“Does he know?—­is he angry?” asked Mrs. Browne.

“Yes, he knows; and he blusters a deal.  He was working himself up grandly at first.  Maggie!  I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you.”

“Has he been here?” said Mrs. Browne, in bewildered fright.

“Oh, yes! he and Maggie have been having a long talk, while I was hid in the china-closet.  I would not go over that half-hour again for any money.  However, he and Maggie came to terms, at last.”

“No, Edward, we did not!” said Maggie, in a low quivering voice.

“Very nearly.  She’s to give up her engagement, and then he will let me off.”

“Do you mean that Maggie is to give up her engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?” asked his mother.

“Yes.  It would never have come to anything, one might see that.  Old Buxton would have held out against it till doomsday.  And, sooner or later, Frank would have grown weary.  If Maggie had had any spirit, she might have worked him up to marry her before now; and then I should have been spared even this fright, for they would never have set the police after Mrs. Frank Buxton’s brother.”

“Why, dearest, Edward, the police are not after you, are they?” said Mrs. Browne, for the first time alive to the urgency of the case.

“I believe they are though,” said Edward.  “But after what Mr. Buxton promised this morning, it does not signify.”

“He did not promise anything,” said Maggie.

Edward turned sharply to her, and looked at her.  Then he went and took hold of her wrists with no gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth.

“What do you mean, Maggie?—­what do you mean?” (giving her a little shake.) “Do you mean that you’ll stick to your lover through thick and thin, and leave your brother to be transported?  Speak, can’t you?”

She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no words came out of her dry throat.  At last she made a strong effort.

“You must give me time to think.  I will do what is right, by God’s help.”

“As if it was not right—­and such can’t—­to save your brother,” said he, throwing her hands away in a passionate manner.

“I must be alone,” said Maggie, rising, and trying to stand steadily in the reeling room.  She heard her mother and Edward speaking, but their words gave her no meaning, and she went out.  She was leaving the house by the kitchen-door, when she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all through this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the solitude she longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and sought out some breakfast for the poor old woman.

When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said: 

“There’s something up.  You’ve trouble in your sweet face, my darling.  Never mind telling me—­only don’t sob so.  I’ll pray for you, bairn:  and God will help you.”

“Thank you, Nancy.  Do!” and she left the room.