All this was news to Maggie.  She had never thought that either Erminia or Frank was particularly fond of the other; still less had she had any idea of Mr. Buxton’s plans for them.  Her mother’s surprise at her engagement jarred a little upon her too:  it had become so natural, even in these last two hours, to feel that she belonged to him.  But there were more discords to come.  Mrs. Browne began again, half in soliloquy: 

“I should think he would have four thousand a-year.  He did not tell you, love, did he, if they had still that bad property in the canal, that his father complained about?  But he will have four thousand.  Why, you’ll have your carriage, Maggie.  Well!  I hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because he’ll have a deal to do with the settlements.  I’m sure I thought he was engaged to Erminia.”

Ringing changes on these subjects all the afternoon, Mrs. Browne sat with Maggie.  She occasionally wandered off to speak about Edward, and how favorably his future prospects would be advanced by the engagement.

“Let me see—­there’s the house in Combehurst:  the rent of that would be a hundred and fifty a-year, but we’ll not reckon that.  But there’s the quarries” (she was reckoning upon her fingers in default of a slate, for which she had vainly searched), “we’ll call them two hundred a-year, for I don’t believe Mr. Buxton’s stories about their only bringing him in seven-pence; and there’s Newbridge, that’s certainly thirteen hundred—­where had I got to, Maggie?”

“Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little; you look quite flushed,” said Maggie, softly.

Was this the manner to view her betrothal with such a man as Frank?  Her mother’s remarks depressed her more than she could have thought it possible; the excitement of the morning was having its reaction, and she longed to go up to the solitude under the thorn-tree, where she had hoped to spend a quiet, thoughtful afternoon.

Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in the cupboard.  By some accident, the careful old servant broke one of the former.  She looked up quickly at her mistress, who usually visited all such offences with no small portion of rebuke.

“Never mind, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne.  “It’s only an old tumbler; and Maggie’s going to be married, and we must buy a new set for the wedding-dinner.”

Nancy looked at both, bewildered; at last a light dawned into her mind, and her face looked shrewdly and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne.  Then she said, very quietly: 

“I think I’ll take the next pitcher to the well myself, and try my luck.  To think how sorry I was for Miss Maggie this morning!  ‘Poor thing,’ says I to myself, ‘to be kept all this time at that confounded well’ (for I’ll not deny that I swear a bit to myself at times—­it sweetens the blood), ’and she so tired.’  I e’en thought I’d go help her; but I reckon she’d some other help.  May I take a guess at the young man?”