Maggie ran past her.  All dinner-time she heard her mother’s voice in long-continued lamentation about something.  She answered at random, and startled her mother by asserting that she thought “it” was very good; the said “it” being milk turned sour by thunder.  Mrs. Browne spoke quite sharply, “No one is so particular as you, Maggie.  I have known you drink water, day after day, for breakfast, when you were a little girl, because your cup of milk had a drowned fly in it; and now you tell me you don’t care for this, and don’t mind that, just as if you could eat up all the things which are spoiled by the heat.  I declare my head aches so, I shall go and lie down as soon as ever dinner is over.”

If this was her plan, Maggie thought she had no time to lose in making her confession.  Frank would be here before her mother got up again to tea.  But she dreaded speaking about her happiness; it seemed as yet so cobweb-like, as if a touch would spoil its beauty.

“Mamma, just wait a minute.  Just sit down in your chair while I tell you something.  Please, dear mamma.”  She took a stool, and sat at her mother’s feet; and then she began to turn the wedding-ring on Mrs. Browne’s hand, looking down and never speaking, till the latter became impatient.

“What is if you have got to say, child?  Do make haste, for I want to go up-stairs.”

With a great jerk of resolution, Maggie said: 

“Mamma, Frank Buxton has asked me to marry him.”

She hid her face in her mother’s lap for an instant; and then she lifted it up, as brimful of the light of happiness as is the cup of a water-lily of the sun’s radiance.

“Maggie—­you don’t say so,” said her mother, half incredulously.  “It can’t be, for he’s at Cambridge, and it’s not post-day.  What do you mean?”

“He came this morning, mother, when I was down at the well; and we fixed that I was to speak to you; and he asked if he might come again for tea.”

“Dear! dear! and the milk all gone sour?  We should have had milk of our own, if Edward had not persuaded me against buying another cow.”

“I don’t think Mr. Buxton will mind it much,” said Maggie, dimpling up, as she remembered, half unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for anything but herself.

“Why, what a thing it is for you!” said Mrs. Browne, quite roused up from her languor and her head-ache.  “Everybody said he was engaged to Miss Erminia.  Are you quite sure you made no mistake, child?  What did he say?  Young men are so fond of making fine speeches; and young women are so silly in fancying they mean something.  I once knew a girl who thought that a gentleman who sent her mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as a delicate way of making her an offer.  Tell me his exact words.”

But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could not.  So Mrs. Browne began again: 

“Well, if you’re sure, you’re sure.  I wonder how he brought his father round.  So long as he and Erminia have been planned for each other!  That very first day we ever dined there after your father’s death, Mr. Buxton as good as told me all about it.  I fancied they were only waiting till they were out of mourning.”