That night there came to Mr. Carrollton a letter from Montreal, saying his immediate presence was necessary there, on a business matter of some importance; and he accordingly decided to go on the morrow.

"When may we expect you back?" asked Madam Conway, as in the morning he was preparing for his journey.

"It will, perhaps, be two months at least, before I return," said he, adding that there was a possibility of his being obliged to go immediately to England.

In the recess of the window Maggie was standing, thinking how lonely the house would be without him, and wishing there was no such thing as parting from those she liked—even as little as she did Arthur Carrollton.

"I won't let him know that I care, though," she thought, and forcing a smile to her face she was about turning to bid him good-by, when she heard him tell her grandmother of the possibility there was that he would be obliged to go directly to England from Montreal.

"Then I may never see him again," she thought; and the tears burst forth involuntarily at the idea of parting with him forever.

Faster and faster they came, until at last, fearing lest he should see them, she ran away upstairs, and, mounting to the roof, sat down behind the chimney, where, herself unobserved, she could watch him far up the road. From the half-closed door of her chamber Anna Jeffrey had seen Maggie stealing up the tower stairs; had seen, too, that she was weeping, and, suspecting the cause, she went quietly down to the parlor to hear what Arthur Carrollton would say. The carriage was waiting, his trunk was in its place, his hat was in his hand; to Madam Conway he said good-by, to Anna Jeffrey too; and still he lingered, looking wistfully round in quest of something which evidently was not there.

"Where's Margaret?" he asked at last, and Madam Conway answered: "Surely, where can she be? Have you seen her, Anna?"

"I saw her on the stairs some time ago," said Anna, adding that possibly she had gone to see Hagar, as she usually visited her at this hour.

A shade of disappointment passed over Mr. Carrollton's face as he replied, "Tell her I am sorry she thinks more of Hagar than of me."

The next moment he was gone, and leaning against the chimney Maggie watched with tearful eyes the carriage as it wound up the grassy road. On the brow of the hill, just before it would disappear from sight, it suddenly stopped. Something was the matter with the harness, and while John was busy adjusting it Mr. Carrollton leaned from the window, and, looking back, started involuntarily as he caught sight of the figure so clearly defined upon the housetop. A slight suspicion of the truth came upon him, and kissing his hand he waved it gracefully towards her. Maggie's handkerchief was wet with tears, but she shook it out in the morning breeze, and sent to Arthur Carrollton, as she thought, her last good-by.

Fearing lest her grandmother should see her swollen eyes, she stole down the stairs, and taking her shawl and bonnet from the table in the hall ran off into the woods, going to a pleasant, mossy bank not far from Hagar's cottage, where she had more than once sat with Arthur Carrollton, and where she fancied she would never sit with him again.

"I don't believe it's for him that I am crying," she thought, as she tried in vain to stay her tears; "I always intended to hate him, and I almost know I do; I'm only feeling badly because I won't run away, and Henry and Rose will go without me so soon!" And fully satisfied at having discovered the real cause of her grief, she laid her head upon the bright autumn grass and wept bitterly, holding her breath, and listening intently as she heard in the distance the sound of the engine which was bearing Mr. Carrollton away.

It did not occur to her that he could not yet have reached the depot, and as she knew nothing of a change in the time of the trains she was taken wholly by surprise when, fifteen minutes later, a manly form bent over her, as she lay upon the bank, and a voice, earnest and thrilling in tones, murmured softly, "Maggie, are those tears for me?"

When about halfway to the station Mr. Carrollton had heard of the change of time, and knowing he should not be in season had turned back with the intention of waiting for the next train, which would pass in a few hours. Learning that Maggie was in the woods, he had started in quest of her, going naturally to the mossy bank, where, as we have seen, he found her weeping on the grass. She was weeping for him—he was sure of that. He was not indifferent to her, as he had sometimes feared, and for an instant he felt tempted to take her in his arms and tell her how dear she was to him.

"I will speak to her first," he thought, and so he asked if the tears were for him.

Inexpressibly astonished and mortified at having him see her thus, Maggie started to her feet, while angry words at being thus intruded upon trembled on her lips. But winding his arm around her, Mr. Carrollton drew her to his side, explaining to her in a few words how he came to be there, and continuing: "I do not regret the delay, if by its means I have discovered what I very much wish to know. Maggie, do you care for me? Were you weeping because I had left you?"

He drew her very closely to him—looking anxiously into her face, which she covered with her hands. She knew he was in earnest, and the knowledge that he loved her thrilled her for an instant with indescribable happiness. A moment, however, and thoughts of her engagement with another flashed upon her. "She must not sit there thus with Arthur Carrollton—she would be true to Henry," and with mingled feelings of sorrow, regret, and anger—though why she should experience either she did not then understand—she drew herself from him; and when he said again: "Will Maggie answer? Are those tears for me?" she replied petulantly: "No; can't a body cry without being bothered for a reason? I came down here to be alone!"

"I did not mean to intrude, and I beg your pardon for having done so," said Mr. Carrollton sadly, adding, as Maggie made no reply: "I expected a different answer, Maggie. I almost hoped you liked me, and I believe now that you do."

In Maggie's bosom there was a fierce struggle of feeling. She did like Arthur Carrollton—and she thought she liked Henry Warner—at all events she was engaged to him, and half angry at the former for having disturbed her, and still more angry at herself for being thus disturbed, she exclaimed, as he again placed his arm around her: "Leave me alone, Mr. Carrollton. I don't like you. I don't like anybody!" and gathering up her shawl, which lay upon the grass, she ran away to Hagar's cabin, hoping he would follow her. But he did not. It was his first attempt at love-making, and very much disheartened he walked slowly back to the house; and while Maggie, from Hagar's door, was looking to see if he were coming, he, from the parlor window, was watching, too, for her, with a shadow on his brow and a load upon his heart. Madam Conway knew that something was wrong, but it was in vain that she sought an explanation. Mr. Carrollton kept his own secret; and consoling herself with his volunteered assurance that in case it became necessary for him to return to England he should, before embarking, visit Hillsdale, she bade him a second adieu.

In the meantime Maggie, having given up all hopes of again seeing Mr. Carrollton, was waiting impatiently the coming of Hagar, who was absent, having, as Maggie readily conjectured, gone to Richland. It was long past noon when she returned, and by that time the stains had disappeared from Maggie's face, which looked nearly as bright as ever. Still, it was with far less eagerness than usual that she took from Hagar's hand the expected letter from Henry. It was a long, affectionate epistle, urging her once more to accompany him, and saying if she still refused she must let him know immediately, as they were intending to start for New York in a few days.

"I can't go," said Maggie; "it would not be right." And going to the time-worn desk, where, since her secret correspondence, she had kept materials for writing, she wrote to Henry a letter telling him she felt badly to disappoint him, but she deemed it much wiser to defer their marriage until her grandmother felt differently, or at least until she was at an age to act for herself. This being done, she went slowly back to the house, which to her seemed desolate indeed. Her grandmother saw readily that something was the matter, and, rightly guessing the cause, she forebore questioning her, neither did she once that day mention Mr. Carrollton, although Anna Jeffrey did, telling her what he had said about her thinking more of Hagar than of himself, and giving as her opinion that he was much displeased with Maggie for her rudeness in running away.

"Nobody cares for his displeasure," answered Maggie, greatly vexed at Anna, who took especial delight in annoying her.

Thus a week went by, when one evening, as Madam Conway and Maggie sat together in the parlor, they were surprised by the sudden appearance of Henry Warner. He had accompanied his aunt and sister to New York, where they were to remain for a few days, and then impelled by a strong desire to see Margaret once more he had come with the vain hope that at the last hour she would consent to fly with him, or her grandmother consent to give her up. All the afternoon he had been at Hagar's cottage waiting for Maggie, and at length determining to see her he had ventured to the house. With a scowling frown Madam Conway looked at him through her glasses, while Maggie, half joyfully, half fearfully, went forward to meet him. In a few words he explained why he was there, and then again asked of Madam Conway if Margaret could go.

"I do not believe she cares to go," thought Madam Conway, as she glanced at Maggie's face; but she did not say so, lest she should awaken within the young girl a feeling of opposition.

She had watched Maggie closely, and felt sure that her affection for Henry Warner was neither deep nor lasting. Arthur Carrollton's presence had done much towards weakening it, and a few months more would suffice to wear it away entirely. Still, from what had passed, she fancied that opposition alone would only make the matter worse by rousing Maggie at once. She knew far more of human nature than either of the young people before her; and after a little reflection she suggested that Henry should leave Maggie with her for a year, during which time no communication whatever should pass between them, while she would promise faithfully not to influence Margaret either way.

"If at the end of the year," said she, "you both retain for each other the feelings you have now, I will no longer object to the marriage, but will make the best of it."

At first Henry spurned the proposition, and when he saw that Margaret thought well of it he reproached her with a want of feeling, saying she did not love him as she had once done.

"I shall not forget you, Henry," said Maggie, coming to his side and taking his hand in hers, "neither will you forget me; and when the year has passed away, only think how much pleasanter it will be for us to be married here at home, with grandma's blessing on our union!"

"If I only knew you would prove true!" said Henry, who missed something in Maggie's manner.

"I do mean to prove true," she answered sadly, though at that moment another face, another form, stood between her and Henry Warner, who, knowing that Madam Conway would not suffer her to go with him on any terms, concluded at last to make a virtue of necessity, and accordingly expressed his willingness to wait, provided Margaret were allowed to write occasionally either to himself or Rose.

But to this Madam Conway would not consent. She wished the test to be perfect, she said, and unless he accepted her terms he must give Maggie up, at once and forever.

As there seemed no alternative, Henry rather ungraciously yielded the point, promising to leave Maggie free for a year, while she too promised not to write either to him or to Rose, except with her grandmother's consent. Maggie Miller's word once passed, Madam Conway knew it would not be broken, and she unhesitatingly left the young people together while they said their parting words. A message of love from Maggie to Rose—a hundred protestations of eternal fidelity, and then they parted; Henry, sad and disappointed, slowly wending his way back to the spot where Hagar impatiently awaited his coming, while Maggie, leaning from her chamber window, and listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps, brushed away a tear, wondering the while why it was that she felt so relieved.



CHAPTER XVI

PERPLEXITY

Half in sorrow, half in joy, old Hagar listened to the story which Henry told her, standing at her cottage door. In sorrow because she had learned to like the young man, learned to think of him as Maggie's husband, who would not wholly cast her oil, if her secret should chance to be divulged; and in joy because her idol would be with her yet a little longer.

"Maggie will be faithful quite as long as you," she said, when he expressed his fears of her forgetfulness; and, trying to console himself with this assurance, he sprang into the carriage in which he had come, and was driven rapidly away.

He was too late for the night express, but taking the early morning train he reached New York just as the sun was setting.

"Alone! my brother, alone?" queried Rose, as he entered the private parlor of the hotel where she was staying with her aunt.

"Yes, alone; just as I expected," he answered somewhat bitterly.

Then very briefly he related to her the particulars of his adventure, to which she listened eagerly, one moment chiding herself for the faint, shadowy hope which whispered that possibly Maggie Miller would never be his wife, and again sympathizing in his disappointment.

"A year will not be very long," she said, "and in the new scenes to which you are going it will pass rapidly away;" and then, in her childlike, guileless manner, she drew a glowing picture of the future, when, her own health restored, they would return to their old home in Leominster, where, after a few months more, he would bring to them his bride.

"You are my comforting angel, Rose," he said, folding her lovingly in his arms and kissing her smooth white cheek. "With such a treasure as you for a sister, I ought not to repine, even though Maggie Miller should never be mine."

The words were lightly spoken, and by him soon forgotten, but Rose remembered them long, dwelling upon them in the wearisome nights, when in her narrow berth she listened to the swelling sea as it dashed against the vessel's side. Many a fond remembrance, too, she gave to Maggie Miller, who, in her woodland home, thought often of the travelers on the sea, never wishing that she was with them; but experiencing always a feeling of pleasure in knowing that she was Maggie Miller yet, and should be until next year's autumn leaves were falling.

Of Arthur Carrollton she thought frequently, wishing she had not been so rude that morning in the woods, and feeling vexed because in his letters to her grandmother he merely said, "Remember me to Margaret."

"I wish he would write something besides that," she thought, "for I remember him now altogether too much for my own good;" and then she wondered what he would have said that morning, if she had not been so cross.

Very little was said to her of him by Madam Conway, who, having learned that he was not going to England, and would ere long return to them, concluded for a time to let the matter rest, particularly as she knew how much Maggie was already interested in one whom she had resolved to hate. Feeling thus confident that all would yet end well, Madam Conway was in unusually good spirits save when thoughts of Mrs. Douglas, senior, obtruded themselves upon her. Then, indeed, in a most unenviable state of mind, she repined at the disgrace which Theo had brought upon them, and charged Maggie repeatedly to keep it a secret from Mrs. Jeffrey and Anna, the first of whom made many inquiries concerning the family, which she supposed of course was very aristocratic.

One day towards the last of November there came to Madam Conway a letter from Mrs. Douglas, senior, wonderful alike in composition and appearance. Directed wrong side up, sealed with a wafer, and stamped with a thimble, it bore an unmistakable resemblance to its writer, who expressed many regrets that she had not known "in the time on't" who her illustrious visitors were.

"If I had known [she wrote] I should have sot the table in the parlor certing, for though I'm plain and homespun I know as well as the next one what good manners is, and do my endeavors to practice it. But do tell a body [she continued] where you was muster day in Wooster. I knocked and pounded enough to raise the dead, and nobody answered. I never noticed you was deaf when you was here, though Betsy Jane thinks she did. If you be, I'll send you up a receipt for a kind of intment which Miss Sam Babbit invented, and which cures everything.

"Theodoshy has been to see us, and though in my way of thinkin' she aint as handsome as Margaret, she looks as well as the ginerality of women. I liked her, too, and as soon as the men's winter clothes is off my hands I calkerlate to have a quiltin', and finish up another bed quilt to send her, for, man-like, George has furnished up his rooms with all sorts of nicknacks, and got only two blankets, and two Marsales spreads for his bed. So I've sent 'em down the herrin'-bone and risin'-sun quilts for everyday wear, as I don't believe in usin' your best things all the time. My old man says I'd better let 'em alone; but he's got some queer ideas, thinks you'll sniff your nose at my letter, and all that, but I've more charity for folks, and well I might have, bein' that's my name.

"CHARITY DOUGLAS."

To this letter were appended three different postscripts. In the first Madam Conway and Maggie were cordially invited to visit Charlton again; in the second Betsy Jane sent her regrets; while in the third Madam Conway was particularly requested to excuse haste and a bad pen.

"Disgusting creature!" was Madam Conway's exclamation as she finished the letter, then tossing it into the fire without a passing thought, she took up another one, which had come by the same mail, and was from Theo herself.

After dwelling at length upon the numerous calls she made, the parties she attended, the compliments she received, and her curiosity to know why her grandmother came back that day, she spoke of her recent visit in Charlton.

"You have been there, it seems [she wrote], so I need not particularize, though I know how shocked and disappointed you must have been; and I think it was kind in you to say nothing upon the subject except that you had called there, for George reads all my letters, and I would not have his feelings hurt. He had prepared me in a measure for the visit, but the reality was even worse than I anticipated. And still they are the kindest-hearted people in the world, while Mr. Douglas is a man, they say, of excellent sense. George never lived at home much, and their heathenish ways mortify him, I know, though he never says a word except that they are his parents.

"People here respect George, too, quite as much as if he were a Conway, and I sometimes think they like him all the better for being so kind to his old father, who comes frequently to the store. Grandma, I begin to think differently of some things from what I did. Birth and blood do not make much difference, in this country, at least; and still I must acknowledge that I should feel dreadfully if I did not love George and know that he is the kindest husband in the world."

The letter closed with a playful insinuation that as Henry Warner had gone, Maggie might possibly marry Arthur Carrollton, and so make amends for the disgrace which Theo had unwittingly brought upon the Conway line.

For a long time after finishing the above, Madam Conway sat wrapped in thought. Could it be possible that all her life she had labored under a mistake? Were birth and family rank really of no consequence? Was George just as worthy of respect as if he had descended directly from the Scottish race of Douglas, instead of belonging to that vulgar woman? "It may be so in America," she sighed, "but it is not true of England," and, sincerely hoping that Theo's remark concerning Mr. Carrollton might prove true, she laid aside the letter, and for the remainder of the day busied herself with preparations for the return of Arthur Carrollton, who had written that he should be with them on the 1st of December.

The day came, and, unusually excited, Maggie flitted from room to room, seeing that everything was in order, and wondering how he would meet her and if he had forgiven her for having been so cross at their last interview in the woods. The effect of every suitable dress in her wardrobe was tried, and she decided at last upon a crimson and black merino, which harmonized well with her dark eyes and hair. The dress was singularly becoming, and feeling quite well satisfied with the face and form reflected by her mirror she descended to the parlor, where any doubts she might have had concerning her personal appearance were put to flight by Anna Jeffrey, who, with a feeling of envy, asked if she had the scarlet fever, referring to her bright color, and saying she did not think too red a face becoming to anyone, particularly to Margaret, to whom it gave a "blowsy" look, such as she had more than once heard Mr. Carrollton say he did not like to see.

Margaret knew well that the dark-browed girl would give almost anything for the roses blooming on her cheeks; so she made no reply, but simply wished Anna would return to England, as for the last two months she had talked of doing. It was not quite dark, and Mr. Carrollton, if he came that night, would be with them soon. The car whistle had sounded some time before, and Maggie's quick ear caught at last the noise of the bells in the distance. Nearer and nearer they came; the sleigh was at the door, and forgetting everything but her own happiness Maggie ran out to meet their guest, nor turned her glowing face away when he stooped down to kiss her. He had forgiven her ill-nature, she was certain of that, and very joyfully she led the way to the parlor, where as the full light of the lamp fell upon him she started involuntarily, he seemed so changed.

"Are you sick?" she asked; and her voice expressed the deep anxiety she felt.

Forcing back a slight cough, and smiling down upon her, he answered cheerfully, "Oh, no, not sick! Canada air does not agree with me, that's all. I took a severe cold soon after my arrival in Montreal," and the cough he had attempted to stifle now burst forth, sounding to Maggie, who thought only of consumption, like an echo from the grave.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" she answered sadly, and her eyes filled with tears, which she did not try to conceal, for looking through the window across the snow-clad field, on which the winter moon was shining, she saw instinctively another grave beside that of her mother.

Madam Conway had not yet appeared, and, as Anna Jeffrey just then left the room, Mr. Carrollton was for some moments alone with Maggie. Winding his arm around her waist, and giving her a most expressive look, he said, "Maggie, are those tears for me?"

Instantly the bright blushes stole over Maggie's face and neck, for she remembered the time when once before he had asked her a similar question. Not now, as then, did she turn away from 'him, but she answered frankly: "Yes, they are. You look so pale and thin, I'm sure you must be very ill."

Whether Mr. Carrollton liked "blowsy" complexions or not, he certainly admired Maggie's at that moment, and drawing her closer to his side, he said, half playfully, half earnestly: "To see you thus anxious for me, Maggie, more than atones for your waywardness when last we parted. You are forgiven, but you are unnecessarily alarmed. I shall be better soon. Hillsdale air will do me good, and I intend remaining here until I am well again. Will you nurse me, Maggie, just as my sister Helen would do were she here?"

The right chord was touched, and all the soft, womanly qualities of Maggie Miller's nature were called forth by Arthur Carrollton's failing health. For several weeks after his arrival at Hillsdale he was a confirmed invalid, lying all day upon the sofa in the parlor, while Maggie read to him from books which he selected, partly for the purpose of amusing himself, and more for the sake of benefiting her and improving her taste for literature. At other times he would tell her of his home beyond the sea, and Maggie, listening to him while he described its airy halls, its noble parks, its shaded walks, and musical fountains, would sometimes wish aloud that she might one day see that spot which seemed to her so much like paradise. He wished so too, and oftentimes when, with half-closed eyes, his mind was wandering amid the scenes of his youth, he saw at his side a queenly figure with features like those of Maggie Miller, who each day was stealing more and more into his heart, where love for other than his nearest friends had never before found entrance. She had many faults, he knew, but these he possessed both the will and the power to correct, and as day after day she sat reading at his side he watched her bright, animated face, thinking what a splendid woman she would make, and wondering if an American rose like her would bear transplanting to English soil.

Very complacently Madam Conway looked on, reading aright the admiration which Arthur Carrollton evinced for Margaret, who in turn was far from being uninterested in him. Anna Jeffrey, too, watched them jealously, pondering in her own mind some means by which she could, if possible, annoy Margaret. Had she known how far matters had gone with Henry Warner, she would unhesitatingly have told it to Arthur Carrollton; but so quietly had the affair been managed that she knew comparatively little. This little, however, she determined to tell him, together with any embellishments she might see fit to use. Accordingly, one afternoon, when he had been there two months or more, and Maggie had gone with her grandmother to ride, she went down to the parlor under pretense of getting a book to read. He was much better now, but, feeling somewhat fatigued from a walk he had taken in the yard, he was reclining upon the sofa. Leaning over the rocking-chair which stood near by, Anna inquired for his health, and then asked how long since he had heard from home.

He liked to talk of England, and as there was nothing to him particularly disagreeable in Anna Jeffrey he bade her be seated. Very willingly she complied with his request, and, after talking a while of England, announced her intention of returning home the last of March. "My aunt prefers remaining with Madam Conway, but I don't like America," said she, "and I often wonder why I am here."

"I supposed you came to be with your aunt, who, I am told, has been to you a second mother," answered Mr. Carrollton; and Anna replied: "You are right. She could not be easy until she got me here, where I know I am not wanted—at least not altogether."

Mr. Carrollton looked inquiringly at her, and Anna continued, "I fully supposed I was to be a companion for Margaret; but instead of that she treats me with the utmost coolness, making me feel keenly my position as a dependent."

"That does not seem at all like Maggie," said Mr. Carrollton; and, with a meaning smile far more expressive than words, Anna answered: "She may not always be alike. But hush! don't I hear bells?" and she ran to the window, saying as she resumed her seat: "I thought they had come: but I was mistaken. I dare say Maggie has coaxed her grandmother to drive by the post office, thinking there might be a letter from Henry Warner."

Her manner affected Mr. Carrollton perceptibly, but he made no reply; and Anna asked if he knew Mr. Warner.

"I saw him in Worcester, I believe," he said; and Anna continued, "Do you think him a suitable husband for a girl like Maggie?"

There was a deep flush on Arthur Carrollton's cheek, and his lips were whiter than their wont as he answered, "I know nothing of him, neither did I suppose Miss Miller ever thought of him for a husband."

"I know she did at one time," said his tormentor, turning the leaves of her book with well-feigned indifference. "It was not any secret, or I should not speak of it; of course Madam Conway was greatly opposed to it too, and forbade her writing to him; but how the matter is now I do not positively know, though I am quite sure they are engaged."

"Isn't it very close here? Will you please to open the hall door?" said Mr. Carrollton suddenly, panting for breath; and, satisfied with her work, Anna did as desired and then left him alone.

"Maggie engaged!" he said; "engaged!—when I hoped to win her for myself!" and a sharp pang shot through his heart as he thought of giving to another the beautiful girl who had grown so into his love. "But I am glad I learned it in time," he continued, hurriedly walking the floor, "knew it ere I had done Henry Warner a wrong by telling her of my love, and asking her to go with me to my English home, which will be desolate without her. This is why she repulsed me in the woods. She knew I ought not to speak of love to her. Why didn't I see it before, or why has not Madam Conway told me the truth! She at least has deceived me;" and with a feeling of keen disappointment he continued to pace the floor, one moment resolving to leave Hillsdale at once, and again thinking how impossible it was to tear himself away.

Arthur Carrollton was a perfectly honorable man, and once assured of Maggie's engagement he would neither by word nor deed do aught to which the most fastidious lover could object, and Henry Warner's rights were as safe with him as with the truest of friends. But was Maggie really engaged? Might there not be some mistake? He hoped so at least, and alternating between hope and fear he waited impatiently the return of Maggie, who, with each thought of losing her, seemed tenfold dearer to him than she had ever been before; and when at last she came bounding in, he could scarcely refrain from folding her in his arms and asking of her to think again ere she gave another than himself the right of calling her his bride. But she is not mine, he thought; and so he merely took her cold hands within his own, rubbing them until they were warm. Then seating himself by her side upon the sofa he spoke of her ride, asking casually if she called at the post office.

"No, we did not drive that way," she answered readily, adding that the post office had few attractions for her now, as no one wrote to her save Theo.

She evidently spoke the truth, and with a feeling of relief Mr. Carrollton thought that possibly Miss Jeffrey might have been mistaken; but he would know at all hazards, even though he ran the risk of being thought extremely rude. Accordingly, that evening, after Mrs. Jeffrey and Anna had retired to their room, and while Madam Conway was giving some household directions in the kitchen, he asked her to come and sit by him as he lay upon the sofa, himself placing her chair where the lamplight would fall full upon her face and reveal its every expression. Closing the piano, she complied with his request, and then waited in silence for what he wanted to say.

"Maggie," he began, "you may think me bold, but there is something I very much wish to know, and which you, if you choose, can tell me. From what I have heard, I am led to think you are engaged. Will you tell me if this is true?"

The bright color faded from Maggie's cheek, while her eyes grew darker than before, and still she did not speak. Not that she was angry with him for asking her that question; but because the answer, which, if made at all, must be yes, was hard to utter. And yet why should she hesitate to tell him the truth at once?

Alas, for thee, Maggie Miller! The fancied love you feel for Henry Warner is fading fast away. Arthur Carrollton is a dangerous rival, and even now you cannot meet the glance of his expressive eyes without a blush! Your better judgment acknowledged his superiority to Henry long ago, and now in your heart there is room for none save him.

"Maggie," he said, again stretching out his hand to take the unresisting one which lay upon her lap, "you need not make me other answer save that so plainly written on your face. You are engaged, and may Heaven's blessing attend both you and yours!"

At this moment Madam Conway appeared, and fearing her inability to control her feelings longer Maggie precipitately left the room. Going to her chamber, she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, one moment blaming Mr. Carrollton for having learned her secret, and the next chiding herself for wishing to withhold from him a knowledge of her engagement.

"It is not that I love Henry less, I am sure," she thought; and laying her head upon her pillow she recalled everything which had passed between herself and her affianced husband, trying to bring back the olden happiness with which she had listened to his words of love. But it would not come; there was a barrier in the way—Arthur Carrollton, as he looked when he said so sadly, "You need not tell me, Maggie."

"Oh, I wish he had not asked me that question!" she sighed. "It has put such dreadful thoughts into my head. And yet I love Henry as well as ever—I know I do; I am sure of it, or if I do not, I will," and repeating to herself again and again the words, "I will, I will," she fell asleep.

Will, however, is not always subservient to one's wishes, and during the first few days succeeding the incident of that night Maggie often found herself wishing Arthur Carrollton had never come to Hillsdale, he made her so wretched, so unhappy. Insensibly, too, she became a very little unamiable, speaking pettishly to her grandmother, disrespectfully to Mrs. Jeffrey, haughtily to Anna, and rarely to Mr. Carrollton, who after the lapse of two or three weeks began to talk of returning home in the same vessel with Anna Jeffrey, at which time his health would be fully restored. Then, indeed, did Maggie awake to the reality that while her hand was plighted to one, she loved another—not as in days gone by she had loved Henry Warner, but with a deeper, more absorbing love. With this knowledge, too, there came the thought that Arthur Carrollton had once loved her, and but for the engagement now so much regretted he would ere this have told her so. But it was too late! too late! He would never feel toward her again as he once had felt, and bitter tears she shed as she contemplated the fast-coming future, when Arthur Carrollton would be gone, or shudderingly thought of the time when Henry Warner would return to claim her promise.

"I cannot, cannot marry him," she cried, "until I've torn that other image from my heart!" and then for many days she strove to recall the olden love in vain; for, planted on the sandy soil of childhood, as it were, it had been outgrown, and would never again spring into life. "I will write to him exactly how it is," she said at last; "will tell him that the affection I felt for him could not have been what a wife should feel for her husband. I was young, had seen nothing of the world, knew nothing of gentlemen's society, and when he came with his handsome face and winning ways my interest was awakened. Sympathy, too, for his misfortune increased that interest, which grandma's opposition tended in no wise to diminish. But it has died out, that fancied love, and I cannot bring it back. Still, if he insists, I will keep my word, and when he comes next autumn I will not tell him 'No.'"

Maggie was very calm when this decision was reached, and opening her writing desk she wrote just as she said she would, begging him to forgive her if she had done him wrong, and beseeching Rose to comfort him as only a sister like her could do. "And remember," she wrote at the close, "remember that sooner than see you very unhappy, I will marry you, will try to be a faithful wife; though, Henry, I would rather not—oh, so much rather not!"

The letter was finished, and then Maggie took it to her grandmother, who read it eagerly, for in it she saw a fulfillment of her wishes. Very closely had she watched both Mr. Carrollton and Maggie, readily divining the truth that something was wrong between them. But from past experience she deemed it wiser not to interfere directly. Mr. Carrollton's avowed intention of returning to England, however, startled her, and she was revolving some method of procedure when Margaret brought to her the letter.

"I am happier than I can well express," she said, when she had finished reading it. "Of course you have my permission to send it. But what has changed you, Maggie? Has another taken the place of Henry Warner?"

"Don't ask me, grandma," cried Maggie, covering her face with her hands; "don't ask me, for indeed I can only tell you that I am very unhappy."

A little skillful questioning on Madam Conway's part sufficed to explain the whole—how constant association with Arthur Carrollton had won for him a place in Maggie's heart which Henry Warner had never filled; how the knowledge that she loved him as she could love no other one had faintly revealed itself to her on the night when he asked if she were engaged, and had burst upon her with overwhelming power when she heard that he was going home.

"He will never think of me again, I know," she said; "but, with my present feelings, I cannot marry Henry, unless he insists upon it."

"Men seldom wish to marry a woman who says she does not love them, and Henry Warner will not prove an exception," answered Madam Conway; and, comforted with this assurance, Maggie folded up her letter, which was soon on its way to Cuba.

The next evening, as Madam Conway sat alone with Mr. Carrollton, she spoke of his return to England, expressing her sorrow, and asking why he did not remain with them longer.

"I will deal frankly with you, madam," said he, "and say that if I followed my own inclination I should stay, for Hillsdale holds for me an attraction which no other spot possesses. I refer to your granddaughter, who, in the little time I have known her, has grown very dear to me—so dear that I dare not stay longer where she is, lest I should love her too well, and rebel against yielding her to another."

For a moment Madam Conway hesitated; but, thinking the case demanded her speaking, she said: "Possibly Mr. Carrollton, I can make an explanation which will show some points in a different light from that in which you now see them. Margaret is engaged to Henry Warner, I will admit; but the engagement has become irksome, and yesterday she wrote asking a release, which he will grant, of course."

Instantly the expression of Mr. Carrollton's face was changed, and very intently he listened while Madam Conway frankly told him the story of Margaret's engagement up to the present time, withholding from him nothing, not even Maggie's confession of the interest she felt in him, an interest which had weakened her girlish attachment for Henry Warner.

"You have made me very happy," Mr. Carrollton said to Madam Conway, as, at a late hour, he bade her good-night—"happier than I can well express; for without Margaret life to me would be dreary indeed."

The next morning, at the breakfast table, Anna Jeffrey, who was in high spirits with the prospect of having Mr. Carrollton for a fellow-traveler, spoke of their intended voyage, saying she could hardly wait for the time to come, and asking if he were not equally impatient to leave so horrid a country as America.

"On the contrary," he replied, "I should be sorry to leave America just yet. I have therefore decided to remain a little longer;" and his eyes sought the face of Maggie, who, in her joyful surprise, dropped the knife with which she was helping herself to butter; while Anna Jeffrey, quite as much astonished, upset her coffee, exclaiming: "Not going home! What has changed your mind?"

Mr. Carrollton made her no direct reply, and she continued her breakfast in no very amiable mood; while Maggie, too much overjoyed to eat, managed ere long to find an excuse for leaving the table. Mr. Carrollton wished to do everything honorably, and so he decided to say nothing to Maggie of the cause of this sudden change in his plan until Henry Warner's answer was received, as she would then feel freer to act as she felt. His resolution, however, was more easily made than kept, and during the succeeding weeks, by actions, if not by words, he more than once told Maggie Miller how much she was beloved; and Maggie, trembling with fear lest the cup of happiness just within her grasp should be rudely dashed aside, waited impatiently for the letter which was to set her free. But weeks went by, and Maggie's heart grew sick with hope deferred, for there came to her no message from the distant Cuban shore, which in another chapter we shall visit.



CHAPTER XVII.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

Brightly shone the moonlight on the sunny isle of Cuba, dancing lightly on the wave, resting softly on the orange groves, and stealing gently through the casement, into the room where a young girl lay, whiter far than the flowers strewn upon her pillow. From the commencement of the voyage Rose had drooped, growing weaker every day, until at last all who looked upon her felt that the home of which she talked so much would never again be gladdened by her presence. Very tenderly Henry Warner nursed her, bearing her often in his arms up on the vessel's deck, where she could breathe the fresh morning air as it came rippling o'er the sea. But neither the ocean breeze, nor yet the fragrant breath of Florida's aromatic bowers, where for a time they stopped, had power to rouse her; and when at last Havana was reached she laid her weary head upon her pillow, whispering to no one of the love which was wearing her life away. With untold anguish at their hearts, both her aunt and Henry watched her, the latter shrinking ever from the thought of losing one who seemed a part of his very life.

"I cannot give you up, my Rose. I cannot live without you," he said, when once she talked to him of death. "You are all the world to me;" and, laying his head upon her pillow, he wept as men will sometimes weep over their one great sorrow.

"Don't, Henry," she said, laying her tiny hand upon his hair. "Maggie will comfort you when I am gone. She will talk to you of me, standing at my grave, for, Henry, you must not leave me here alone. You must carry me home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my childhood was passed, and where I learned to love you so much—oh, so much!"

There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the last words were uttered, but Henry Warner did not understand it, and covering the little blue-veined hand with kisses he promised that her grave should be made at the foot of the garden in their far-off home, where the sunlight fell softly and the moonbeams gently shone. That evening Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a disturbed slumber. For a time he took no notice of the disconnected words she uttered in her dreams, but when at last he heard the sound of his own name he drew near, and, bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy, sorrow, and surprise to a secret which, waking, she would never have told him, above all others. She loved him,—the fair girl he called his sister,—but not as a sister loves; and now, as he stood by her, with the knowledge thrilling every nerve, he remembered many bygone scenes, when but for his blindness he would have seen how every pulsation of her heart throbbed alone for him whose hand was plighted to another, and that other no unworthy rival. Beautiful, very beautiful, was the shadowy form which at that moment seemed standing at his side, and his heart went out towards her as the one above all others to be his bride.

"Had I known it sooner," he thought, "known it before I met the peerless Maggie, I might have taken Rose to my bosom and loved her—it may be with a deeper love than that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose is everything to me. She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can I let her die when I have the power to save her?"

There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was waking, and as her soft blue eyes unclosed and looked up in his face he wound his arms around her, kissing her lips as never before he had kissed her. She was not his sister now—the veil was torn away—a new feeling had been awakened, and as days and weeks went by there gradually crept in between him and Maggie Miller a new love—even a love for the fair-haired Rose, to whom he was kinder, if possible, than he had been before, though he seldom kissed her lips or caressed her in any way.

"It would be wrong," he said, "a wrong to myself—a wrong to her—and a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom my troth is plighted;" and he did not wish it otherwise, he thought; though insensibly there came over him a wish that Maggie herself might weary of the engagement and seek to break it. Not that he loved her the less, he reasoned, but that he pitied Rose the more.

In this manner time passed on, until at last there came to him Maggie's letter, which had been a long time on the sea.

"I expected it," he thought, as he finished reading it, and though conscious for a moment of a feeling of disappointment the letter brought him far more pleasure than pain.

Of Arthur Carrollton no mention had been made, but he readily guessed the truth; and thinking, "It is well," he laid the letter aside and went back to Rose, deciding to say nothing to her then. He would wait until his own feelings were more perfectly defined. So a week went by, and again, as he had often done before, he sat with her alone in the quiet night, watching her as she slept, and thinking how beautiful she was, with her golden hair shading her childish face, her long eyelashes resting on her cheek, and her little hands folded meekly upon her bosom.

"She is too beautiful to die," he murmured, pressing a kiss upon her lips.

This act awoke her, and, turning towards him she said, "Was I dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss me as you used to do?"

"Not dreaming, Rose," he answered—then rather hurriedly he added: "I have a letter from Maggie Miller, and ere I answer it I would read it to you. Can you hear it now?"

"Yes, yes," she whispered faintly; "read it to me, Henry;" and, turning her face away, she listened while he read that Maggie Miller, grown weary of her troth, asked a release from her engagement.

He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear what Rose would say. But for a time she did not speak. All hope for herself had long since died away, and now she experienced only sorrow for Henry's disappointment.

"My poor brother," she said at last, turning her face towards him and taking his hand in hers; "I am sorry for you—to lose us both, Maggie and me. What will you do?"

"Rose," he said, bending so low that his brown locks mingled with the yellow tresses of her hair—"Rose, I do not regret Maggie Miller's decision, neither do I blame her for it. She is a noble, true-hearted girl, and so long as I live I shall esteem her highly; but I too have changed—have learned to love another. Will you sanction this new love, dear Rose? Will you say that it is right?"

The white lids closed over the eyes of blue, but they could not keep back the tears which rolled down her face, as she asked somewhat sadly, "Who is it, Henry?"

There was another moment of silence, and then he whispered in her ear: "People call her Rose; I once called her sister; but my heart now claims her for something nearer. My Rose," he continued, "shall it be? Will you live for my sake? Will you be my wife?"

The shock was too sudden—too great; and neither on that night, nor yet the succeeding day, had Rose the power to answer. But as the dew of heaven is to the parched and dying flower, so were these words of love to her, imparting at once new life and strength, making her as it were another creature. The question asked that night so unexpectedly was answered at last; and then with almost perfect happiness at her heart, she too added a few lines to the letter which Henry sent to Maggie Miller, over whose pathway, hitherto so bright, a fearful shadow was falling.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PEDDLER.

It was a rainy April day—a day which precluded all outdoor exercise, and Hagar Warren, from the window of her lonely cabin, watched in vain for the coming of Maggie Miller. It was now more than a week since she had been there, for both Arthur Carrollton and herself had accompanied the disappointed Anna Jeffrey to New York, going with her on board the vessel which was to take her from a country she affected so to dislike.

"I dare say you'll be Maggie somebody else ere I meet you again," she said to Maggie, at parting, and Mr. Carrollton, on the journey home, found it hard to keep from asking her if for the "somebody else" she would substitute his name, and so be "Maggie Carrollton."

This, however, he did not do; but his attentions were so marked, and his manner towards her so affectionate, that ere Hillsdale was reached there was in Maggie's mind no longer a doubt as to the nature of his feelings toward her. Arrived at home, he kept her constantly at his side, while Hagar, who was suffering from a slight attack of rheumatism, and could not go up to the stone house, waited and watched, thinking herself almost willing to be teased for the secret, if she could once more hear the sound of Maggie's voice. The secret, however, had been forgotten in the exciting scenes through which Maggie had passed since first she learned of its existence; and it was now a long time since she had mentioned it to Hagar, who each day grew more and more determined never to reveal it.

"My life is almost ended," she thought, "and the secret shall go with me to my grave. Margaret will be happier without it, and it shall not be revealed."

Thus she reasoned on that rainy afternoon, when she sat waiting for Maggie, who, she heard, had returned the day before. Slowly the hours dragged on, and the night shadows fell at last upon the forest trees, creeping into the corners of Hagar's room, resting upon the hearthstone, falling upon the window pane, creeping up the wall, and affecting Hagar with a nameless fear of some impending evil. This fear not even the flickering flame of the lamp, which she lighted at last and placed upon the mantel, was able to dispel, for the shadows grew darker, folding themselves around her heart, until she covered her eyes with her hands, lest some goblin shape should spring into life before her.

The sound of the gate latch was heard, and footsteps were approaching the door—not the bounding step of Maggie, but a tramping tread, followed by a heavy knock, and next moment a tall, heavy-built man appeared before her, asking shelter for the night. The pack he carried showed him at once to be a peddler, and upon a nearer view Hagar recognized in him a stranger who, years before, had craved her hospitality. He had been civil to her then; she did not fear him now, and she consented to his remaining, thinking his presence there might dispel the mysterious terror hanging around her. But few words passed between them that night, for Martin, as he called himself, was tired, and after partaking of the supper that she prepared he retired to rest. The next morning, however, he was more talkative, kindly enlightening her with regard to his business, his family, and his place of residence, which last he said was in Meriden, Conn.

It was a long time since Hagar had heard that name, and now, turning quickly towards him, she said, "Meriden? That is where my Hester lived, and where her husband died."

"I want to know!" returned the Yankee peddler. "What might have been his name?"

"Hamilton—Nathan Hamilton. Did you know him? He died nineteen years ago this coming summer."

"Egzactly!" ejaculated the peddler, setting down his pack and himself taking a chair, preparatory to a long talk. "Egzactly; I knowed him like a book. Old Squire Hampleton, the biggest man in Meriden, and you don't say his last wife, that tall, handsome gal, was your darter?"

"Yes, she was my daughter," answered Hagar, her whole face glowing with the interest she felt in talking for the first time in her life with one who had known her daughter's husband, Maggie's father. "You knew her. You have seen her?" she continued; and Martin answered, "Seen her a hundred times, I'll bet. Anyhow, I sold her the weddin' gown; and now, I think on't, she favored you. She was a likely person, and I allus thought that proud sister of his'n, the Widder Warner, might have been in better business than takin' them children away as she did, because he married his hired gal. But it's as well for them, I s'pose, particularly for the boy, who is one of the fust young men in Wooster now. Keeps a big store!"

"Warner, Warner!" interrupted old Hagar, the nameless terror of the night before creeping again into her heart. "Whose name did you say was Warner?"

"The hull on 'em, boy, girl, and all, is called Warner now—one Rose, and t'other Henry," answered the peddler, perfectly delighted with the interest manifested by his auditor, who, grasping at the bedpost and moving her hand rapidly before her eyes, as if to clear away a mist which had settled there, continued, "I remember now, Hester told me of the children; but one, she said, was a stepchild—that was the boy, wasn't it?" and her wild, black eyes had in them a look of unutterable anxiety, wholly incomprehensible to the peddler, who, instead of answering her question said: "What ails you woman? Your face is as white as a piece of paper?"

"Thinking of Hester always affects me so," she answered; and stretching her hands beseechingly towards him, she entreated him to say if Henry were not the stepchild.

"No marm, he warn't," answered the peddler, who, like a great many talkative people, pretended to know more than he really did, and who in this particular instance was certainly mistaken. "I can tell you egzactly how that is: Henry was the son of Mr. Hampleton's first marriage—Henry Hampleton. The second wife, the one your darter lived with, was the Widder Warner, and had a little gal, Rose, when she married Mr. Hampleton. This Widder Warner's husband's brother married Mr. Hampleton's sister, the woman who took the children, and had Henry change his name to Warner. The Hampletons and Warners were mighty big-feelin' folks, and the old squire's match mortified 'em dreadfully."

"Where are they now?" gasped Hagar, hoping there might be some mistake.

"There you've got me!" answered Martin. "I haven't seen 'em this dozen year; but the last I heard, Miss Warner and Rose was livin' in Leominster, and Henry was in a big store in Wooster. But what the plague is the matter?" he continued, alarmed at the expression of Hagar's face, as well as at the strangeness of her manner.

Wringing her hands as if she would wrench her fingers from their sockets, she clutched at her long white hair, and, rocking to and fro, moaned, "Woe is me, and woe the day when I was born!"

From everyone save her grandmother Margaret had kept the knowledge of her changed feelings towards Henry Warner; and looking upon a marriage between the two as an event surely to be expected, old Hagar was overwhelmed with grief and fear. Falling at last upon her knees, she cried: "Had you cut my throat from ear to ear, old man, you could not have hurt me more! Oh, that I had died years and years ago! But I must live now—live!" she screamed, springing to her feet—"live to prevent the wrong my own wickedness has caused!"

Perfectly astonished at what he saw and heard, the peddler attempted to question her, but failing to obtain any satisfactory answers he finally left, mentally pronouncing her "as crazy as a loon." This opinion was confirmed by the people on whom he next called, for, chancing to speak of Hagar, he was told that nothing which she did or said was considered strange, as she had been called insane for years. This satisfied Martin, who made no further mention of her, and thus the scandal which his story might otherwise have produced was prevented.

In the meantime on her face lay old Hagar, moaning bitterly. "My sin has found me out; and just when I thought it never need be known! For myself I do not care; but Maggie, Maggie—how can I tell her that she is bone of my bone, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh—and me old Hagar Warren!"

It would be impossible to describe the scorn and intense loathing concentrated in the tones of Hagar's voice as she uttered these last words, "and me old Hagar Warren!" Had she indeed been the veriest wretch on earth, she could not have hated herself more than she did in that hour of her humiliation, when, with a loud voice, she cried, "Let me die, oh, let me die, and it will never be known!" Then, as she reflected upon the terrible consequence which would ensue were she to die and make no sign, she wrung her hands despairingly, crying: "Life, life—yes, give me life to tell her of my guilt; and then it will be a blessed rest to die. Oh, Margaret, my precious child, I'd give my heart's blood, drop by drop, to save you; but it can't be; you must not wed your father's son; oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!"

Fainter and fainter grew each succeeding word, and when the last was spoken she fell again upon her face, unconscious and forgetful of her woe. Higher and higher in the heavens rose the morning sun, stealing across the window sill, and shining aslant the floor, where Hagar still lay in a deep, deathlike swoon. An hour passed on, and then the wretched woman came slowly back to life, her eyes lighting up with joy, as she whispered, "It was a dream, thank Heaven, 'twas a dream!" and then growing dim with tears, as the dread reality came over her. The first fearful burst of grief was passed, for Hagar now could weep, and tears did her good, quelling the feverish agony at her heart. Not for herself did she suffer so much as for Maggie, trembling for the effect the telling of the secret would have on her. For it must be told. She knew that full well, and as the sun fast neared the western horizon, she murmured, "Oh, will she come to-night, will she come to-night?"

Yes, Hagar, she will. Even now her feet, which, when they backward turn, will tread less joyously, are threading the woodland path. The halfway rock is reached—nearer and nearer she comes—her shadow falls across the floor—her hand is on your arm—her voice in your ear—Maggie Miller is at your side—Heaven help you both!



CHAPTER XIX.

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

"Hagar! Hagar!" exclaimed Maggie, playfully bounding to her side, and laying her hand upon her arm. "What aileth thee, Hagar?"

The words were meet, for never Hagar in the desert, thirsting for the gushing fountain, suffered more than did she who sat with covered face and made no word of answer. Maggie was unusually happy that day, for but a few hours before she had received Henry's letter making her free—free to love Arthur Carrollton, who she well knew only waited a favorable opportunity to tell her of his love; so with a heart full of happiness she had stolen away to visit Hagar, reproaching herself as she came for having neglected her so long. "But I'll make amends by telling her what I'm sure she must have guessed," she thought, as she entered the cottage, where, to her surprise, she found her weeping. Thinking the old woman's distress might possibly be occasioned by her neglect, she spoke again. "Are you crying for me, Hagar?"

"Yes, Maggie Miller, for you—for you!" answered Hagar, lifting up a face so ghastly white that Maggie started back in some alarm.

"Poor Hagar, you are ill," she said, and advancing nearer she wound her arms around the trembling form, and, pillowing the snowy head upon her bosom, continued soothingly: "I did not mean to stay away long. I will not do it again, but I am so happy, Hagar, so happy that I half forgot myself."

For a moment Hagar let her head repose upon the bosom of her child, then murmuring softly, "It will never lie there again," she arose, and, confronting Maggie, said, "Is it love which makes you so happy?"

"Yes, Hagar, love," answered Margaret, the deep blushes stealing over her glowing face.

"And is it your intention to marry the man you love?" continued Hagar, thinking only of Henry Warner, while Margaret, thinking only of Arthur Carrollton, replied, "If he will marry me, I shall most surely marry him."

"It is enough. I must tell her," whispered Hagar; while Maggie asked, "Tell me what?"

For a moment the wild eyes fastened themselves upon her with a look of yearning anguish, and then Hagar answered slowly, "Tell you what you've often wished to know—my secret!" the last word dropping from her lips more like a warning hiss than like a human sound. It was long since Maggie had teased for the secret, so absorbed had she been in other matters, but now that there was a prospect of knowing it her curiosity was reawakened, and while her eyes glistened with expectation, she said, "Yes, tell it to me, Hagar, and then I'll tell you mine;" and all over her beautiful face there shone a joyous light as she thought how Hagar, who had once pronounced Henry Warner unworthy, would rejoice in her new love.

"Not here, Maggie—not here in this room can I tell you," said old Hagar; "but out in the open air, where my breath will come more freely;" and, leading the way, she hobbled to the mossy bank where Maggie had sat with Arthur Carrollton on the morning of his departure for Montreal.

Here she sat down, while Maggie threw herself upon the damp ground at her feet, her face lighted with eager curiosity and her lustrous eyes bright as stars with excitement. For a moment Hagar bent forward, and, folding her hands one above the other, laid them upon the head of the young girl as if to gather strength for what she was to say. But all in vain; for when she essayed to speak her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, and her lips gave forth unmeaning sounds.

"It must be something terrible to affect her so," thought Maggie, and, taking the bony hands between her own, she said, "I would not tell it, Hagar; I do not wish to hear."

The voice aroused the half-fainting woman, and, withdrawing her hand from Maggie's grasp, she replied, "Turn away your face, Margaret Miller, so I cannot see the hatred settling over it, when I tell you what I must."

"Certainly; my back if you prefer it," answered Maggie, half playfully; and turning round she leaned her head against the feeble knees of Hagar.

"Maggie, Maggie," began the poor old woman, lingering long and lovingly over that dear name, "nineteen years ago, next December, I took upon my soul the secret sin which has worn my life away, but I did it for the love I had for you. Oh, Margaret, believe it, for the love I had for you, more than for my own ambition;" and the long fingers slid nervously over the bands of shining hair just within her reach.

At the touch of those fingers, Maggie shuddered involuntarily. There was a vague, undefined terror stealing over her, and, impatient to know the worst, she said, "Go on, tell me what you did."

"I can't—I can't—and yet I must!" cried Hagar. "You were a beautiful baby, Maggie, and the other one was sickly, pinched, and blue. I had you both in my room the night after Hester died; and the devil—Maggie, do you know how the devil will creep into the heart, and whisper, whisper till the brain is all on fire? This thing he did to me, Maggie, nineteen years ago, he whispered—whispered dreadful things, and his whisperings were of you!"

"Horrible, Hagar!" exclaimed Maggie. "Leave the devil, and tell me of yourself."

"That's it," answered Hagar. "If I had but left him then, this hour would never have come to me; but I listened, and when he told me that a handsome, healthy child would be more acceptable to the Conways than a weakly, fretful one—when he said that Hagar Warren's grandchild had far better be a lady than a drudge—that no one would ever know it, for none had noticed either—I did it, Maggie Miller; I took you from the pine-board cradle where you lay—I dressed you in the other baby's clothes—I laid you on her pillow—I wrapped her in your coarse white frock—I said that she was mine, and Margaret—oh, Heaven! can't you see it? Don't you know that I, the shriveled, skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother!"

There was no need for Maggie Miller to answer that appeal. The words had burned into her soul—scorching her very life-blood, and maddening her brain. It was a fearful blow—crushing her at once. She saw it all, understood it all, and knew there was no hope. The family pride at which she had often laughed was strong within her, and could not at once be rooted out. All the fond household memories, though desecrated and trampled down, were not so soon to be forgotten. She could not own that half-crazed woman for her grandmother! As Hagar talked Maggie had risen, and now, tall, and erect as the mountain ash which grew on her native hills, she stood before Hagar, every vestige of color faded from her face, her eyes dark as midnight and glowing like coals of living fire, while her hands, locked despairingly together, moved slowly towards Hagar, as if to thrust her aside.

"Oh, speak again!" she said, "but not the dreadful words you said to me just now. Tell me they are false—say that my father perished in the storm, that my mother was she who held me on her bosom when she died—that I—oh, Hagar, I am not—I will not be the creature you say I am! Speak to me," she continued; "tell me; is it true?" and in her voice there was not the olden sound.

Hoarse—hollow—full of reproachful anguish it seemed; and, bowing her head in very shame, old Hagar made her answer: "Would to Heaven 'twere not true—but it is—it is! Kill me, Maggie," she continued, "strike me dead, if you will, but take your eyes away! You must not look thus at me, a heartbroken wretch."

But not of Hagar Warren was Maggie thinking then. The past, the present, and the future were all embodied in her thoughts. She had been an intruder all her life; had ruled with a high hand people on whom she had no claim, and who, had they known her parentage, would have spurned her from them. Theo, whom she had held in her arms so oft, calling her sister and loving her as such, was hers no longer; nor yet the fond woman who had cherished her so tenderly—neither was hers; and in fancy she saw the look of scorn upon that woman's face when she should hear the tale, for it must be told—and she must tell it, too. She would not be an impostor; and then there flashed upon her the agonizing thought, before which all else seemed as naught—in the proud heart of Arthur Carrollton was there a place for Hagar Warren's grandchild? "No, no, no!" she moaned; and the next moment she lay at Hagar's feet, white, rigid, and insensible.

"She's dead!" cried Hagar; and for one brief instant she hoped that it was so.

But not then and there was Margaret to die; and slowly she came back to life, shrinking from the touch of Hagar's hand when she felt it on her brow.

"There may be some mistake," she whispered; but Hagar answered, "There is none"; at the same time relating so minutely the particulars of the deception that Maggie was convinced, and, covering her face with her hands, sobbed aloud, while Hagar, sitting by in silence, was nerving herself to tell the rest.

The sun had set, and the twilight shadows were stealing down upon them, when, creeping abjectly upon her knees towards the wretched girl, she said, "There is more, Maggie, more—I have not told you all."

But Maggie had heard enough, and, exerting all her strength, she sprang to her feet, while Hagar clutched eagerly at her dress, which was wrested from her grasp, as Maggie fled away—away—she knew not, cared not, whither, so that she were beyond the reach of the trembling voice which called after her to return. Alone in the deep woods, with the darkness falling around her, she gave way to the mighty sorrow which had come so suddenly upon her. She could not doubt what she had heard. She knew that it was true, and as proof after proof crowded upon her, until the chain of evidence was complete, she laid her head upon the rain-wet grass, and shudderingly stopped her ears, to shut out, if possible, the memory of the dreadful words, "I, the shriveled, skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother." For a long time she lay there thus, weeping till the fountain of her tears seemed dry; then, weary, faint, and sick, she started for her home. Opening cautiously the outer door, she was gliding up the stairs when Madam Conway, entering the hall with a lamp, discovered her, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at the strangeness of her appearance. Her dress, bedraggled and wet, was torn in several places by the briery bushes she had passed; her hair, loosened from its confinement, hung down her back, while her face was so white and ghastly that Madam Conway in much alarm followed her up the stairs, asking what had happened.

"Something dreadful came to me in the woods," said Maggie; "but I can't tell you to-night. To-morrow I shall be better—or dead—oh, I wish I could be dead—before you hate me so, dear grand—No, I didn't mean that—you aint; forgive me, do;" and sinking to the floor she kissed the very hem of Madam Conway's dress.

Unable to understand what she meant, Madam Conway divested her of her damp clothing, and, placing her in bed, sat down beside her, saying gently, "Can you tell me now what frightened you?"

A faint cry was Maggie's only answer, and taking the lady's hand she laid it upon her forehead, where the drops of perspiration were standing thickly. All night long Madam Conway sat by her, going once to communicate with Arthur Carrollton, who, anxious and alarmed, came often to the door, asking if she slept. She did sleep at last—a fitful feverish sleep; but ever at the sound of Mr. Carrollton's voice a spasm of pain distorted her features, and a low moan came from her lips. Maggie had been terribly excited, and when next morning she awoke she was parched with burning fever, while her mind at intervals seemed wandering; and ere two days passed she was raving with delirium, brought on, the physician said, by some sudden shock, the nature of which no one could even guess.

For three weeks she hovered between life and death, whispering oft of the horrid shape which had met her in the woods, robbing her of happiness and life. Winding her feeble arms around Madam Conway's neck, she would beg of her most piteously not to cast her off—not to send her away from the only home she had ever known—"For I couldn't help it," she would say. "I didn't know it, and I've loved you all so much—so much! Say, grandma, may I call you grandma all the same? Will you love poor Maggie a little?" and Madam Conway, listening to words whose meaning she could not fathom, would answer by laying the aching head upon her bosom, and trying to soothe the excited girl. Theo, too, was summoned home, but at her Maggie at first refused to look, and, covering her eyes with her hand, she whispered scornfully, "Pinched, and blue, and pale; that's the very look. I couldn't see it when I called you sister."

Then her mood would change, and motioning Theo to her side she would say to her, "Kiss me once, Theo, just as you used to do when I was Maggie Miller."

Towards Arthur Carrollton she from the first manifested fear, shuddering whenever he approached her, and still exhibiting signs of uneasiness if he left her sight. "He hates me," she said, "hates me for what I could not help;" and when, as he often did, he came to her bedside, speaking words of love, she would answer mournfully: "Don't, Mr. Carrollton; your pride is stronger than your love. You will hate me when you know all."

Thus two weeks went by, and then with the first May day reason returned again, bringing life and strength to the invalid, and joy to those who had so anxiously watched over her. Almost her first rational question was for Hagar, asking if she had been there.

"She is confined to her bed with inflammatory rheumatism," answered Madam Conway; "but she inquires for you every day, they say; and once when told you could not live she started to crawl on her hands and knees to see you, but fainted near the gate, and was carried back."

"Poor old woman!" murmured Maggie, the tears rolling down her cheeks, as she thought how strong must be the love that half-crazed creature bore her, and how little it was returned, for every feeling of her nature revolted from claiming a near relationship with one whom she had hitherto regarded as a servant. The secret, too, seemed harder to divulge, and day by day she put it off, saying to them when they asked what had so much affected her that she could not tell them yet—she must wait till she was stronger.

So Theo went back to Worcester as mystified as ever, and Maggie was left much alone with Arthur Carrollton, who strove in various ways to win her from the melancholy into which she had fallen. All day long she would sit by the open window, seemingly immovable, her large eyes, now intensely black, fixed upon vacancy, and her white face giving no sign of the fierce struggle within, save when Madam Conway, coming to her side, would lay her hand caressingly on her in token of sympathy. Then, indeed, her lips would quiver, and turning her head away, she would say, "Don't touch me—don't!"

To Arthur Carrollton she would listen with apparent composure, though often as he talked her long, tapering nails left their impress in her flesh, so hard she strove to seem indifferent. Once when they were left together alone he drew her to his side, and bending very low, so that his lips almost touched her marble cheek, he told her of his love, and how full of anguish had been his heart when he thought that she would die.

"But God kindly gave you back to me," he said; "and now, my precious Margaret, will you be my wife? Will you go with me to my English home, from which I have tarried now too long because I would not leave you? Will Maggie answer me?" and he folded her lovingly in his arms.

Oh, how could she tell him No, when every fiber of her heart thrilled with the answer Yes. She mistook him—mistook the character of Arthur Carrollton, for, though pride was strong within him, he loved the beautiful girl who lay trembling in his arms better than he loved his pride; and had she told him then who and what she was, he would not have deemed it a disgrace to love a child of Hagar Warren. But Margaret did not know him, and when he said again, "Will Maggie answer me?" there came from her lips a piteous, wailing cry, and turning her face away she answered mournfully: "No, Mr. Carrollton, no, I cannot be your wife. It breaks my heart to tell you so; but if you knew what I know, you would never have spoken to me words of love. You would have rather thrust me from you, for indeed I am unworthy."

"Don't you love me, Maggie?" Mr. Carrollton said, and in the tones of his voice there was so much tenderness that Maggie burst into tears, and, involuntarily resting her head upon his bosom, answered sadly: "I love you so much, Arthur Carrollton, that I would die a hundred deaths could that make me worthy of you, as not long ago I thought I was. But it cannot be. Something terrible has come between us."

"Tell me what it is. Let me share your sorrow," he said; but Maggie only answered: "Not yet, not yet! Let me live where you are a little longer. Then I will tell you all, and go away forever."

This was all the satisfaction he could obtain; but after a time she promised that if he would not mention the subject to her until the first of June, she would then tell him everything; and satisfied with a promise which he knew would be kept, Mr. Carrollton waited impatiently for the appointed time, while Maggie, too, counted each sun as it rose and set, bringing nearer and nearer a trial she so much dreaded.



CHAPTER XX.

THE RESULT.

Two days only remained ere the first of June, and in the solitude of her chamber Maggie was weeping bitterly. "How can I tell them who I am?" she thought. "How bear their pitying scorn, when they learn that she whom they call Maggie Miller has no right to that name?—that Hagar Warren's blood is flowing in her veins?—and Madam Conway thinks so much of that! Oh, why was Hagar left to do me this great wrong? why did she take me from the pine-board cradle where she says I lay, and make me what I was not born to be?" and, falling on her knees, the wretched girl prayed that it might prove a dream from which she would ere long awake.

Alas for thee, poor Maggie Miller! It is not a dream, but a stern reality; and you who oft have spurned at birth and family, why murmur now when both are taken from you? Are you not still the same,—beautiful,—accomplished, and refined,—and can you ask for more? Strange that theory and practice so seldom should accord. And yet it was not the degradation which Maggie felt so keenly, it was rather the loss of love she feared; without that the blood of royalty could not avail to make her happy.

Maggie was a warm-hearted girl, and she loved the stately lady she had been wont to call her grandmother with a filial, clinging love which could not be severed, and still this love was naught compared to what she felt for Arthur Carrollton, and the giving up of him was the hardest part of all. But it must be done, she thought; he had told her once that were she Hagar Warren's grandchild he should not be riding with her—how much less, then, would he make that child his wife! and rather than meet the look of proud disdain on his face when first she stood confessed before him, she resolved to go away where no one had ever heard of her or Hagar Warren. She would leave behind a letter telling why she went, and commending to Madam Conway's care poor Hagar, who had been sorely punished for her sin. "But whither shall I go, and what shall I do when I get there?" she cried, trembling at the thoughts of a world of which she knew so little. Then, as she remembered how many young girls of her age went out as teachers, she determined to go at all events. "It will be better than staying here where I have no claim," she thought; and, nerving herself for the task, she sat down to write the letter which, on the first of June, should tell to Madam Conway and Arthur Carrollton the story of her birth.

It was a harder task than she supposed, the writing that farewell, for it seemed like severing every hallowed tie. Three times she wrote "My dear grandma," then with a throb of anguish she dashed her pen across the revered name, and wrote simply "Madam Conway." It was a rambling, impassioned letter, full of tender love—of hope destroyed—of deep despair—and though it shadowed forth no expectation that Madam Conway or Mr. Carrollton would ever take her to their hearts again, it begged of them most touchingly to think sometimes of "Maggie" when she was gone forever. Hagar was then commended to Madam Conway's forgiveness and care. "She is old," wrote Maggie, "her life is nearly ended, and if you have in your heart one feeling of pity for her who used to call you grandma, bestow it, I pray you, on poor old Hagar Warren."

The letter was finished, and then suddenly remembering Hagar's words, that "all had not been told," and feeling it her duty to see once more the woman who had brought her so much sorrow, Maggie stole cautiously from the house, and was soon walking down the woodland road, slowly, sadly, for the world had changed to her since last she trod that path. Maggie, too, was changed, and when at last she stood before Hagar, who was now able to sit up, the latter could scarcely recognize in the pale, haggard woman the blooming, merry-hearted girl once known as Maggie Miller.

"Margaret!" she cried, "you have come again—come to forgive your poor old grand—No, no," she added, as she saw the look of pain flash over Maggie's face, "I'll never insult you with that name. Only say that you forgive me, will you, Miss Margaret?" and the trembling voice was choked with sobs, while the aged form shook as with a palsied stroke.

Hagar had been ill. Exposure to the damp air on that memorable night had brought on a second severe attack of rheumatism, which had bent her nearly double. Anxiety for Margaret, too, had wasted her to a skeleton, and her thin, sharp face, now of a corpse-like pallor, contrasted strangely with her eyes, from which the wildness all was gone. Touched with pity, Maggie drew a chair to her side, and thus replied: "I do forgive you, Hagar, for I know that what you did was done in love; but by telling me what you have you've ruined all my hopes of happiness. In the new scenes to which I go, and the new associations I shall form, I may become contented with my lot, but never can I forget that I once was Maggie Miller."

"Magaret," gasped Hagar, and in her dim eye there was something of its olden fire, "if by new associations you mean Henry Warner, it must not be. Alas, that I should tell this! but Henry is your brother—your father's only son. Oh, horror! horror!" and dreading what Margaret would say, she covered her face with her cramped, distorted hands.

But Margaret was not so much affected as Hagar had anticipated. She had suffered severely, and could not now be greatly moved. There was an involuntary shudder as she thought of her escape, and then her next feeling was one of satisfaction in knowing that she was not quite friendless and alone, for Henry would protect her, and Rose, indeed, would be to her a sister.

"Henry Warner my brother!" she exclaimed; "how came you by this knowledge?" And very briefly Hagar explained to her what she knew, saying that Hester had told her of two young children, but she had forgotten entirely of their existence, and now that she was reminded of it she could not help fancying that Hester said the stepchild was a boy. But the peddler knew, of course, and she must have forgotten.

"When the baby they thought was you died," said Hagar, "I wrote to the minister in Meriden, telling him of it, but I did not sign my name, and I thought that was the last I should ever hear of it. Why don't you curse me?" she continued. "Haven't I taken from you your intended husband, as well as your name?"

Maggie understood perfectly now why the secret had been revealed, and involuntarily she exclaimed, "Oh, had I told you first, this never need have been!" and then hurriedly she explained to the repentant Hagar how at the very moment when the dread confession was made she, Maggie Miller, was free from Henry Warner.

From the window Maggie saw in the distance the servant who had charge of Hagar, and, dreading the presence of a third person, she arose to go. Offering her hand to Hagar, she said: "Good-by. I may never see you again, but if I do not, remember that I forgive you freely."

"You are not going away, Maggie. Oh, are you going away!" and the crippled arms were stretched imploringly towards Maggie, who answered: "Yes, Hagar, I must go. Honor requires me to tell Madam Conway who I am, and after that you know that I can not stay. I shall go to my brother."

Three times old Hagar essayed to speak, and at last between a whisper and a moan, she found strength to say: "Will you kiss me once, Maggie darling? 'Twill be something to remember, in the lonesome nights when I am all alone. Just once, Maggie! Will you?"

Maggie could not refuse, and gliding to the bowed woman's side she put back the soft hair from off the wrinkled brow, and left there token of her forgiveness.

* * * * *

The last May sun had set, and ere the first June morning rose Maggie Miller would be nowhere found in the home her presence had made so bright. Alone, with no eye upon her save that of the Most High, she had visited the two graves, and, while her heart was bleeding at every pore, had wept her last adieu over the sleeping dust so long held sacred as her mother's. Then kneeling at the other grave, she murmured, "Forgive me, Hester Hamilton, if in this parting hour my heart clings most to her whose memory I was first taught to revere; and if in the better world you know and love each other—oh, will both bless and pity me, poor, wretched Maggie Miller!"

Softly the night air moved through the pine that overshadowed the humble grave, while the moonlight, flashing from the tall marble, which stood a sentinel over the other mound, bathed Maggie's upturned face as with a flood of glory, and her throbbing heart grew still as if indeed at that hushed moment the two mothers had come to bless their child. The parting with the dead was over, and Margaret sat again in her room, waiting until all was still about the old stone house. She did not add to her letter another line telling of her discovery, for she did not think of it; her mind was too intent upon escaping unobserved; and when sure the family had retired she moved cautiously down the stairs, noiselessly unlocked the door, and without once daring to look back, lest she should waver in her purpose, she went forth, heartbroken and alone, from what for eighteen happy years had been her home. Very rapidly she proceeded, coming at last to an open field through which the railroad ran, the depot being nearly a quarter of a mile away. Not until then had she reflected that her appearance at the station at that hour of the night would excite suspicion, and she was beginning to feel uneasy, when suddenly around a curve the cars appeared in view. Fearing lest she should be too late, she quickened her footsteps, when to her great surprise she saw that the train was stopping! But not for her they waited; in the bright moonlight the engineer had discovered a body lying across the track, and had stopped in time to save the life of a man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had fallen asleep. The movement startled the passengers, many of whom alighted and gathered around the inebriate.

In the meantime Margaret had come near, and, knowing she could not now reach the depot in time, she mingled unobserved in the crowd, and entering the rear car, took her seat near the door. The train at last moved on, and as at the station no one save the agent was in waiting, it is not strange that the conductor passed unheeded the veiled figure which in the dark corner sat ready to pay her fare.

"He will come to me by and by," thought Maggie, but he did not, and when Worcester was reached the fare was still uncollected. Bewildered and uncertain what to do next, she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at the depot until morning, when a train would leave for Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her brother. Taking a seat in the ladies' room, she abandoned herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say could she see her then. But Theo, though dreaming it may be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had followed her—nay, was bending over her now and whispering in her ear, "Wake, Maggie, wake."

Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton, but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked her where she wished to go.

"To Leominster," she answered, turning her face fully towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling her when the train would leave, and saying that she must go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not better wait at some hotel.

But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitchburg depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil over her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed for the cars to leave. Then, weary and faint, she entered the train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was drawing near to those who would love her for what she was and not for what she had been. Rose would comfort her, and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing one whom she believed to be her brother's wife, for Henry had written that ere his homeward voyage was made Rose would be his bride.

Ah, Maggie! there is for you a greater happiness in store—not a brother, but a sister—your father's child is there to greet your coming. And even at this early hour her snow-white fingers are arranging the fair June blossoms into bouquets, with which she adorns her home, saying to him who hovers at her side that somebody, she knows not whom, is surely coming to-day; and then, with a blush stealing over her cheek, she adds, "I wish it might be Margaret"; while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical mouth, winds his arm around her waist, and playfully responds, "Anyone save her."



CHAPTER XXI.

THE SISTERS.

On a cool piazza overlooking a handsome flower garden the breakfast table was tastefully arranged. It was Rose's idea to have it there, and in her cambric wrapper, her golden curls combed smoothly back, and her blue eyes shining with the light of a new joy, she occupies her accustomed seat beside one who for several happy weeks has called her his, loving her more and more each day, and wondering how thoughts of any other could ever have filled his heart. There was much to be done about his home, so long deserted, and as Rose was determined upon a trip to the seaside he had made arrangements to be absent from his business for two months or more, and was now enjoying all the happiness of a quiet, domestic life, free from care of any kind. He had heard of Maggie's illness, but she was better now, he supposed, and when Theo hinted vaguely that a marriage between her and Arthur Carrollton was not at all improbable, he hoped it would be so, for the Englishman, he knew, was far better adapted to Margaret than he had ever been. Of Theo's hints he was speaking to Rose as they sat together at breakfast, and she had answered, "It will be a splendid match," when the doorbell rang, and the servant announced, "A lady in the parlor, who asks for Mr. Warner."

"I told you someone would come," said Rose. "Do, pray, see who it is. How does she look, Janet?"

"Tall, white as a ghost, with big black eyes," was Janet's answer; and, with his curiosity awakened, Henry Warner started for the parlor, Rose following on tiptoe, and listening through the half-closed door to what their visitor might say.

Margaret had experienced no difficulty in finding the house of Mrs. Warner, which seemed to her a second Paradise, so beautiful and cool it looked, nestled amid the tall, green forest trees. Everything around it betokened the fine taste of its occupants, and Maggie, as she reflected that she too was nearly connected with this family, felt her wounded pride in a measure soothed, for it was surely no disgrace to claim such people as her friends. With a beating heart she rang the bell, asking for Mr. Warner, and now, trembling in every limb, she awaited his coming. He was not prepared to meet her, and at first he did not know her, she was so changed; but when, throwing aside her bonnet, she turned her face so that the light from the window opposite shone fully upon her, he recognized her in a moment, and exclaimed, "Margaret—Margaret Miller! why are you here?"

The words reached Rose's ear, and darting forward she stood within the door, just as Margaret, staggering a step or two towards Henry, answered passionately, "I have come to tell you what I myself but recently have learned"; and wringing her hands despairingly, she continued, "I am not Maggie Miller, I am not anybody; I am Hagar Warren's grandchild, the child of her daughter and your own father! Oh, Henry, don't you see it? I am your sister. Take me as such, will you? Love me as such, or I shall surely die. I have nobody now in the wide world but you. They are all gone, all—Madam Conway, Theo too, and—and—" She could not speak that name. It died upon her lips, and tottering to a chair she would have fallen had not Henry caught her in his arms.

Leading her to the sofa, while Rose, perfectly confounded, still stood within the door, he said to the half-crazed girl: "Margaret, I do not understand you. I never had a sister, and my father died when I was six months old. There must be some mistake. Will you tell me what you mean?"

Bewildered and perplexed, Margaret began a hasty repetition of Hagar's story, but ere it was three-fourths told there came from the open door a wild cry of delight, and quick as lightning a fairy form flew across the floor, white arms were twined round Maggie's neck, kiss after kiss was pressed upon her lips, and Rose's voice was in her ear, never before half so sweet as now, when it murmured soft and low to the weary girl: "My sister Maggie—mine you are—the child of my own father, for I was Rose Hamilton, called Warner, first to please my aunt, and next to please my Henry. Oh, Maggie darling, I am so happy now!" and the little snowy hands smoothed caressingly the bands of hair, so unlike her own fair waving tresses.

It was, indeed, a time of almost perfect bliss to them all, and for a moment Margaret forgot her pain, which, had Hagar known the truth, need not have come to her. But she scarcely regretted it now, when she felt Rose Warner's heart throbbing against her own, and knew their father was the same.

"You are tired," Rose said, at length, when much had been said by both. "You must have rest, and then I will bring to you my aunt, our aunt, Maggie—our father's sister. She has been a mother to me. She will be one to you. But stay," she continued, "you have had no breakfast. I will bring you some," and she tripped lightly from the room.

Maggie followed her with swimming eyes, then turning to Henry she said, "You are very happy, I am sure."

"Yes, very," he answered, coming to her side. "Happy in my wife, happy in my newly found sister," and he laid his hand on hers with something of his former familiarity.