“But you must lose no time.  If Mr. Henry traces him; I can’t answer for myself.  I shall have no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I could have told him that Frank and you were to be as strangers to each other.  And even then I should have been afraid, he is such a determined fellow; but uncommonly clever.  Stay!” said he, yielding to a sudden and inexplicable desire to see Edward, and discover if his criminality had in any way changed his outward appearance.  “I’ll go with you.  I can hasten things.  If Edward goes, he must be off, as soon as possible, to Liverpool, and leave no trace.  The next packet sails the day after to-morrow.  I noted it down from the Times.”

Maggie and he sped along the road.  He spoke his thoughts aloud: 

“I wonder if he will be grateful to me for this.  Not that I ever mean to look for gratitude again.  I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank.  ‘Govern men by outward force,’ says Mr. Henry.  He is an uncommonly clever man, and he says, the longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the badness of men.  He always looks for it now, even in those who are the best, apparently.”

Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to attend to him.  At the top of the slope she asked him to wait while she ran down and told the result of her conversation with him.  Her mother was alone, looking white and sick.  She told her that Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, disused shippon.

Maggie related the substance of her interview with Mr. Buxton, and his wish that Edward should go to America.

“To America!” said Mrs. Browne.  “Why that’s as far as Botany Bay.  It’s just like transporting him.  I thought you’d done something for us, you looked so glad.”

“Dearest mother, it is something.  He is not to be subjected to imprisonment or trial.  I must go and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr. Buxton first.  But when he comes, do show him how thankful we are for his mercy to Edward.”

Mrs. Browne’s murmurings, whatever was their meaning, were lost upon Maggie.  She ran through the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of a lawn; for though she was tired in body to an excess she had never been before in her life, the opening beam of hope in the dark sky made her spirit conquer her flesh for the time.

She did not stop to speak, but turned again as soon as she had signed to Mr. Buxton to follow her.  She left the house-door open for his entrance, and passed out again through the kitchen into the space behind, which was partly an uninclosed yard, and partly rocky common.  She ran across the little green to the shippon, and mounted the ladder into the dimly-lighted loft.  Up in a dark corner Edward stood, with an old rake in his hand.

“I thought it was you, Maggie!” said he, heaving a deep breath of relief.  “What have you done?  Have you agreed to write the letter?  You’ve done something for me, I see by your looks.”