Erminia and Maggie became great friends.  Erminia used to beg for Maggie, until she herself put a stop to the practice; as she saw her mother yielded more frequently than was convenient, for the honor of having her daughter a visitor at Mr. Buxton’s, about which she could talk to her few acquaintances who persevered in calling at the cottage.  Then Erminia volunteered a visit of some days to Maggie, and Mrs. Browne’s pride was redoubled; but she made so many preparations, and so much fuss, and gave herself so much trouble, that she was positively ill during Erminia’s stay; and Maggie felt that she must henceforward deny herself the pleasure of having her friend for a guest, as her mother could not be persuaded from attempting to provide things in the same abundance and style as that to which Erminia was accustomed at home; whereas, as Nancy shrewdly observed, the young lady did not know if she was eating jelly, or porridge, or whether the plates were common delf or the best China, so long as she was with her dear Miss Maggie.  Spring went, and summer came.  Frank had gone to and fro between Cambridge and Combehurst, drawn by motives of which he felt the force, but into which he did not care to examine.  Edward had sold the property of Mr. Buxton; and he, pleased with the possession of half the purchase money (the remainder of which was to be paid by installments), and happy in the idea that his son came over so frequently to see Erminia, had amply rewarded the young attorney for his services.

One summer’s day, as hot as day could be, Maggie had been busy all morning; for the weather was so sultry that she would not allow either Nancy or her mother to exert themselves much.  She had gone down with the old brown pitcher, coeval with herself, to the spring for water; and while it was trickling, and making a tinkling music, she sat down on the ground.  The air was so still that she heard the distant wood-pigeons cooing; and round about her the bees were murmuring busily among the clustering heath.  From some little touch of sympathy with these low sounds of pleasant harmony, she began to try and hum some of Erminia’s airs.  She never sang out loud, or put words to her songs; but her voice was very sweet, and it was a great pleasure to herself to let it go into music.  Just as her jug was filled, she was startled by Frank’s sudden appearance.  She thought he was at Cambridge, and, from some cause or other, her face, usually so faint in color, became the most vivid scarlet.  They were both too conscious to speak.  Maggie stooped (murmuring some words of surprise) to take up her pitcher.

“Don’t go yet, Maggie,” said he, putting his hand on hers to stop her; but, somehow, when that purpose was effected, he forgot to take it off again.  “I have come all the way from Cambridge to see you.  I could not bear suspense any longer.  I grew so impatient for certainty of some kind, that I went up to town last night, in order to feel myself on my way to you, even though I knew I could not be here a bit earlier to-day for doing so.  Maggie—­dear Maggie! how you are trembling!  Have I frightened you?  Nancy told me you were here; but it was very thoughtless to come so suddenly upon you.”