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.

CHAPTER III.

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: