Chapter X.

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      The more Maggie thought, the more she felt sure that the impulse on which she had acted in proposing to go with her brother was right. She feared there was little hope for his character, whatever there might be for his worldly fortune, if he were thrown, in the condition of mind in which he was now, among the set of adventurous men who are continually going over to America in search of an El Dorado to be discovered by their wits. She knew she had but little influence over him at present; but she would not doubt or waver in her hope that patience and love might work him right 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.”

      “And I’m keeping you all this time,” said Erminia, getting up, yet loth to go. “When do you intend to come back? Let us feel there is a fixed time. America! Why, it’s thousands of miles away. Oh, Maggie! Maggie!”

      “I shall come back the next autumn, I trust,” said Maggie, comforting her friend with many a soft caress. “Edward will be settled then, I hope. You were longer in France, Minnie. Frank was longer away that time he wintered in Italy with Mr. Monro.”

      Erminia went slowly to the door. Then she turned, right facing Maggie.

      “Maggie! tell the truth. Has my uncle been urging you to go? Because if he has, don’t trust him; it is only to break off your engagement.”

      “No, he has not, indeed. It was my own thought at first. Then in a moment I saw the relief it was to my mother — my poor mother! Erminia, the thought of her grief at Edward’s absence is the trial; for my sake, you will come often and often, and comfort her in every way you can.”

      “Yes! that I will; tell me everything I can do for you.” Kissing each other, with long lingering delay they parted.

      Nancy would be informed of the cause of the commotion in the house; and when she had in some degree ascertained its nature, she wasted no time in asking further questions, but quietly got up and dressed herself; and appeared among them, weak and trembling, indeed, but so calm and thoughtful, that her presence was an infinite help to Maggie.

      When day closed in, Edward stole down to the house once more. He was haggard enough to have been in anxiety and concealment for a month. But when his body was refreshed, his spirits rose in a way inconceivable to Maggie. The Spaniards who went out with Pizarro were not lured on by more fantastic notions of the wealth to be acquired in the New World than he was. He dwelt on these visions in so brisk and vivid a manner, that he even made his mother cease her weary weeping (which had lasted the livelong day, despite all Maggie’s efforts) to look up and listen to him.

      “I’ll answer for it,” said he: “before long I’ll be an American judge with miles of cotton plantations.”

      “But in America,” sighed out his mother.

      “Never mind, mother!” said he, with a tenderness which made Maggie’s heart glad. “If you won’t come over to America to me, why, I’ll sell them all, and come back to live in England. People will forget the scrapes that the rich American got into in his youth.”

      “You can pay back Mr. Buxton then,” said his mother.

      “Oh, yes — of course,” replied he, as if falling into a new and trivial idea.

      Thus the evening whiled away. The mother and son sat, hand in hand, before the little glinting blazing parlor fire, with the unlighted candles on the table behind. Maggie, busy in preparations, passed softly in and out. And when all was done that could be done before going to Liverpool, where she hoped to have two days to prepare their outfit more completely, she stole back to her mother’s side. But her thoughts would wander off to