a labored manner, that Mrs. Buxton begged her at last not to try and be
quiet, as she made much less noise when she did not. It was the happiest
part of the day to Maggie. Something in herself was so much in harmony with
Mrs. Buxton's sweet, resigned gentleness, that it answered like an echo,
and the two understood each other strangely well. They seemed like old
friends, Maggie, who was reserved at home because no one cared to hear what
she had to say, opened out, and told Erminia and Mrs. Buxton all about her
way of spending her day, and described her home.

"How odd!" said Erminia. "I have ridden that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never
seen your house."

"It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived in; people sometimes seem
to go round it and round it, and never find it. But unless you follow a
little sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of rock, you may
come within a stone's throw of the chimneys and never see them. I think you
would think it so pretty. Do you ever come that way, ma'am?"

"No, love," answered Mrs. Buxton.

"But will you some time?"

"I am afraid I shall never be able to go out again," said Mrs. Buxton, in
a voice which, though low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a lot
was here before her; and by-and-by she took a little stool, and sat by Mrs.
Buxton's sofa, and stole her hand into hers.

Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happiness down stairs. Mr. Buxton
had a number of jokes; which would have become dull from repetition (for he
worked a merry idea threadbare before he would let if go), had if not been