large, and the parlor so small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought
when he went away, he could carry the room on his back, as a snail does its
house.

"And so, you are a notable little woman, are you?" said he, after he had
stretched himself (a very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his
waistcoat, Maggie stood near the door, uncertain whether to go or to stay.
"How bright and clean you were making that glass! Do you think you could
get me some water to fill it? Mind, it must be that very glass I saw you
polishing. I shall know it again."

Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room; and in the passage she met
her mother, who had made time to change her gown as well as her cap. Before
Nancy would allow the little girl to return with the glass of water she
smoothed her short-cut glossy hair; it was all that was needed to make her
look delicately neat. Maggie was conscientious in trying to find out
the identical glass; but I am afraid Nancy was not quite so truthful in
avouching that one of the six, exactly similar, which were now placed on
the tray, was the same she had found on the dresser, when she came back
from telling her mistress of Mr. Buxton's arrival.

Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in the clearness of the
glass. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, speaking in
unusually fine language, and with a higher pitched voice than common.
Edward, in all his Sunday glory, was standing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy
and conscious. But when Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room for her
between Edward and himself, and, while she went on talking, lifted her on
to his knee. She sat there as on a pinnacle of honor; but as she durst not
nestle up to him, a chair would have been the more comfortable seat.