The "There! child; now that's done with," of relief, from Mrs.Browne, was heartily echoed in Maggie's breast, as the dull routine was concluded.
Mrs.Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that much was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the little girls, her companions.

She was simply herself; she even confessed (where the confession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and never denied the force of temptations, either of those which beset little children, or of those which occasionally assailed herself.

Pure, simple, and truthful to the heart's core, her life, in its uneventful hours and days, spoke many homilies.

Maggie, who was grave, imaginative, and somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to express the thoughts to which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs.Buxton's ready understanding and sympathy.
"You are so like a cloud," said she to Mrs.Buxton.

"Up at the Thorn-tree, it was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just according as I was glad or sorry.