not let him dwell on it, Mr. Frank,
but turn his thoughts another way by always talking of other things. I am
sure if I had some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant way, when
poor dear Mr. Browne died, I should never have fretted after him as I did;
but the children were too young, and there was no one to come and divert
me with any news. If I'd been living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not
have let my grief get the better of me as I did. Could you get up a quiet
rubber in the evenings, do you think?"

But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As he rode home he thought much of
sorrow, and the different ways of bearing it. He decided that it was sent
by God for some holy purpose, and to call out into existence some higher
good; and he thought that if it were faithfully taken as His decree there
would be no passionate, despairing resistance to it; nor yet, if it were
trustfully acknowledged to have some wise end, should we dare to baulk it,
and defraud it by putting it on one side, and, by seeking the distractions
of worldly things, not let it do its full work. And then he returned to
his conversation with Maggie. That had been real comfort to him. What an
advantage it would be to Erminia to have such a girl for a friend and
companion!

It was rather strange that, having this thought, and having been struck, as
I said, with Maggie's appearance while she stood in the door-way (and I may
add that this impression of her unobtrusive beauty had been deepened by
several succeeding interviews), he should reply as he did to Erminia's
remark, on first seeing Maggie after her return from France.

"How lovely Maggie is growing! Why, I had no idea she would ever turn out
pretty. Sweet-looking she always was; but now her style of beauty makes her
positively distinguished. Frank! speak! is not she beautiful?"

"Do you think so?" answered he, with a kind of lazy indifference,
exceedingly gratifying to his father, who was listening with some eagerness
to his answer. That day, after dinner, Mr. Buxton began to ask his opinion
of Erminia's appearance.

Frank answered at once:

"She is a dazzling little creature. Her complexion looks as if it were made
of cherries and milk; and, it must be owned, the little lady has studied
the art of dress to some purpose in Paris."

Mr. Buxton was nearer happiness at this reply than he had ever been
since his wife's death; for the only way he could devise to satisfy his
reproachful consc