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The Moorland Cottage by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
page 46 of 149 (30%)
in their thoughts. Maggie shut the casement, and put a log of wood on the
fire. She sat down with her back to the window; but as the flame sprang up,
and blazed at the touch of the dry wood, Frank saw that her face was wet
with quiet tears. Still her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his
questions. She seemed to understand what were the very things he would care
most to hear. She spoke of his mother's last days; and without any word of
praise (which, indeed, would have been impertinence), she showed such a
just and true appreciation of her who was dead and gone, that he felt as if
he could listen forever to the sweet-dropping words. They were balm to his
sore heart. He had thought it possible that the suddenness of her death
might have made her life incomplete, in that she might have departed
without being able to express wishes and projects, which would now have the
sacred force of commands. But he found that Maggie, though she had never
intruded herself as such, had been the depository of many little thoughts
and plans; or, if they were not expressed to her, she knew that Mr. Buxton
or Dawson was aware of what they were, though, in their violence of early
grief, they had forgotten to name them. The flickering brightness of the
flame had died away; the gloom of evening had gathered into the room,
through the open door of which the kitchen fire sent a ruddy glow,
distinctly marked against carpet and wall. Frank still sat, with his head
buried in his hands against the table, listening.

"Tell me more," he said, at every pause.

"I think I have told you all now," said Maggie, at last. "At least, it is
all I recollect at present; but if I think of anything more, I will be sure
and tell you."

"Thank you; do." He was silent for some time.

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