“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.”