Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs. Browne’s.  The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir.  Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from no outward violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit and then ceased.  Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were gorgeous in orange and crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign of the decaying and dying year.  Even without an inward sorrow, there was a grand solemnity in the season which impressed the mind, and hushed it into tranquil thought.  Frank rode slowly along, and quietly dismounted at the old horse-mount, beside which there was an iron bridle-ring fixed in the gray stone wall.  He saw the casement of the parlor-window open, and Maggie’s head bent down over her work.  She looked up as he entered the court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk.  She came round and opened the door.  As she stood in the door-way, speaking, he was struck by her resemblance to some old painting.  He had seen her young, calm face, shining out with great peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful eyes, giving the character to the features which otherwise they might, from their very regularity, have wanted.  Her brown dress had the exact tint which a painter would have admired.  The slanting mellow sunlight fell upon her as she stood; and the vine-leaves, already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm border, as they hung over the old house-door.

“Mamma is not well; she is gone to lie down.  How are you?  How is Mr. Buxton?”

“We are both pretty well; quite well, in fact, as far as regards health.  May I come in?  I want to talk to you, Maggie!”

She opened the little parlor-door, and they went in; but for a time they were both silent.  They could not speak of her who was with them, present in their thoughts.  Maggie shut the casement, and put a log of wood on the fire.  She sat down with her back to the window; but as the flame sprang up, and blazed at the touch of the dry wood, Frank saw that her face was wet with quiet tears.  Still her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his questions.  She seemed to understand what were the very things he would care most to hear.  She spoke of his mother’s last days; and without any word of praise (which, indeed, would have been impertinence), she showed such a just and true appreciation of her who was dead and gone, that he felt as if he could listen forever to the sweet-dropping words.  They were balm to his sore heart.  He had thought it possible that the suddenness of her death might have made her life incomplete, in that she might have departed without being able to express wishes and projects, which would now have the sacred force of commands.  But he found that Maggie, though she had never intruded herself as such, had been the depository of many little thoughts and plans; or, if they were not expressed to her, she knew that Mr. Buxton or Dawson was aware of what they were, though, in their violence of early grief, they had forgotten to name them.  The flickering brightness of the flame had died away; the gloom of evening had gathered into the room, through the open door of which the kitchen fire sent a ruddy glow, distinctly marked against carpet and wall.  Frank still sat, with his head buried in his hands against the table, listening.