at last.  She meant to get some employment—­in teaching—­in needlework—­in a shop—­no matter how humble—­and be no burden to him, and make him a happy home, from which he should feel no wish to wander.  Her chief anxiety was about her mother.  She did not dwell more than she could help on her long absence from Frank; it was too sad, and yet too necessary.  She meant to write and tell him all about herself and Edward.  The only thing which she would keep for some happy future should be the possible revelation of the proposal which Mr. Buxton had made, that she should give up her engagement as a condition of his not prosecuting Edward.

There was much sorrowful bustle in the moorland cottage that day.  Erminia brought up a portion of the money Mr. Buxton was to advance, with an entreaty that Edward would not show himself out of his home; and an account of a letter from Mr. Henry, stating that the Woodchester police believed him to be in London, and that search was being made for him there.

Erminia looked very grave and pale.  She gave her message to Mrs. Browne, speaking little beyond what was absolutely necessary.  Then she took Maggie aside, and suddenly burst into tears.

“Maggie, darling—­what is this going to America?  You’ve always and always been sacrificing yourself to your family, and now you’re setting off, nobody knows where, in some vain hope of reforming Edward.  I wish he was not your brother, that I might speak of him as I should like.”

“He has been doing what is very wrong,” said Maggie.  “But you—­none of you—­know his good points—­nor how he has been exposed to all sorts of bad influences, I am sure; and never had the advantage of a father’s training and friendship, which are so inestimable to a son.  O, Minnie! when I remember how we two used to kneel down in the evenings at my father’s knee, and say our prayers; and then listen in awe-struck silence to his earnest blessing, which grew more like a prayer for us as his life waned away, I would do anything for Edward rather than that wrestling agony of supplication should have been in vain.  I think of him as the little innocent boy, whose arm was round me as if to support me in the Awful Presence, whose true name of Love we had not learned.  Minnie! he has had no proper training—­no training, I mean, to enable him to resist temptation—­and he has been thrown into it without warning or advice.  Now he knows what it is; and I must try, though I am but an unknowing girl, to warn and to strengthen him.  Don’t weaken my faith.  Who can do right if we lose faith in them?”

“And Frank!” said Erminia, after a pause.  “Poor Frank!”

“Dear Frank!” replied Maggie, looking up, and trying to smile; but, in spite of herself, her eyes filled with tears.  “If I could have asked him, I know he would approve of what I am going to do.  He would feel it to be right that I should make every effort—­I don’t mean,” said she, as the tears would fall down her cheeks in spite of her quivering effort at a smile, “that I should not have liked to have seen him.  But it is no use talking of what one would have liked.  I am writing a long letter to him at every pause of leisure.”