Maggie in disgrace. However, there was no help for it: all she could do was
to spoil the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking and speaking in a
cold manner, which often chilled Maggie's little heart, and took all the
zest out of the pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton made the
pony trot and canter; she still looked sad and grave.

"Little dull thing!" he thought; but he was as kind and considerate as a
gentlemanly boy could be.

At last they reached Mr. Buxton's house. It was in the main street, and the
front door opened upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side extended
the stone-coped windows. It was in reality a mansion, and needed not
the neighboring contrast of the cottages on either side to make it look
imposing. When they went in, they entered a large hall, cool even on that
burning July day, with a black and white flag floor, and old settees
round the walls, and great jars of curious china, which were filled with
pot-pourrie. The dusky gloom was pleasant, after the glare of the street
outside; and the requisite light and cheerfulness were given by the peep
into the garden, framed, as it were, by the large door-way that opened into
it. There were roses, and sweet-peas, and poppies--a rich mass of color,
which looked well, set in the somewhat sombre coolness of the hall. All the
house told of wealth--wealth which had accumulated for generations, and
which was shown in a sort of comfortable, grand, unostentatious way. Mr.
Buxton's ancestors had been yeomen; but, two or three generations back,
they might, if ambitious, have taken their place as country gentry, so much
had the value of their property increased, and so great had been the amount
of their savings. They, however, continued to live in the old farm till Mr.
Buxton's grandfather built the house in Combehurst of which I am speaking,
and then he felt rather ashamed of what he had done; it seemed like
stepping out of his position. He and his wife always sat in the best