dwelling of Mrs. Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst.

There she lived with her faithful old servant and her only children, a boy

and girl. They were as secluded in their green hollow as the households in

the German forest-tales. Once a week they emerged and crossed the common,

catching on its summit the first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling

them to church. Mrs. Browne walked first, holding Edward's hand. Old Nancy

followed with Maggie; but they were all one party, and all talked together

in a subdued and quiet tone, as beseemed the day. They had not much to say,

their lives were too unbroken; for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and

her children never went to Combehurst. Most people would have thought the

little town a quiet, dreamy place; but to those two children if seemed

the world; and after they had crossed the bridge, they each clasped more

tightly the hands which they held, and looked shyly up from beneath their

drooped eyelids when spoken to by any of their mother's friends. Mrs.

Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to dinner after morning

church, and as regularly declined, rather to the timid children's relief;

although in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in a low voice

of the pleasure it would be to them if mamma would go and dine at Mr.

Buxton's, where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived.

Instead of staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought

it her duty to go and cry over her husband's grave. The custom had arisen

out of true sorrow for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man,

had never lived; but the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the

observation of others on the mode of its manifestation. They made way for

her to cross the grass toward his grave; and she, fancying that it was

expected of her, fell into the habit I have mentioned. Her children,

holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable, and were sensitively

conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning group, to

observation.

"I wish it would always rain on Sundays," said Edward one day to Maggie, in

a garden conference.

"Why?" asked she.

"Because then we bustle out of church, and get home as fast as we can, to

save mamma's crape; and we have not to go and cry over papa."

"I don't cry," said Maggie. "Do you?"

Edward looked round before he answered, to see if they were quite alone,

and then said:

"No; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one can't go on being sorry

forever. Perhaps grown-up people can."

"Mamma can," said little Maggie. "Sometimes I am very sorry too; when I am

by myself or playing with you, or when I am wakened up by the moonlight

in our room. Do you ever waken and fancy you heard papa calling you? I

do sometimes; and then I am very sorry to think we shall never hear him

calling us again."

"Ah, it's different with me, you know. He used to call me to lessons."

"Sometimes he called me when he was displeased with me. But I always dream

that he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he

wanted us to walk with him, or to show us something pretty."

Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground. At last he

looked round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be

overheard, he whispered:

"Maggie--sometimes I don't think I'm sorry that papa is dead--when I'm

naughty, you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here;

and I think--only sometimes, you know, I'm rather glad he is not."

"Oh, Edward! you don't mean to say so, I know. Don't let us talk about him.

We can't talk rightly, we're such little children. Don't, Edward, please."

Poor little Maggie's eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to

Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father. As she grew older, her

life became more actively busy. The cottage and small outbuildings, and the

garden and field, were their own; and on the produce they depended for much

of their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took up much of Nancy's

time. Mrs. Browne and Maggie had to do a great deal of the house-work; and

when the beds were made, and the rooms swept and dusted, and the

preparations for dinner ready, then, if there was any time, Maggie sat down

to her lessons. Ned, who prided himself considerably on his sex, had been

sitting all the morning, in his father's arm-chair, in the little

book-room, "studying," as he chose to call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop

her head in, with a request that he would help her to carry the great

pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some other little household service;

with which request he occasionally complied, but with so many complaints

about the interruption, that at last she told him she would never ask

him again. Gently as this was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and

tried to excuse himself.

"You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be a gentleman. Now, if a woman

knows how to keep a house, that's all that is wanted from her. So my time

is of more consequence than yours. Mamma says I'm to go to college, and be

a clergyman; so I must get on with my Latin."

Maggie submitted in silence; and almost felt it as an act of gracious

condescension when, a morning or two afterwards, he came to meet her as

she was toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown jug full of

spring-water ready for dinner. "Here," said he, "let us put it in the shade

behind the horse-mount. Oh, Maggie! look what you've done! Spilt it all,

with not turning quickly enough when I told you. Now you may fetch it again

for yourself, for I'll have nothing to do with it."

"I did not understand you in time," said she, softly. But he had turned

away, and gone back in offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to

do but return to the well, and fill it again. The spring was some distance

off, in a little rocky dell. It was so cool after her hot walk, that she

sat down in the shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at the ferns,

wet with the dripping water. She felt sad, she knew not why. "I think

Ned is sometimes very cross," thought she. "I did not understand he was

carrying it there. Perhaps I am clumsy. Mamma says I am; and Ned says I

am. Nancy never says so and papa never said so. I wish I could help being

clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women are so. I wish I was not a woman. It

must be a fine thing to be a man. Oh dear! I must go up the field again

with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do so ache!" She rose and climbed the

steep brae. As she went she heard her mother's voice.

"Maggie! Maggie! there's no water for dinner, and the potatoes are quite

boiled. Where is that child?"

They had begun dinner, before she came down from brushing her hair and

washing her hands. She was hurried and tired.

"Mother," said Ned, "mayn't I have some butter to these potatoes, as there

is cold meat? They are so dry."

"Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat of butter out of the

dairy."

Maggie went from her untouched dinner without speaking.

"Here, stop, you child!" said Nancy, turning her back in the passage. "You

go to your dinner, I'll fetch the butter. You've been running about enough

to-day."

Maggie durst not go back without it, but she stood in the passage till

Nancy returned; and then she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind

rough old servant.

"Thou'rt a sweet one," said Nancy to herself, as she turned into the

kitchen; and Maggie went back to her dinner with a soothed and lightened

heart.

When the meal was ended, she helped her mother to wash up the old-fashioned

glasses and spoons, which were treated with tender care and exquisite

cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and then, exchanging her

pinafore for a black silk apron, the little maiden was wont to sit down to

some useful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother enforced the

most dainty neatness of stitches. Thus every hour in its circle brought a

duty to be fulfilled; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the memory,

and little Maggie always thought those early childish days most happy, and

remembered them only as filled with careless contentment.

Yet, at the time they had their cares.

In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at her work. Just beyond the

court lay the rocky moorland, almost as gay as that with its profusion of

flowers. If the court had its clustering noisettes, and fraxinellas, and

sweetbriar, and great tall white lilies, the moorland had its little

creeping scented rose, its straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance of

yellow cistus; and here and there a gray rock cropped out of the ground,

and over it the yellow stone-crop and scarlet-leaved crane's-bill grew

luxuriantly. Such a rock was Maggie's seat. I believe she considered it her

own, and loved it accordingly; although its real owner was a great lord,

who lived far away, and had never seen the moor, much less the piece of

gray rock, in his life.

The afternoon of the day which I have begun to tell you about, she was

sitting there, and singing to herself as she worked: she was within call of

home, and could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness softened down.

Between her and it, Edward was amusing himself; he often called upon her

for sympathy, which she as readily gave.

"I wonder how men make their boats steady; I have taken mine to the pond,

and she has toppled over every time I sent her in."

"Has it?--that's very tiresome! Would if do to put a little weight in it,

to keep it down?"

"How often must I tell you to call a ship 'her;' and there you will go on

saying--it--it!"

After this correction of his sister, Master Edward did not like the

condescension of acknowledging her suggestion to be a good one; so he went

silently to the house in search of the requisite ballast; but not being

able to find anything suitable, he came back to his turfy hillock, littered

round with chips of wood, and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel;

but they stuck fast, and he was obliged to ask again.

"Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, what could I put in?"

Maggie thought a moment.

"Would shot do?" asked she.

"It would be the very thing; but where can I get any?"

"There is some that was left of papa's. It is in the right-hand corner of

the second drawer of the bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper."

"What a plague! I can't remember your 'seconds,' and 'right-hands,' and

fiddle-faddles." He worked on at his pebbles. They would hot do.

"I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you might go for me."

"Oh, Ned! I've all this long seam to do. Mamma said I must finish it before

tea; and that I might play a little if I had done if first," said Maggie,

rather plaintively; for it was a real pain to her to refuse a request.

"It would not take you five minutes."

Maggie thought a little. The time would only be taken out of her playing,

which, after all, did not signify; while Edward was really busy about his

ship. She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy slope, slippery with the

heat.

Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard her mother's voice

calling, in a sort of hushed hurried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by

one person yet not by another--"Edward, Edward, come home quickly. Here's

Mr. Buxton coming along the Fell-Lane;--he's coming here, as sure as

sixpence; come, Edward, come."

Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. At his mother's bidding it

certainly was; but he strove to make this as little apparent as he could,

by sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his pockets, in a very

independent and négligé style. Maggie had no time to watch longer; for

now she was called too, and down stairs she ran.

"Here, Maggie," said her mother, in a nervous hurry;--"help Nancy to get a

tray ready all in a minute. I do believe here's Mr. Buxton coming to call.

Oh, Edward! go and brush your hair, and put on your Sunday jacket; here's

Mr. Buxton just coming round. I'll only run up and change my cap; and you

say you'll come up and tell me, Nancy; all proper, you know."

"To be sure, ma'am. I've lived in families afore now," said Nancy, gruffly.

"Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring in the cowslip wine. I wish I

could have stayed to decant some port."

Nancy and Maggie bustled about, in and out of the kitchen and dairy; and

were so deep in their preparations for Mr. Buxton's reception that they

were not aware of the very presence of that gentleman himself on the scene.

He had found the front door open, as is the wont in country places, and had

walked in; first stopping at the empty parlor, and then finding his way to

the place where voices and sounds proclaimed that there were inhabitants.

So he stood there, stooping a little under the low-browed lintels of the

kitchen door, and looking large, and red, and warm, but with a pleased and

almost amused expression of face.

"Lord bless me, sir! what a start you gave me!" said Nancy, as she suddenly

caught sight of him. "I'll go and tell my missus in a minute that you're

come."

Off she went, leaving Maggie alone with the great, tall, broad gentleman,

smiling at her from his frame in the door-way, but never speaking. She went

on dusting a wine-glass most assiduously.

"Well done, little girl," came out a fine strong voice at last. "Now I

think that will do. Come and show me the parlor where I may sit down, for

I've had a long walk, and am very tired."

Maggie took him into the parlor, which was always cool and fresh in the

hottest weather. It was scented by a great beau-pot filled with roses; and,

besides, the casement was open to the fragrant court. Mr. Buxton was so

large, and the parlor so small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought

when he went away, he could carry the room on his back, as a snail does its

house.

"And so, you are a notable little woman, are you?" said he, after he had

stretched himself (a very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his

waistcoat, Maggie stood near the door, uncertain whether to go or to stay.

"How bright and clean you were making that glass! Do you think you could

get me some water to fill it? Mind, it must be that very glass I saw you

polishing. I shall know it again."

Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room; and in the passage she met

her mother, who had made time to change her gown as well as her cap. Before

Nancy would allow the little girl to return with the glass of water she

smoothed her short-cut glossy hair; it was all that was needed to make her

look delicately neat. Maggie was conscientious in trying to find out

the identical glass; but I am afraid Nancy was not quite so truthful in

avouching that one of the six, exactly similar, which were now placed on

the tray, was the same she had found on the dresser, when she came back

from telling her mistress of Mr. Buxton's arrival.

Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in the clearness of the

glass. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, speaking in

unusually fine language, and with a higher pitched voice than common.

Edward, in all his Sunday glory, was standing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy

and conscious. But when Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room for her

between Edward and himself, and, while she went on talking, lifted her on

to his knee. She sat there as on a pinnacle of honor; but as she durst not

nestle up to him, a chair would have been the more comfortable seat.

"As founder's line, I have a right of presentation; and for my dear old

friend's sake" (here Mrs. Browne wiped her eyes), "I am truly glad of it;

my young friend will have a little form of examination to go through; and

then we shall see him carrying every prize before him, I have no doubt.

Thank you, just a little of your sparkling cowslip wine. Ah! this

gingerbread is like the gingerbread I had when I was a boy. My little lady

here must learn the receipt, and make me some. Will she?"

"Speak to Mr. Buxton, child, who is kind to your brother. You will make him

some gingerbread, I am sure."

"If I may," said Maggie, hanging down her head.

"Or, I'll tell you what. Suppose you come to my house, and teach us how to

make it there; and then, you know, we could always be making gingerbread

when we were not eating it. That would be best, I think. Must I ask mamma

to bring you down to Combehurst, and let us all get acquainted together? I

have a great boy and a little girl at home, who will like to see you, I'm

sure. And we have got a pony for you to ride on, and a peacock and guinea

fowls, and I don't know what all. Come, madam, let me persuade you. School

begins in three weeks. Let us fix a day before then."

"Do mamma," said Edward.

"I am not in spirits for visiting," Mrs. Browne answered. But the quick

children detected a hesitation in her manner of saying the oft spoken

words, and had hopes, if only Mr. Buxton would persevere in his invitation.

"Your not visiting is the very reason why you are not in spirits. A little

change, and a few neighborly faces, would do you good, I'll be bound.

Besides, for the children's sake you should not live too secluded a life.

Young people should see a little of the world."

Mrs. Browne was much obliged to Mr. Buxton for giving her so decent an

excuse for following her inclination, which, it must be owned, tended

to the acceptance of the invitation. So, "for the children's sake," she

consented. But she sighed, as if making a sacrifice.

"That's right," said Mr. Buxton. "Now for the day."

It was fixed that they should go on that day week; and after some further

conversation about the school at which Edward was to be placed, and some

more jokes about Maggie's notability, and an inquiry if she would come and

live with him the next time he wanted a housemaid, Mr. Buxton took his

leave.

His visit had been an event; and they made no great attempt at settling

again that day to any of their usual employments. In the first place, Nancy

came in to hear and discuss all the proposed plans. Ned, who was uncertain

whether to like or dislike the prospect of school, was very much offended

by the old servant's remark, on first hearing of the project.

"It's time for him. He'll learn his place there, which, it strikes me, he

and others too are apt to forget at home."

Then followed discussions and arrangements respecting his clothes. And then

they came to the plan of spending a day at Mr. Buxton's, which Mrs. Browne

was rather shy of mentioning, having a sort of an idea of inconstancy and

guilt connected with the thought of mingling with the world again. However,

Nancy approved: "It was quite right," and "just as it should be," and "good

for the children."

"Yes; it was on their account I did it, Nancy," said Mrs. Browne.

"How many children has Mr. Buxton?" asked Edward.

"Only one. Frank, I think, they call him. But you must say Master Buxton;

be sure."

"Who is the little girl, then," asked Maggie, "who sits with them in

church?"

"Oh! that's little Miss Harvey, his niece, and a great fortune."

"They do say he never forgave her mother till the day of her death,"

remarked Nancy.

"Then they tell stories, Nancy!" replied Mrs. Browne (it was she herself

who had said it; but that was before Mr. Buxton's call). For d'ye think his

sister would have left him guardian to her child, if they were not on good

terms?"

"Well! I only know what folks say. And, for sure, he took a spite at Mr.

Harvey for no reason on earth; and every one knows he never spoke to him."

"He speaks very kindly and pleasantly," put in Maggie.

"Ay; and I'm not saying but what he is a very good, kind man in the main.

But he has his whims, and keeps hold on 'em when he's got 'em. There's them

pies burning, and I'm talking here!"

When Nancy had returned to her kitchen, Mrs. Browne called Maggie up

stairs, to examine what clothes would be needed for Edward. And when they

were up, she tried on the black satin gown, which had been her visiting

dress ever since she was married, and which she intended should replace

the old, worn-out bombazine on the day of the visit to Combehurst.

"For Mrs. Buxton is a real born lady," said she; "and I should like to be

well dressed, to do her honor."

"I did not know there was a Mrs. Buxton," said Maggie. "She is never at

church."

"No; she is but delicate and weakly, and never leaves the house. I think

her maid told me she never left her room now."

The Buxton family, root and branch, formed the pièce de résistance in the

conversation between Mrs. Browne and her children for the next week. As the

day drew near, Maggie almost wished to stay at home, so impressed was she

with the awfulness of the visit. Edward felt bold in the idea of a new

suit of clothes, which had been ordered for the occasion, and for school

afterwards. Mrs. Browne remembered having heard the rector say, "A woman

never looked so lady-like as when she wore black satin," and kept her

spirits up with that observation; but when she saw how worn it was at the

elbows, she felt rather depressed, and unequal to visiting. Still, for her

children's sake, she would do much.

After her long day's work was ended, Nancy sat up at her sewing. She had

found out that among all the preparations, none were going on for Margaret;

and she had used her influence over her mistress (who half-liked and

half-feared, and entirely depended upon her) to obtain from her an old

gown, which she had taken to pieces, and washed and scoured, and was now

making up, in a way a little old-fashioned to be sure; but, on the whole,

it looked so nice when completed and put on, that Mrs. Browne gave Maggie

a strict lecture about taking great care of such a handsome frock and

forgot that she had considered the gown from which if had been made as

worn out and done for.

At length they were dressed, and Nancy stood on the court-steps, shading

her eyes, and looking after them, as they climbed the heathery slope

leading to Combehurst.

"I wish she'd take her hand sometimes, just to let her know the feel of

her mother's hand. Perhaps she will, at least after Master Edward goes to

school."

As they went along, Mrs. Browne gave the children a few rules respecting

manners and etiquette.

"Maggie! you must sit as upright as ever you can; make your back flat,

child, and don't poke. If I cough, you must draw up. I shall cough whenever

I see you do anything wrong, and I shall be looking at you all day; so

remember. You hold yourself very well, Edward. If Mr. Buxton asks you, you

may have a glass of wine, because you're a boy. But mind and say, 'Your

good health, sir,' before you drink it."

"I'd rather not have the wine if I'm to say that," said Edward, bluntly.

"Oh, nonsense! my dear. You'd wish to be like a gentleman, I'm sure."

Edward muttered something which was inaudible. His mother went on:

Of course you'll never think of being helped more than twice. Twice of

meat, twice of pudding, is the genteel thing. You may take less, but never

more."

"Oh, mamma! how beautiful Combehurst spire is, with that dark cloud behind

it!" exclaimed Maggie, as they came in sight of the town.

"You've no business with Combehurst spire when I'm speaking to you. I'm

talking myself out of breath to teach you how to behave, and there you go

looking after clouds, and such like rubbish. I'm ashamed of you."

Although Maggie walked quietly by her mother's side all the rest of the

way, Mrs. Browne was too much offended to resume her instructions on

good-breeding. Maggie might be helped three times if she liked: she had

done with her.

They were very early. When they drew near the bridge, they were met by a

tall, fine-looking boy, leading a beautiful little Shetland pony, with a

side-saddle on it. He came up to Mrs. Browne, and addressed her.

"My father thought your little girl would be tired, and he told me to bring

my cousin Erminia's pony for her. It's as quiet as can be."

Now this was rather provoking to Mrs. Browne, as she chose to consider

Maggie in disgrace. However, there was no help for it: all she could do was

to spoil the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking and speaking in a

cold manner, which often chilled Maggie's little heart, and took all the

zest out of the pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton made the

pony trot and canter; she still looked sad and grave.

"Little dull thing!" he thought; but he was as kind and considerate as a

gentlemanly boy could be.

At last they reached Mr. Buxton's house. It was in the main street, and the

front door opened upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side extended

the stone-coped windows. It was in reality a mansion, and needed not

the neighboring contrast of the cottages on either side to make it look

imposing. When they went in, they entered a large hall, cool even on that

burning July day, with a black and white flag floor, and old settees

round the walls, and great jars of curious china, which were filled with

pot-pourrie. The dusky gloom was pleasant, after the glare of the street

outside; and the requisite light and cheerfulness were given by the peep

into the garden, framed, as it were, by the large door-way that opened into

it. There were roses, and sweet-peas, and poppies--a rich mass of color,

which looked well, set in the somewhat sombre coolness of the hall. All the

house told of wealth--wealth which had accumulated for generations, and

which was shown in a sort of comfortable, grand, unostentatious way. Mr.

Buxton's ancestors had been yeomen; but, two or three generations back,

they might, if ambitious, have taken their place as country gentry, so much

had the value of their property increased, and so great had been the amount

of their savings. They, however, continued to live in the old farm till Mr.

Buxton's grandfather built the house in Combehurst of which I am speaking,

and then he felt rather ashamed of what he had done; it seemed like

stepping out of his position. He and his wife always sat in the best

kitchen; and it was only after his son's marriage that the entertaining

rooms were furnished. Even then they were kept with closed shutters

and bagged-up furniture during the lifetime of the old couple, who,

nevertheless, took a pride in adding to the rich-fashioned ornaments and

grand old china of the apartments. But they died, and were gathered to

their fathers, and young Mr. and Mrs. Buxton (aged respectively fifty-one

and forty-five) reigned in their stead. They had the good taste to make no

sudden change; but gradually the rooms assumed an inhabited appearance, and

their son and daughter grew up in the enjoyment of great wealth, and no

small degree of refinement. But as yet they held back modestly from putting

themselves in any way on a level with the county people. Lawrence Buxton

was sent to the same school as his father had been before him; and the

notion of his going to college to complete his education was, after some

deliberation, negatived. In process of time he succeeded his father, and

married a sweet, gentle lady, of a decayed and very poor county family, by

whom he had one boy before she fell into delicate health. His sister had

married a man whose character was worse than his fortune, and had been left

a widow. Everybody thought her husband's death a blessing; but she loved

him, in spite of negligence and many grosser faults; and so, not many years

after, she died, leaving her little daughter to her brother's care, with

many a broken-voiced entreaty that he would never speak a word against

the dead father of her child. So the little Erminia was taken home by her

self-reproaching uncle, who felt now how hardly he had acted towards his

sister in breaking off all communication with her on her ill-starred

marriage.

"Where is Erminia, Frank?" asked his father, speaking over Maggie's

shoulder, while he still held her hand. "I want to take Mrs. Browne to your

mother. I told Erminia to be here to welcome this little girl."

"I'll take her to Minnie; I think she's in the garden. I'll come back to

you," nodding to Edward, "directly, and then we will go to the rabbits."

So Frank and Maggie left the great lofty room, full of strange rare

things, and rich with books, and went into the sunny scented garden, which

stretched far and wide behind the house. Down one of the walks, with a

hedge of roses on either side, came a little tripping fairy, with long

golden ringlets, and a complexion like a china rose. With the deep blue of

the summer sky behind her, Maggie thought she looked like an angel. She

neither hastened nor slackened her pace when she saw them, but came on with

the same dainty light prancing step.

"Make haste, Minnie," cried Frank.

But Minnie stopped to gather a rose.

"Don't stay with me," said Maggie, softly, although she had held his hand

like that of a friend, and did not feel that the little fairy's manner was

particularly cordial or gracious. Frank took her at her word, and ran off

to Edward.

Erminia came a little quicker when she saw that Maggie was left alone; but

for some time after they were together, they had nothing to say to each

other. Erminia was easily impressed by the pomps and vanities of the world;

and Maggie's new handsome frock seemed to her made of old ironed brown

silk. And though Maggie's voice was soft, with a silver ringing sound in

it, she pronounced her words in Nancy's broad country way. Her hair was cut

short all round; her shoes were thick, and clumped as she walked. Erminia

patronized her, and thought herself very kind and condescending; but they

were not particularly friendly. The visit promised to be more honorable

than agreeable, and Maggie almost wished herself at home again. Dinner-time

came. Mrs. Buxton dined in her own room. Mr. Buxton was hearty, and jovial,

and pressing; he almost scolded Maggie because she would not take more than

twice of his favorite pudding: but she remembered what her mother had said,

and that she would be watched all day; and this gave her a little prim,

quaint manner, very different from her usual soft charming unconsciousness.

She fancied that Edward and Master Buxton were just as little at their ease

with each other as she and Miss Harvey. Perhaps this feeling on the part of

the boys made all four children unite after dinner.

"Let us go to the swing in the shrubbery," said Frank, after a little

consideration; and off they ran. Frank proposed that he and Edward should

swing the two little girls; and for a time all went on very well. But

by-and-by Edward thought, that Maggie had had enough, and that he should

like a turn; and Maggie, at his first word, got out.

"Don't you like swinging?" asked Erminia.

"Yes! but Edward would like it now." And Edward accordingly took her place.

Frank turned away, and would not swing him. Maggie strove hard to do it,

but he was heavy, and the swing bent unevenly. He scolded her for what

she could not help, and at last jumped out so roughly, that the seat hit

Maggie's face, and knocked her down. When she got up, her lips quivered

with pain, but she did not cry; she only looked anxiously at her frock.

There was a great rent across the front breadth. Then she did shed

tears--tears of fright. What would her mother say?

Erminia saw her crying.

"Are you hurt?" said she, kindly. "Oh, how your check is swelled! What a

rude, cross boy your brother is!"

"I did not know he was going to jump out. I am not crying because I am

hurt, but because of this great rent in my nice new frock. Mamma will be so

displeased."

"Is it a new frock?" asked Erminia.

"It is a new one for me. Nancy has sat up several nights to make it. Oh!

what shall I do?"

Erminia's little heart was softened by such excessive poverty. A best frock

made of shabby old silk! She put her arms round Maggie's neck, and said:

"Come with me; we will go to my aunt's dressing-room, and Dawson will give

me some silk, and I'll help you to mend it."

"That's a kind little Minnie," said Frank. Ned had turned sulkily away. I

do not think the boys were ever cordial again that day; for, as Frank said

to his mother, "Ned might have said he was sorry; but he is a regular

tyrant to that little brown mouse of a sister of his."

Erminia and Maggie went, with their arms round each other's necks, to Mrs.

Buxton's dressing-room. The misfortune had made them friends. Mrs.

Buxton lay on the sofa; so fair and white and colorless, in her muslin

dressing-gown, that when Maggie first saw the lady lying with her eyes

shut, her heart gave a start, for she thought she was dead. But she opened

her large languid eyes, and called them to her, and listened to their story

with interest.

"Dawson is at tea. Look, Minnie, in my work-box; there is some silk there.

Take off your frock, my dear, and bring it here, and let me see how it can

be mended."

"Aunt Buxton," whispered Erminia, "do let me give her one of my frocks.

This is such an old thing."

"No, love. I'll tell you why afterwards," answered Mrs. Buxton.

She looked at the rent, and arranged if nicely for the little girls to

mend. Erminia helped Maggie with right good will. As they sat on the floor,

Mrs. Buxton thought what a pretty contrast they made; Erminia, dazzlingly

fair, with her golden ringlets, and her pale-blue frock; Maggie's little

round white shoulders peeping out of her petticoat; her brown hair as

glossy and smooth as the nuts that it resembled in color; her long black

eye-lashes drooping over her clear smooth cheek, which would have given the

idea of delicacy, but for the coral lips that spoke of perfect health: and

when she glanced up, she showed long, liquid, dark-gray eyes. The deep red

of the curtain behind, threw out these two little figures well.

Dawson came up. She was a grave elderly person, of whom Erminia was far

more afraid than she was of her aunt; but at Mrs. Buxton's desire she

finished mending the frock for Maggie.

"Mr. Buxton has asked some of your mamma's old friends to tea, as I am not

able to go down. But I think, Dawson, I must have these two little girls to

tea with me. Can you be very quiet, my dears; or shall you think it dull?"

They gladly accepted the invitation; and Erminia promised all sorts of

fanciful promises as to quietness; and went about on her tiptoes in such

a labored manner, that Mrs. Buxton begged her at last not to try and be

quiet, as she made much less noise when she did not. It was the happiest

part of the day to Maggie. Something in herself was so much in harmony with

Mrs. Buxton's sweet, resigned gentleness, that it answered like an echo,

and the two understood each other strangely well. They seemed like old

friends, Maggie, who was reserved at home because no one cared to hear what

she had to say, opened out, and told Erminia and Mrs. Buxton all about her

way of spending her day, and described her home.

"How odd!" said Erminia. "I have ridden that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never

seen your house."

"It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived in; people sometimes seem

to go round it and round it, and never find it. But unless you follow a

little sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of rock, you may

come within a stone's throw of the chimneys and never see them. I think you

would think it so pretty. Do you ever come that way, ma'am?"

"No, love," answered Mrs. Buxton.

"But will you some time?"

"I am afraid I shall never be able to go out again," said Mrs. Buxton, in

a voice which, though low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a lot

was here before her; and by-and-by she took a little stool, and sat by Mrs.

Buxton's sofa, and stole her hand into hers.

Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happiness down stairs. Mr. Buxton

had a number of jokes; which would have become dull from repetition (for he

worked a merry idea threadbare before he would let if go), had if not been

for his jovial blandness and good-nature. He liked to make people happy,

and, as far as bodily wants went, he had a quick perception of what was

required. He sat like a king (for, excepting the rector, there was not

another gentleman of his standing at Combehurst), among six or seven

ladies, who laughed merrily at all his sayings, and evidently thought Mrs.

Browne had been highly honored in having been asked to dinner as well as

to tea. In the evening, the carriage was ordered to take her as far as a

carriage could go; and there was a little mysterious handshaking between

her host and herself on taking leave, which made her very curious for the

lights of home by which to examine a bit of rustling paper that had been

put in her hand with some stammered-out words about Edward.

When every one had gone, there was a little gathering in Mrs. Buxton's

dressing-room. Husband, son and niece, all came to give her their opinions

on the day and the visitors.

"Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome," said Mr. Buxton, yawning. "Living

in that moorland hole, I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her day;

and we'll ask her down now and then, for Browne's sake. Poor Browne! What a

good man he was!"

"I don't like that boy at all," said Frank. "I beg you'll not ask him again

while I'm at home: he is so selfish and self-important; and yet he's a bit

snobbish now and then. Mother! I know what you mean by that look. Well! if

I am self-important sometimes, I'm not a snob."

"Little Maggie is very nice," said Erminia. "What a pity she has not a new

frock! Was not she good about it, Frank, when she tore it?"

"Yes, she's a nice little thing enough, if she does not get all spirit

cowed out of her by that brother. I'm thankful that he is going to school."

When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had drank tea, she was offended. She

had only sat with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If Mrs. Buxton

could bear the noise of children, she could not think why she shut herself

up in that room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it was because

she was the granddaughter of Sir Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself

to have such whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or make tea for

her company in a civil decent way. Poor Mr. Buxton! What a sad life for a

merry, light-hearted man to have such a wife! It was a good thing for him

to have agreeable society sometimes. She thought he looked a deal better

for seeing his friends. He must be sadly moped with that sickly wife.

(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, she might have seen Mr.

Buxton tenderly chafing his wife's hands, and feeling in his innermost soul

a wonder how one so saint-like could ever have learnt to love such a boor

as he was; it was the wonderful mysterious blessing of his life. So little

do we know of the inner truths of the households, where we come and go like

intimate guests!)

Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton spoken of as a fine lady assuming

illness. Her heart beat hard as she spoke. "Mamma! I am sure she is really

ill. Her lips kept going so white; and her hand was so burning hot all the

time that I held it."

"Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton's hand? Where were your manners? You are

a little forward creature, and ever were. But don't pretend to know better

than your elders. It is no use telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able

to bear the noise of children."

"I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the

worst of all," said Edward.

Maggie's heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking

over the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had

never before ventured into the world, and did not know how common and

universal is the custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just

been associating; and so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too,

with the idea that she should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia

again. Because no future visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she

fancied it would never take place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian

Nights, who caught a glimpse of the precious stones and dazzling glories

of the cavern, which was immediately after closed, and shut up into the

semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to recall the house. Deep blue,

crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so striking after the light

chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite of rooms opening out

of each other was something quite new to the little girl; the apartments

seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of the arched

aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton's face;

and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to

soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would

soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie

dearly, and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady.

She listened to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the

moon fell through the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who

still sighed in her sleep.

In three weeks, the day came for Edward's departure. A great cake and a

parcel of gingerbread soothed his sorrows on leaving home.

"Don't cry, Maggie!" said he to her on the last morning; "you see I don't.

Christmas will soon be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write to

you now and then. Did Nancy put any citron in the cake?"

Maggie wished she might accompany her mother to Combehurst to see Edward

off by the coach; but it was not to be. She went with them, without her

bonnet, as far as her mother would allow her; and then she sat down, and

watched their progress for a long, long way. She was startled by the sound

of a horse's feet, softly trampling through the long heather. It was Frank

Buxton's.

"My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to see the Woodchester Herald. Is

Edward gone?" said he, noticing her sad face.

"Yes! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. I dare say you can see

him crossing the bridge, soon. I did so want to have gone with him,"

answered she, looking wistfully toward the town.

Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after her brother, whom,

strange as it was, she evidently regretted. After a minute's silence, he

said:

"You liked riding the other day. Would you like a ride now? Rhoda is very

gentle, if you can sit on my saddle. Look! I'll shorten the stirrup. There

now; there's a brave little girl! I'll lead her very carefully. Why,

Erminia durst not ride without a side-saddle! I'll tell you what; I'll

bring the newspaper every Wednesday till I go to school, and you shall have

a ride. Only I wish we had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will let

me, I'll bring Abdel-Kadr, the little Shetland you rode the other day."

"But will Mr. Buxton let you?" asked Maggie, half delighted--half afraid.

"Oh, my father! to be sure he will. I have him in very good order."

Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speaking.

"When do you go to school?" asked she.

"Toward the end of August; I don't know the day."

"Does Erminia go to school?"

"No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma does not get better." Maggie

liked the change of voice, as he spoke of his mother.

"There, little lady! now jump down. Famous! you've a deal of spirit, you

little brown mouse."

Nancy came out, with a wondering look, to receive Maggie.

"It is Mr. Frank Buxton," said she, by way of an introduction. "He has

brought mamma the newspaper."

"Will you walk in, sir, and rest? I can tie up your horse."

"No, thank you," said he, "I must be off. Don't forget, little mousey, that

you are to ready for another ride next Wednesday." And away he went.

It needed a good deal of Nancy's diplomacy to procure Maggie this pleasure;

although I don't know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for the circle

they went was always within sight of the knoll in front of the house, if

any one cared enough about the matter to mount it, and look after them.

Frank and Maggie got great friends in these rides. Her fearlessness

delighted and surprised him, she had seemed so cowed and timid at first.

But she was only so with people, as he found out before holidays ended.

He saw her shrink from particular looks and inflexions of voice of her

mother's; and learnt to read them, and dislike Mrs. Browne accordingly,

notwithstanding all her sugary manner toward himself. The result of his

observations he communicated to his mother, and in consequence, he was the

bearer of a most civil and ceremonious message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs.

Browne, to the effect that the former would be much obliged to the latter

if she would allow Maggie to ride down occasionally with the groom, who

would bring the newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was going to

school), and to spend the afternoon with Erminia. Mrs. Browne consented,

proud of the honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention was made of

herself. When Frank had bid good-bye, and fairly disappeared, she turned to

Maggie.

"You must not set yourself up if you go among these fine folks. It is their

way of showing attention to your father and myself. And you must mind and

work doubly hard on Thursdays to make up for playing on Wednesdays."

Maggie was in a flush of sudden color, and a happy palpitation of her

fluttering little heart. She could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind

Frank was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts of seeing his

mother; who had grown strangely associated in her dreams, both sleeping

and waking, with the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasping

their hands in prayer on the altar-tombs in Combehurst church. All the

week was one happy season of anticipation. She was afraid her mother was

secretly irritated at her natural rejoicing; and so she did not speak to

her about it, but she kept awake till Nancy came to bed, and poured into

her sympathizing ears every detail, real or imaginary, of her past or

future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, and the old servant listened with

interest, and fell into the custom of picturing the future with the ease

and simplicity of a child.

"Suppose, Nancy! only suppose, you know, that she did die. I don't mean

really die, but go into a trance like death; she looked as if she was in

one when I first saw her; I would not leave her, but I would sit by her,

and watch her, and watch her."

"Her lips would be always fresh and red," interrupted Nancy.

"Yes, I know you've told me before how they keep red--I should look at them

quite steadily; I would try never to go to sleep."

"The great thing would be to have air-holes left in the coffin." But Nancy

felt the little girl creep close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with

the tact of love, she changed the subject.

"Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who could charm away illness. There

were such in my young days; but I don't think people are so knowledgeable

now. Peggy Jackson, that lived near us when I was a girl, was cured of a

waste by a charm."

"What is a waste, Nancy?"

"It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish nor drink strengthen them,

but they just fade off, and grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow

looks gray instead of black at noonday; but he cured her in no time by a

charm."

"Oh, if we could find him."

"Lass, he's dead, and she's dead, too, long ago!"

While Maggie was in imagination going over moor and fell, into the hollows

of the distant mysterious hills, where she imagined all strange beasts and

weird people to haunt, she fell asleep.

Such were the fanciful thoughts which were engendered in the little girl's

mind by her secluded and solitary life. It was more solitary than ever, now

that Edward was gone to school. The house missed his loud cheerful voice,

and bursting presence. There seemed much less to be done, now that his

numerous wants no longer called for ministration and attendance. Maggie did

her task of work on her own gray rock; but as it was sooner finished, now

that he was not there to interrupt and call her off, she used to stray up

the Fell Lane at the back of the house; a little steep stony lane, more

like stairs cut in the rock than what we, in the level land, call a lane:

it reached on to the wide and open moor, and near its termination there

was a knotted thorn-tree; the only tree for apparent miles. Here the sheep

crouched under the storms, or stood and shaded themselves in the noontide

heat. The ground was brown with their cleft round foot-marks; and tufts of

wool were hung on the lower part of the stem, like votive offerings on some

shrine. Here Maggie used to come and sit and dream in any scarce half-hour

of leisure. Here she came to cry, when her little heart was overfull at her

mother's sharp fault-finding, or when bidden to keep out of the way, and

not be troublesome. She used to look over the swelling expanse of moor, and

the tears were dried up by the soft low-blowing wind which came sighing

along it. She forgot her little home griefs to wonder why a brown-purple

shadow always streaked one particular part in the fullest sunlight; why the

cloud-shadows always seemed to be wafted with a sidelong motion; or she

would imagine what lay beyond those old gray holy hills, which seemed to

bear up the white clouds of Heaven on which the angels flew abroad. Or she

would look straight up through the quivering air, as long as she could bear

its white dazzling, to try and see God's throne in that unfathomable and

infinite depth of blue. She thought she should see it blaze forth sudden

and glorious, if she were but full of faith. She always came down from the

thorn, comforted, and meekly gentle.

But there was danger of the child becoming dreamy, and finding her pleasure

in life in reverie, not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which

comes after both, and prepares for further striving or bearing. Mrs.

Buxton's kindness prevented this danger just in time. It was partly out of

interest in Maggie, but also partly to give Erminia a companion, that she

wished the former to come down to Combehurst.

When she was on these visits, she received no regular instruction; and yet

all the knowledge, and most of the strength of her character, was derived

from these occasional hours. It is true her mother had given her daily

lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic; but both teacher and taught

felt these more as painful duties to be gone through, than understood them

as means to an end. The "There! child; now that's done with," of relief,

from Mrs. Browne, was heartily echoed in Maggie's breast, as the dull

routine was concluded.

Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that

much was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing

or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the

little girls, her companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed

(where the confession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and

never denied the force of temptations, either of those which beset little

children, or of those which occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple,

and truthful to the heart's core, her life, in its uneventful hours and

days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who was grave, imaginative, and

somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to express the thoughts to

which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs. Buxton's ready

understanding and sympathy.

"You are so like a cloud," said she to Mrs. Buxton. "Up at the Thorn-tree,

it was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just

according as I was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, that, when

I came up first, looked like a heap of little snow-hillocks over babies'

graves, turn, as soon as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of

angels. And you seem always to have had some sorrow when I am sad, and turn

bright and hopeful as soon as I grow glad. Dear Mrs. Buxton! I wish Nancy

knew you."

The gay, volatile, willful, warm-hearted Erminia was less earnest in all

things. Her childhood had been passed amid the distractions of wealth; and

passionately bent upon the attainment of some object at one moment, the

next found her angry at being reminded of the vanished anxiety she had

shown but a moment before. Her life was a shattered mirror; every part

dazzling and brilliant, but wanting the coherency and perfection of

a whole. Mrs. Buxton strove to bring her to a sense of the beauty of

completeness, and the relation which qualities and objects bear to each

other; but in all her striving she retained hold of the golden clue of

sympathy. She would enter into Erminia's eagerness, if the object of

it varied twenty times a day; but by-and-by, in her own mild, sweet,

suggestive way, she would place all these objects in their right and

fitting places, as they were worthy of desire. I do not know how it was,

but all discords, and disordered fragments, seemed to fall into harmony and

order before her presence.

She had no wish to make the two little girls into the same kind of pattern

character. They were diverse as the lily and the rose. But she tried to

give stability and earnestness to Erminia; while she aimed to direct

Maggie's imagination, so as to make it a great minister to high ends,

instead of simply contributing to the vividness and duration of a reverie.

She told her tales of saints and martyrs, and all holy heroines, who forgot

themselves, and strove only to be "ministers of Him, to do His pleasure."

The tears glistened in the eyes of hearer and speaker, while she spoke in

her low, faint voice, which was almost choked at times when she came to the

noblest part of all.

But when she found that Maggie was in danger of becoming too little a

dweller in the present, from the habit of anticipating the occasion for

some great heroic action, she spoke of other heroines. She told her how,

though the lives of these women of old were only known to us through some

striking glorious deed, they yet must have built up the temple of their

perfection by many noiseless stories; how, by small daily offerings laid

on the altar, they must have obtained their beautiful strength for the

crowning sacrifice. And then she would turn and speak of those whose names

will never be blazoned on earth--some poor maid-servant, or hard-worked

artisan, or weary governess--who have gone on through life quietly, with

holy purposes in their hearts, to which they gave up pleasure and ease,

in a soft, still, succession of resolute days. She quoted those lines of

George Herbert's:

"All may have,

If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave."

And Maggie's mother was disappointed because Mrs. Buxton had never offered

to teach her "to play on the piano," which was to her the very head and

front of a genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of yearning to become

Joan of Arc, or some great heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed

no little heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every day from her

mother. It was hard to be questioned about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have

her answers turned into subjects for contempt, and fault-finding with that

sweet lady's ways.

When Ned came home for the holidays, he had much to tell. His mother

listened for hours to his tales; and proudly marked all that she could note

of his progress in learning. His copy-books and writing-flourishes were a

sight to behold; and his account-books contained towers and pyramids of

figures.

"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Buxton, when they were shown to him; "this is grand!

when I was a boy I could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen,

but I never could do all this. And yet I thought myself a fine fellow, I

warrant you. And these sums! why man! I must make you my agent. I need one,

I'm sure; for though I get an accountant every two or three years to do

up my books, they somehow have the knack of getting wrong again. Those

quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every one says are so valuable, and for the

stone out of which receive orders amounting to hundreds of pounds, what

d'ye think was the profit I made last year, according to my books?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir; something very great, I've no doubt."

"Just seven-pence three farthings," said he, bursting into a fit of merry

laughter, such as another man would have kept for the announcement of

enormous profits. "But I must manage things differently soon. Frank will

want money when he goes to Oxford, and he shall have it. I'm but a rough

sort of fellow, but Frank shall take his place as a gentleman. Aha, Miss

Maggie! and where's my gingerbread? There you go, creeping up to Mrs.

Buxton on a Wednesday, and have never taught Cook how to make gingerbread

yet. Well, Ned! and how are the classics going on? Fine fellow, that

Virgil! Let me see, how does it begin?

'Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris.'

That's pretty well, I think, considering I've never opened him since I left

school thirty years ago. To be sure, I spent six hours a day at it when I

was there. Come now, I'll puzzle you. Can you construe this?

"Infir dealis, inoak noneis; inmud eelis, inclay noneis."

"To be sure I can," said Edward, with a little contempt in his tone. "Can

you do this, sir?

"Apud in is almi des ire,

Mimis tres i neve require,

Alo veri findit a gestis,

His miseri ne ver at restis."

But though Edward had made much progress, and gained three prizes, his

moral training had been little attended to. He was more tyrannical than

ever, both to his mother and Maggie. It was a drawn battle between him and

Nancy, and they kept aloof from each other as much as possible. Maggie fell

into her old humble way of submitting to his will, as long as it did not go

against her conscience; but that, being daily enlightened by her habits of

pious aspiring thought, would not allow her to be so utterly obedient as

formerly. In addition to his imperiousness, he had learned to affix the

idea of cleverness to various artifices and subterfuges which utterly

revolted her by their meanness.

"You are so set up, by being intimate with Erminia, that you won't do a

thing I tell you; you are as selfish and self-willed as"--he made a pause.

Maggie was ready to cry.

"I will do anything, Ned, that is right."

"Well! and I tell you this is right."

"How can it be?" said she, sadly, almost wishing to be convinced.

"How--why it is, and that's enough for you. You must always have a reason

for everything now. You are not half so nice as you were. Unless one chops

logic with you, and convinces you by a long argument, you'll do nothing. Be

obedient, I tell you. That is what a woman has to be."

"I could be obedient to some people, without knowing their reasons, even

though they told me to do silly things," said Maggie, half to herself.

"I should like to know to whom," said Edward, scornfully.

"To Don Quixote," answered she, seriously; for, indeed, he was present in

her mind just then, and his noble, tender, melancholy character had made a

strong impression there.

Edward stared at her for a moment, and then burst into a loud fit of

laughter. It had the good effect of restoring him to a better frame of

mind. He had such an excellent joke against his sister, that he could not

be angry with her. He called her Sancho Panza all the rest of the holidays,

though she protested against it, saying she could not bear the Squire, and

disliked being called by his name.

Frank and Edward seemed to have a mutual antipathy to each other, and the

coldness between them was rather increased than diminished by all Mr.

Buxton's efforts to bring them together. "Come, Frank, my lad!" said he,

"don't be so stiff with Ned. His father was a dear friend of mine, and I've

set my heart on seeing you friends. You'll have it in your power to help

him on in the world."

But Frank answered, "He is not quite honorable, sir. I can't bear a boy who

is not quite honorable. Boys brought up at those private schools are so

full of tricks!"

"Nay, my lad, there thou'rt wrong. I was brought up at a private school,

and no one can say I ever dirtied my hands with a trick in my life. Good

old Mr. Thompson would have flogged the life out of a boy who did anything

mean or underhand."