When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain that had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.

She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell–Lane, and threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig of which was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved and familiar landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the distance that were hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.

Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making the temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he had been led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton’s agent.

“But if it is only that,” said Mrs. Browne, “surely Mr. Buxton will not think of going to law with you?”

“It’s not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a needle, and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained such a hold over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can’t imagine how he had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to Maggie; unless, indeed, Henry knows of it — or, what is most likely of all, has put him up to it. Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston a pretty dose of it; and I should have come yet worse off if it had not been for Maggie. Let me get clear this time, and I will keep to windward of the law for the future.”

“If we sold the cottage we could repay it,” said Mrs. Browne, meditating. “Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held in trust for you two.”

“Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be so glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won’t think of asking for the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell him it’s not half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if Frank had been extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I would prime her a little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest Mr. Buxton returns and find me here.”

“I wish Maggie would come in too,” said Mrs. Browne. “I’m afraid she’ll catch cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think she’ll give it up, don’t you, Edward? If she does not I’m afraid of harm coming to you. Had you not better keep out of the way?”

“It’s fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet day: without a shilling in the world too? If you’ll give me some money I’ll be off fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I’m not much afraid of Maggie. She’s a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to what we want. She had better take care, too,” said he, with a desperate look on his face, “for by G—— I’ll make her give up all thoughts of Frank, rather than be taken and tried. Why! it’s my chance for all my life; and do you think I’ll have it frustrated for a girl’s whim?”

“I think it’s rather hard upon her too,” pleaded his mother. “She’s very fond of him; and it would have been such a good match for her.”

“Pooh! she’s not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick up somebody else; while, don’t you see, if I’m caught and transported, I’m done for life. Besides I’ve a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of the affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her gaining anything by it.”

“Well, if you think so,” replied Mrs. Browne. “But I’m sorry for her. I always told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know she’ll fret a deal if it’s given up.”

“Oh! she’ll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I wish she’d come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is not that the kitchen-door?” said he, turning white, and betaking himself once more to the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie stepping softly and slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door; and stood looking in, with the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker. Then she roused herself and saw that he was not there; so she came in a step or two, and sat down in her dripping cloak on a chair near the door.

Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.

“Maggie!” said he, “what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?”

She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.

“I cannot give up Frank,” said she, in a low, quiet voice.

Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:

“Oh Edward, Edward! go away — I will give you all the plate I have; you can sell it — my darling, go!”

“Not till I have brought Maggie to reason,” said he, in a manner as quiet as her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did not intimidate her.

He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.

“Maggie, we were children together — we two — brother and sister of one blood! Do you give me up to be put in prison — in the hulks — among the basest of criminals — I don’t know where — all for the sake of your own selfish happiness?”

She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.

“You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time I did think you would have shown how different you could be. But it’s self — self — paramount above all.”

“Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?” echoed Mrs. Browne, crying and sobbing.

“Mother!” said Maggie, “I know that I think too often and too much of myself. But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break his heart if I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and giving no reason for it.”

“He loves you so!” said Edward, tauntingly. “A man’s love break his heart! You’ve got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so desperately? How do you know it?”

“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. “I do not know of any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe him when he says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the infinite — the terrible pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Buxton wishes me.”

Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and fearless as a child’s; her brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the frightened cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came up to Maggie; and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling. “Maggie, you can save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have done; but I will love and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr. Buxton says. Think! Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but may come over and see you, and all may be right, and yet Edward may be saved. It is only writing this letter; you need not stick to it.”

“No!” said Edward. “A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid. We will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank loves you so desperately, he won’t give you up without a trial to make you change your mind.”

“No!” said Maggie, firmly. “If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry — I will go and live near you, and come to you whenever I may — and give up my life to you if you are sent to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be-I do not know yet what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one thing I cannot.”

“Then I’m off!” said Edward. “On your deathbed may you remember this hour, and how you denied your only brother’s request. May you ask my forgiveness with your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you.”

“Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. “Edward, don’t curse me with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep him here. Hide him — do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more trial.” She snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to think or speak to arrest her.

On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like rain down her face, and she talked to herself.

“He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the only two.” But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather. She saw Mr. Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared off, and a yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped or he would have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.

“I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resuming her composure, and almost assuming a dignified manner. “You must not go down to our house; we have sorrow enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to you.”

“I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked you.”

“No!” said she. “I have thought and thought. I did not think in a selfish spirit, though they say I did. I prayed first. I could not do that earnestly, and be selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I know the disgrace; and if he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never say a word, but bow my head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly and cheerfully. But he is the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do what you ask me.” She stopped, because the agitation took away her breath.

He began in a cold manner:—“I am very sorry. The law must take its course. I would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that which he will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement. I would have refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful as he has been. Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent’s advice, and prosecute your brother as if he were a stranger.”

He turned to go away. He was so cold and determined that for a moment Maggie was timid. But she then laid her hand on his arm.

“Mr. Buxton,” said she, “you will not do what you threaten. I know you better. Think! My father was your old friend. That claim is, perhaps, done away with by Edward’s conduct. But I do not believe you can forget it always. If you did fulfill the menace you uttered just now, there would come times as you grew older, and life grew fainter and fainter before you — quiet times of thought, when you remembered the days of your youth, and the friends you then had and knew; — you would recollect that one of them had left an only son, who had done wrong — who had sinned — sinned against you in his weakness — and you would think then — you could not help it — how you had forgotten mercy in justice — and, as justice required he should be treated as a felon, you threw him among felons — where every glimmering of goodness was darkened for ever. Edward is, after all, more weak than wicked; — but he will become wicked if you put him in prison, and have him transported. God is merciful — we cannot tell or think how merciful. Oh, sir, I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my brother — my poor sinning brother — a chance, that I will tell you all. I will throw myself upon your pity. Edward is even now at home — miserable and desperate; — my mother is too much stunned to understand all our wretchedness — for very wretched we are in our shame.”

As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the wiry leaves of the fir-trees, and there was a moaning sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the thick branches that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for them. Either the noise or Mr. Buxton’s fancy called up an echo to Maggie’s voice — a pleading with her pleading — a sad tone of regret, distinct yet blending with her speech, and a falling, dying sound, as her voice died away in miserable suspense.

It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. Buxton’s care and love, her accents and words were such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow, would have used; — somehow, at any rate, the thought flashed into Mr. Buxton’s mind, that as Maggie spoke, his dead wife’s voice was heard, imploring mercy in a clear, distinct tone, though faint, as if separated from him by an infinite distance of space. At least, this is the account Mr. Buxton would have given of the manner in which the idea of his wife became present to him, and what she would have wished him to do a powerful motive in his conduct. Words of hers, long ago spoken, and merciful, forgiving expressions made use of in former days to soften him in some angry mood, were clearly remembered while Maggie spoke; and their influence was perceptible in the change of his tone, and the wavering of his manner henceforward.

“And yet you will not save Frank from being involved in your disgrace,” said he; but more as if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had ever spoken before.

“If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw myself out of his sight forever; — I give you my promise, before God, to do so. I shall not utter one word of entreaty or complaint. I will try not to wonder or feel surprise; — I w............