It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. Buxton’s care and love, her accents and words were such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow, would have used;—­somehow, at any rate, the thought flashed into Mr. Buxton’s mind, that as Maggie spoke, his dead wife’s voice was heard, imploring mercy in a clear, distinct tone, though faint, as if separated from him by an infinite distance of space.  At least, this is the account Mr. Buxton would have given of the manner in which the idea of his wife became present to him, and what she would have wished him to do a powerful motive in his conduct.  Words of hers, long ago spoken, and merciful, forgiving expressions made use of in former days to soften him in some angry mood, were clearly remembered while Maggie spoke; and their influence was perceptible in the change of his tone, and the wavering of his manner henceforward.

“And yet you will not save Frank from being involved in your disgrace,” said he; but more as if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had ever spoken before.

“If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw myself out of his sight forever;—­I give you my promise, before God, to do so.  I shall not utter one word of entreaty or complaint.  I will try not to wonder or feel surprise;—­I will bless him in every action of his future life—­but think how different would be the disgrace he would voluntarily incur to my poor mother’s shame, when she wakens up to know what her child has done!  Her very torper about it now is more painful than words can tell.”

“What could Edward do?” asked Mr. Buxton.  “Mr. Henry won’t hear of my passing over any frauds.”

“Oh, you relent!” said Maggie, taking his hand, and pressing it.  “What could he do?  He could do the same, whatever it was, as you thought of his doing, if I had written that terrible letter.”

“And you’ll be willing to give it up, if Frank wishes, when he knows all?” asked Mr. Buxton.

She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but answered steadily.

“Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I will gladly do.  I will speak the truth.  I do not believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in me, will alter Frank’s love one title.”

“We shall see,” said Mr. Buxton.  “But what I thought of Edward’s doing, in case—­Well never mind! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention of the letter he had asked her to write,)—­was to go to America, out of the way.  Then Mr. Henry would think he had escaped, and need never be told of my coenivance.  I think he would throw up the agency, if he were; and he’s a very clever man.  If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him out.  And, besides, this affair is so blown, I don’t think he could return to his profession.  What do you say to this, Maggie?”

“I will tell my mother.  I must ask her.  To me it seems most desirable.  Only, I fear he is very ill; and it seems lonely; but never mind!  We ought to be thankful to you forever.  I cannot tell you how I hope and trust he will live to show you what your goodness has made him.”