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.