t 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.

"Erminia is coming home at Christmas. She is not to go back to Paris again.
She will live with us. I hope you and she will be great friends, Maggie."

"Oh yes," replied she. "I think we are already. At least we were last
Christmas. You know it is a year since I have seen her."

"Yes; she went to Switzerland with Mademoiselle Michel, instead of coming
home the last time. Maggie, I must go, now. My father will be waiting
dinner for me."

"Dinner! I was going to ask if you would not stay to tea. I hear mamma
stirring about in her room. And Nancy is getting things ready, I see. Let
me go and tell mamma. She will not be pleased unless she sees you. She has
been very sorry for you all," added she, dropping her voice.

Before he could answer, she ran up stairs.

Mrs. Browne came down.

"Oh, Mr. Frank! Have you been sitting in the dark? Maggie, you ought to
have rung for candles! Ah! Mr. Frank, you've had a sad loss since I saw you
here--let me see--in the last week of September. But she was always a sad
invalid; and no doubt your loss is her gain. Poor Mr. Buxton, too! How is
he? When one thinks of him, and of her years of illness, it seems like a
happy release."

She could have gone on for any length of time, but Frank could not bear
this ruffling up of his soothed grief, and told her that his father was
expecting him home to dinner.

"Ah! I am sure you must not disappoint him. He'll want a little cheerful
company more than ever now. You must