she could bear
its white dazzling, to try and see God's throne in that unfathomable and
infinite depth of blue. She thought she should see it blaze forth sudden
and glorious, if she were but full of faith. She always came down from the
thorn, comforted, and meekly gentle.

But there was danger of the child becoming dreamy, and finding her pleasure
in life in reverie, not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which
comes after both, and prepares for further striving or bearing. Mrs.
Buxton's kindness prevented this danger just in time. It was partly out of
interest in Maggie, but also partly to give Erminia a companion, that she
wished the former to come down to Combehurst.

When she was on these visits, she received no regular instruction; and yet
all the knowledge, and most of the strength of her character, was derived
from these occasional hours. It is true her mother had given her daily
lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic; but both teacher and taught
felt these more as painful duties to be gone through, than understood them
as means to an end. The "There! child; now that's done with," of relief,
from Mrs. Browne, was heartily echoed in Maggie's breast, as the dull
routine was concluded.

Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that
much was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing
or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the
little girls, her companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed
(where the confession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and
never denied the force of temptations, either of those which beset little
children, or of those which occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple,
and truthful to the heart's core, her life, in its uneventful hours and
days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who was grave, imaginative, and
somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to express the thoughts to
which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs. Buxton's ready
understanding and sympathy.

"You are so like a cloud," said she to Mrs. Buxton. "Up at the Thorn-tree,
it was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just
according as I was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, that, when
I came up first, looked like a heap of little snow-hillocks over babies'
graves, turn, as soon as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of
angels. And you seem always to have had some sorrow when