holy purposes in their hearts, to which they gave up pleasure and ease,
in a soft, still, succession of resolute days. She quoted those lines of
George Herbert's:

"All may have,
If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave."

And Maggie's mother was disappointed because Mrs. Buxton had never offered
to teach her "to play on the piano," which was to her the very head and
front of a genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of yearning to become
Joan of Arc, or some great heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed
no little heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every day from her
mother. It was hard to be questioned about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have
her answers turned into subjects for contempt, and fault-finding with that
sweet lady's ways.

When Ned came home for the holidays, he had much to tell. His mother
listened for hours to his tales; and proudly marked all that she could note
of his progress in learning. His copy-books and writing-flourishes were a
sight to behold; and his account-books contained towers and pyramids of
figures.

"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Buxton, when they were shown to him; "this is grand!
when I was a boy I could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen,
but I never could do all this. And yet I thought myself a fine fellow, I
warrant you. And these sums! why man! I must make you my agent. I need one,
I'm sure; for though I get an accountant every two or three years to do
up my books, they somehow have the knack of getting wrong again. Those
quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every one says are so valuable, and for the
stone out of which receive orders amounting to hundreds of pounds, what