He thought of Maggie, of whom he had
seen but little of late; for when he had been at Combehurst, she had
felt that Mrs. Buxton required her presence less, and had remained more at
home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; but she never said anything.
She, far-looking, as one who was near death, foresaw that, probably, if
Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, feelings might arise which
would militate against her husband's hopes and plans, and which, therefore,
she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had been unable to refrain
from expressing her gratitude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil
happiness, and had unconsciously dropped many sentences which made Frank
feel, that, in the little brown mouse of former years, he was likely to
meet with one who could tell him much of the inner history of his mother in
her last days, and to whom he could speak of her without calling out the
passionate sorrow which was so little in unison with her memory.
Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs.
Browne's. The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir.
Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from
no outward violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit
and then ceased. Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were
gorgeous in orange and crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign
of the decaying and dying year.
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