“I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked you.”

“No!” said she.  “I have thought and thought.  I did not think in a selfish spirit, though they say I did.  I prayed first.  I could not do that earnestly, and be selfish, I think.  I cannot give up Frank.  I know the disgrace; and if he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never say a word, but bow my head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly and cheerfully.  But he is the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do what you ask me.”  She stopped, because the agitation took away her breath.

He began in a cold manner:—­“I am very sorry.  The law must take its course.  I would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that which he will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement.  I would have refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful as he has been.  Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent’s advice, and prosecute your brother as if he were a stranger.”

He turned to go away.  He was so cold and determined that for a moment Maggie was timid.  But she then laid her hand on his arm.

“Mr. Buxton,” said she, “you will not do what you threaten.  I know you better.  Think!  My father was your old friend.  That claim is, perhaps, done away with by Edward’s conduct.  But I do not believe you can forget it always.  If you did fulfill the menace you uttered just now, there would come times as you grew older, and life grew fainter and fainter before you—­quiet times of thought, when you remembered the days of your youth, and the friends you then had and knew;—­you would recollect that one of them had left an only son, who had done wrong—­who had sinned—­sinned against you in his weakness—­and you would think then—­you could not help it—­how you had forgotten mercy in justice—­and, as justice required he should be treated as a felon, you threw him among felons—­where every glimmering of goodness was darkened for ever.  Edward is, after all, more weak than wicked;—­but he will become wicked if you put him in prison, and have him transported.  God is merciful—­we cannot tell or think how merciful.  Oh, sir, I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my brother—­my poor sinning brother—­a chance, that I will tell you all.  I will throw myself upon your pity.  Edward is even now at home—­miserable and desperate;—­my mother is too much stunned to understand all our wretchedness—­for very wretched we are in our shame.”

As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the wiry leaves of the fir-trees, and there was a moaning sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the thick branches that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for them.  Either the noise or Mr. Buxton’s fancy called up an echo to Maggie’s voice—­a pleading with her pleading—­a sad tone of regret, distinct yet blending with her speech, and a falling, dying sound, as her voice died away in miserable suspense.