When he looked at Maggie, and thought of the moorland home from which she had never wandered, the mysteriously beautiful lines of Wordsworth seemed to become sun-clear to him.
"And she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face." Mr.Buxton, in the dining-room, was really getting to take an interest in Edward's puzzling cases.

They were like tricks at cards.

A quick motion, and out of the unpromising heap, all confused together, presto! the right card turned up.

Edward stated his case, so that there did not seem loophole for the desired verdict; but through some conjuration, it always came uppermost at last.

He had a graphic way of relating things; and, as he did not spare epithets in his designation of the opposing party, Mr.Buxton took it upon trust that the defendant or the prosecutor (as it might happen) was a "pettifogging knave," or a "miserly curmudgeon," and rejoiced accordingly in the triumph over him gained by the ready wit of "our governor," Mr.Bish.At last he became so deeply impressed with Edward's knowledge of law, as to consult him about some cottage property he had in Woodchester.
"I rather think there are twenty-one cottages, and they don't bring me in four pounds a-year; and out of that I have to pay for collecting.