Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up,
and stood quite calm before Mr. Buxton.
"You must go," said she. "I know you; and I know you are not aware of the
cruel way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the
very hope and marrow of my life"--she could not go on for a moment; she was
choked up with anguish.
"It was the truth, Maggie," said he, somewhat abashed.
"It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. But you did not mean to
speak cruelly to me, I know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon
to face the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent
child at the same father's knee."
"I may have spoken too plainly," said Mr. Buxton, "but it was necessary
to set the plain truth before you, for my son's sake. You will write the
letter I ask?"
Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her attention was distracted by
sounds which to him had no meaning; and her judgment she felt was wavering
and disturbed.
"I cannot tell. Give me time to think; you will do that, I'm sure. Go now,
and leave me alone. If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, and
perhaps He will comfort me in my desolation. But I do not know--I cannot
tell. I must have time to think. Go now, if you please, sir," said she,
imploringly.
"I am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask of you," he persisted.
"Go now," she repeated.
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