“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, earnest voice.  “I do not know of any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me.  I believe him when he says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the infinite—­the terrible pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Buxton wishes me.”

Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and fearless as a child’s; her brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the frightened cowardliness he had shown in the morning.  But Mrs. Browne came up to Maggie; and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling.  “Maggie, you can save Edward.  I know I have not loved you as I should have done; but I will love and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr. Buxton says.  Think!  Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but may come over and see you, and all may be right, and yet Edward may be saved.  It is only writing this letter; you need not stick to it.”

“No!” said Edward.  “A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid.  We will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank loves you so desperately, he won’t give you up without a trial to make you change your mind.”

“No!” said Maggie, firmly.  “If I write the letter I abide by it.  I will not quibble with my conscience.  Edward!  I will not marry—­I will go and live near you, and come to you whenever I may—­and give up my life to you if you are sent to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be—­I do not know yet what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one thing I cannot.”

“Then I’m off!” said Edward.  “On your deathbed may you remember this hour, and how you denied your only brother’s request.  May you ask my forgiveness with your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you.”

“Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, rapidly.  “Edward, don’t curse me with such terrible words till all is done.  Mother, I implore you to keep him here.  Hide him—­do what you can to conceal him.  I will have one more trial.”  She snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to think or speak to arrest her.

On she flew along the Combehurst road.  As she went, the tears fell like rain down her face, and she talked to herself.

“He should not have said so.  No! he should not have said so.  We were the only two.”  But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather.  She saw Mr. Buxton coming; and she went still quicker.  The rain had cleared off, and a yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out.  She stopped or he would have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.

“I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resuming her composure, and almost assuming a dignified manner.  “You must not go down to our house; we have sorrow enough there.  Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to you.”