University of Virginia Library

2. MAGGIE MILLER;
OR,
OLD HAGAR'S SECRET.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL.

'Mid the New England hills, and beneath the shadow of
their dim old woods, is a running brook, whose deep waters
were not always as merry and frolicsome as now; for years
before our story opens, pent up and impeded in their course,
they dashed angrily against their prison walls, and turned
the creaking wheel of an old saw mill, with a sullen, rebellious
roar. The mill has gone to decay, and the sturdy
men who fed it with the giant oaks of the forest, are sleeping
quietly in the village graveyard. The waters of the
mill-pond, too, relieved from their confinement, leap gaily
over the ruined dam, tossing for a moment in wanton glee
their locks of snow-white foam, and then flowing on, half
fearfully as it were, through the deep gorge overhung with
the hemlock and the pine, where the shadows of twilight
ever lie, and where the rocks frown gloomily down upon the
stream below, which, emerging from the darkness, loses

itself at last in the waters of the gracefully winding Chicopee,
and leaves far behind the moss-covered walls, of what
is familiarly known as the “Old House by the Mill.”

'Tis a huge, old-fashioned building, distant nearly a mile
from the public highway, and surrounded so thickly by forest
trees, that the bright sunlight, dancing merrily midst the
rustling leaves above, falls but seldom on the time-stained
walls of dark grey stone, where the damp and dews of more
than a century have fallen, and where now the green moss
clings with a loving grasp, as if 'twere its rightful resting
place. When the thunders of the Revolution shook the
hills of the Bay State, and the royal banner floated in the
evening breeze, the house was owned by an old Englishman,
who, loyal to his king and country, denounced as rebels the
followers of Washington. Against these, however, he
would not raise his hand, for among them were many long
tried friends, who had gathered with him around the festal
board; so he chose the only remaining alternative, and
went back to his native country, cherishing the hope that
he should one day return to the home he loved so well, and
listen again to the musical flow of the water-brook, which
could be distinctly heard from the door of the mansion.
But his wish was vain, for when at last America was free,
and the British troops recalled, he slept beneath the sod of
England, and the old house was for many years deserted.
The Englishman had been greatly beloved, and his property
was unmolested, while the weeds and grass grew tall and
rank in the garden beds, and the birds of heaven built their
nests beneath the projecting roof, or held a holiday in the
gloomy, silent rooms.

As time passed on, however, and no one appeared to dispute
their right, different families occupied the house at intervals,
until at last, when nearly fifty years had elapsed, news

was one day received that Madam Conway, a grand-daughter
of the old Englishman, having met with reverses at home,
had determined to emigrate to the New World, and remembering
the “House by the Mill,” of which she had heard so
much, she wished to know if peaceable possession of it
would be allowed her, in case she decided upon removing
thither, and making it her future home. To this plan no
objection was made, for the aged people of Hillsdale still
cherished the memory of the hospitable old man, whose
locks were grey while they were yet but children, and the
younger portion of the community hoped for a renewal of
the gaieties which they had heard were once so common at
the old stone house.

But in this they were disappointed, for Madam Conway
was a proud, unsocial woman, desiring no acquaintance whatever
with her neighbors, who, after many ineffectual attempts
at something like friendly intercourse, concluded to leave
her entirely alone, and contented themselves with watching
the progress of matters at “Mill Farm,” as she designated the
place, which soon began to show visible marks of improvement.
The Englishman was a man of taste, and Madam
Conway's first work was an attempt to restore the grounds
to something of their former beauty. The yard and garden
were cleared of weeds; the walks and flower-beds laid out
with care, and then the neighbors looked to see her cut
away a few of the multitude of trees, which had sprung up
around her home. But this she had no intention of doing.
“They shut her out,” she said, “from the prying eyes of
the vulgar, and she would rather it should be so.” So the
trees remained, throwing their long shadows upon the high,
narrow windows, and into the large square rooms, where
the morning light and the noon-day heat seldom found
entrance, and which seemed like so many cold, silent

caverns, with their old-fashioned massive furniture, their
dark, heavy curtains, and the noiseless footfall of the stately
lady, who moved ever with the same measured tread, speaking
always softly and low to the household servants, who,
having been trained in her service, had followed her across
the sea.

From these, the neighbors learned that Madam Conway
had in London a married daughter, Mrs. Miller; that old
Hagar Warren, the strange looking woman, who, more than
any one else, shared her mistress's confidence had grown up
in the family, receiving a very good education, and had
nursed their young mistress, Miss Margaret, which of course
entitled her to more respect than was usually bestowed upon
menials like her; that Madam Conway was very aristocratic,
very proud of her high English blood; that, though
she lived alone, she attended strictly to all the formalities
of high-life, dressing each day with the utmost precision for
her solitary dinner; dining from off a service of solid silver,
and presiding with great dignity in her straight, high-backed
chair. She was fond, too, of the ruby wine, and her
cellar was stored with the choicest liquors, some of which
she had brought with her from home, while others, it was
said, had belonged to her grandfather, and for half a century,
had remained unseen and unmolested, while the
cobwebs of time had woven around them a misty covering,
making them still more valuable to the lady, who knew full
well how age improved such things.

Regularly each day she rode in her ponderous carriage,
sometimes alone, and sometimes accompanied by Hester, the
laughter of old Hagar, a handsome, intelligent looking girl,
who, after two or three years of comparative idleness at
Mill Farm, went to Meriden, Connecticut, as seamstress in a
family, which had advertised for such a person. With her,

departed the only life of the house, and during the following
year there ensued a monotonous quiet, which was
broken at last for Hagar, by the startling announcement
that her daughter's young mistress had died four months
before, and the husband, a grey-haired, elderly man, had
proved conclusively that he was in his dotage, by talking of
marriage to Hester, who, ere the letter reached her mother,
would probably be the third bride of one, whose reputed
wealth was the only possible inducement to a girl like
Hester Warren.

With an immense degree of satisfaction, Hagar read the
letter through, exulting that fortune had favored her at
last. Possessed of many sterling qualities, Hagar Warren
had one glaring fault which had embittered her whole life.
Why others were rich while she was poor, she could not
understand, and her heart rebelled at the fate which had
made her what she was. But Hester would be wealthy,
nay, would, perhaps, one day rival the haughty Mrs.
Miller across the water, who had been her playmate; there
was comfort in that, and she wrote to her daughter expressing
her entire approbation, and hinting vaguely of the
possibility that she herself might sometime cease to be a
servant, and help do the honors of Mr. Hamilton's house!
To this there came no reply, and Hagar was thinking seriously
of making a visit to Meriden, when one rainy autumnal
night, nearly a year after Hester's marriage, there came
another letter sealed with black. With a sad foreboding,
Hagar opened it, and read that Mr. Hamilton had Failed;
that his house and farm were sold, and that he, overwhelmed
with mortification both at his failure, and the
opposition of his friends to his last marriage, had died suddenly,
leaving Hester with no home in the wide world,
unless Madam Conway received her again into her family.

“Just my luck!” was Hagar's mental comment, as she
finished reading the letter, and carried it to her mistress,
who had always liked Hester, and who readily consented to
give her a home, provided she put on no airs, from having
been for a time the wife of a reputed wealthy man.
“Mustn't put on airs!” muttered Hagar, as she left the
room. “Just as if airs wasn't for anybody but high
bloods,” and with the canker worm of envy at her heart, she
wrote to Hester, who came immediately; and Hagar, when
she heard her tell the story of her wrongs, how her husband's
sister, indignant at his marriage with a sewing girl, had removed
from him the children, one a step-child and one his
own, and how of all his vast fortune there was not left for
her a penny, experienced again the old bitterness of feeling,
and murmured that fate should thus deal with her and
hers.

With the next day's mail, there came to Madam Conway
a letter, bearing a foreign postmark, and bringing the sad
news that her son-in-law had been lost in a storm, while
crossing the English Channel, and that her daughter Margaret,
utterly crushed and heart-broken, would sail immediately
for America, where she wished only to lay her weary head
upon her mother's bosom and die.

“So, there is one person that has no respect for blood,
and that is Death,” said old Hagar to her mistress, when
she heard the news. “He has served us both alike, he has
taken my son-in-law first and yours next.”

“Frowning haughtily, Madam Conway bade her be silent,
telling her at the same time to see that the rooms in the
north part of the building were put in perfect order for Mrs.
Miller, who would probably come in the next vessel. In
sullen silence Hagar withdrew, and for several days worked
half relunctantly in the “north rooms,” as Madam Conway

termed a comparatively pleasant, airy suit of apartments,
with a balcony above, which looked out upon the old milldam,
and the water brook pouring over it.

“There'll be big doings when my lady comes,” said Hagar
one day to her daughter. “It'll be Hagar here, and Hagar
there, and Hagar everywhere, but I shan't hurry myself.
I'm getting too old to wait on a chit like her.”

“Don't talk so, mother,” said Hester. “Margaret was
always kind to me. She is not to blame for being rich, while
I am poor.”

“But somebody's to blame,” interrupted old Hagar.
“You was always accounted the handsomest and cleverest
of the two, and yet for all you'll be nothing but a drudge
to wait on her and the little girl.”

Hester only sighed in reply, while her thoughts went forward
to the future, and what it would probably bring her.
Hester Warren and Margaret Conway had been children
together, and in spite of the difference of there stations they
had loved each other dearly; and when at last the weary
traveller came, with her pale sad face and mourning garb,
none gave her so heartfelt a welcome as Hester; and during
the week when from exhaustion and excitement, she
was confined to her bed, it was Hester who nursed her with
the utmost care, soothing her to sleep, and then amusing
the little Theo, a child of two years. Hagar, too, softened
by her young misstress's sorrow, repented of her harsh
words, and watched each night with the invalid, who once
when her mind seemed wandering far back in the past,
whispered softly, “Tell me the Lord's prayer, dear Hagar,
just as you told it to me years ago when I was a little
child.”

It was a long time since Hagar had breathed that prayer,
but at Mrs. Miller's request she commenced it, repeating it

correctly until she came to the words, “Give us this day
our daily bread,” then she hesitated, and bending forward
said, “What comes next, Miss Margaret? Is it, `Lead us
not into temptation?' ”

“Yes, yes,” whispered the half unconscious lady. “ `Lead
us not into temptation,' that's it;” then, as if there were
around her a dim foreboding of the great wrong Hagar was
to do, she took her old nurse's hand between her own, and
continued, “Say it often, Hagar, `Lead us not into temptatation;'
you have much need for that prayer.”

A moment more and Margaret Miller slept, while beside
her sat Hagar Warren, half shuddering she knew not
why, as she thought of her mistress's words, which seemed
to her, so much like the spirit of prophecy.

“Why do I need that prayer more than any one else?”
she said, at last. “I have never been tempted more than I
could bear—never shall be tempted—and if I am, old Hagar
Warren, bad as she is, can resist temptation, without that
prayer.”

Still, reason as she would, Hagar could not shake off the
strange feeling, and as she sat, half dozing in her chair, with
the dim lamplight flickering over her dark face, she fancied
that the October wind, sighing so mournfully through the
locust trees beneath the window and then dying away in the
distance, bore upon its wing, “Lead us not into temptation.
Hagar you have much need to say that prayer.”

“Aye, Hagar Warren, much need, much need!

2. CHAPTER II.
HAGAR'S SECRET.

The wintry winds were blowing cold and chill around the
old stone house, and the deep untrodden snow lay high piled
upon the ground. For many days, the grey, leaden clouds
had frowned gloomily down upon the earth below, covering
it with a thick veil of white. But the storm was over now,
with the setting sun it had gone to rest, and the pale moonlight
stole softly into the silent chamber, where Madam
Conway bent anxiously down to see if but the faintest
breath came from the parted lips of her only daughter.
There had been born to her that night another grandchild—
a little, helpless girl, which now in an adjoining room was
Hagar's special care; and Hagar, sitting there with the wee
creature upon her lap, and the dread fear at her heart that
her young mistress might die, forgot for once to repine at
her lot, and did cheerfully whatever was required of her to
do.

There was silence in the rooms below—silence in the
chambers above—silence everywhere—for the sick woman
seemed fast nearing the deep, dark river, whose waters
move onward but never return.

Almost a week went by, and then, in a room far
more humble than that where Margaret Miller lay, another
immortal being was given to the world; and with a softened
light in her keen black eyes, old Hagar told to her

stately mistress, when she met her on the stairs, that she,
too, was a grandmother.

“You must not on that account neglect Margaret's
child,” was Madam Conway's answer, as with a wave of her
hand, she passed on; and this was all she said—not a word
of sympathy or congratulation for the peculiar old woman
whose heart, so long benumbed, had been roused to a better
state of feeling, and who in the first joy of her new-born
happiness, had hurried to her mistress, fancying for the moment
that she was almost her equal.

“Don't neglect Margaret's child for that!” How the
words rang in her ears, as she fled up the narrow stairs and
through the dark hall, till the low room was reached where
lay the babe for whom Margaret's child was not to be neglected.
All the old bitterness had returned, and as hour
after hour went by, and Madam Conway came not near,
while the physician and the servants looked in for a moment
only and then hurried away to the other sick room,
where all their services were kept in requisition, she muttered:
“Little would they care if Hester died upon my
hands. And she will die too,” she continued, as by the
fading daylight she saw the palor deepen on her daughter's
face.

And Hagar was right, for Hester's sands were nearer run
than those of Mrs. Miller. The utmost care might not, perhaps,
have saved her, but the matter was not tested, and
when the long clock at the head of the stairs struck the
hour of midnight, she murmured, “It is getting dark here,
mother—so dark—and I am growing cold. Can it be
death?”

“Yes, Hester, 'tis death,” answered Hagar, and her voice
was unnaturally calm as she laid her hand on the clammy
brow of her daughter.

An hour later, and Madam Conway, who sat dozing in
the parlor below, ready for any summons which might
come from Margaret's room, was roused by the touch of a
cold, hard hand, and Hagar Warren stood before her.

“Come,” she said, “come with me;” and thinking only of
Margaret, Madam Conway arose to follow her. “Not
there—but this way,” said Hagar, as her mistress turned
towards Mrs. Miller's door, and grasping firmly the lady's
arm, she led to the room where Hester lay dead, with her
young baby clasped lovingly to her bosom. “Look at her
—and pity me now, if you never did before. She was all I
had in the world to love,” said Hagar passionately.

Madam Conway was not naturally a hard-hearted woman,
and she answered gently, “I do pity you, Hagar, and
I did not think Hester was so ill. Why haven't you let
me know?” To this Hagar made no direct reply, and
after a few more inquiries Madam Conway left the room,
saying she would send up the servants to do whatever was
necessary. When it was known throughout the house that
Hester was dead, much surprise was expressed and a good
deal of sympathy manifested for old Hagar, who, with a
gloomy brow, hugged to her heart the demon of jealousy,
which kept whispering to her of the difference there would
be were Margaret to die. It was deemed advisable to keep
Hester's death a secret from Mrs. Miller; so, with as little
ceremony as possible, the body was buried at the close of
the day, in an inclosure which had been set apart as a family
burying ground; and when again the night shadows fell,
Hagar Warren sat in her silent room, brooding o'er her
grief, and looking oft at the plain pine cradle, where lay the
little motherless child, her grand-daughter. Occasionally,
too, her eye wandered towards the mahogany crib, where
another infant slept. Perfect quiet seemed necessary for

Mrs. Miller, and Madam Conway had ordered her baby to
be removed from the ante-chamber where first it had been
kept, so that Hagar had the two children in her own
room.

In the pine cradle there was a rustling sound; the baby
was awaking, and taking it upon her lap, Hagar soothed it
again to sleep, gazing earnestly upon it to see if it were like
its mother. It was a bright, healthy-looking infant, and
though five days younger than that of Mrs. Miller, was quite
as large and looked as old.

“And you will be a drudge, while she will be a lady,”
muttered Hagar, as her tears fell on the face of the sleeping
child. “Why need this difference be?”

Old Hagar had forgotten the words “Lead us not into
temptation;” and when the tempter answered “It need not
be,” she only started suddenly as if smitten by a heavy blow;
but she did not drive him from her, and she sat there reasoning
with herself that, “it need not be.” Neither the physician
nor Madam Conway had paid any attention to Margaret's
child; it had been her special care, while no one had
noticed hers, and newly born babies were so much alike
that deception was an easy matter. But could she do it?
Could she bear that secret on her soul? Madam Conway,
though proud, had been kind to her, and could she thus decieve
her! Would her daughter, sleeping in her early
grave, approve the deed. “No, no,” she answered aloud,
“she would not;” and the great drops of perspiration stood
thickly upon her dark haggard face, as she arose and laid
back in her cradle the child whom she had thought to make
an heiress.

For a time the tempter left her, but returned ere long,
and creeping into her heart sung to her beautiful songs of the
future which might be, were Hester's baby a lady. And

Hagar, listening to that song, fell asleep, dreaming that the
deed was done by other agency than hers—that the little
face resting on the downy pillow, and shaded by the costly
lace, was lowly born; while the child, wrapped in the
coarser blanket, came of nobler blood, even that of the Conways,
who boasted more than one lordly title. With a nervous
start she awoke at last, and creeping to the cradle of
mahogany, looked to see if her dream were true; but it
was not. She knew it by the pinched, blue look about the
nose, and the thin covering of hair. This was all the difference
which even her eye could see, and probably no other
person had noticed that, for the child had never been seen
save in a darkened room. The sin was growing gradually
less heinous, and she could now calmly calculate the chances
for detection. Still, the conflict was long and severe, and
it was not until morning that the tempter gained a point by
compromising the matter, and suggesting that while dressing
the infants she should change their clothes for once, just
to see how fine cambrics and soft flannel would look upon a
grandchild of Hagar Warren! “She could easily change
them again—'twas only an experiment,” she said, as with
trembling hands she proceeded to divest the children of
their wrappings. But her fingers seemed all thumbs, and
more than one sharp pin pierced the tender flesh of her
little grandchild, as she fastened together the embroidered
slip, teaching her thus early had she been able to learn
the lesson, that the pathway of the rich is not free from
thorns.

Their toilet was completed at last—their cradle beds exchanged,
and then with a strange, undefined feeling, old
Hagar stood back and looked to see how the little usurper
became her new position. She became it well, and to
Hagar's partial eyes it seemed more mete that she should

lie there beneath the silken covering, than the other one,
whose nose looked still more pinched and blue in the plain
white dress and cradle of pine. Still, there was a gunawing
pain at Hagar's heart, and she would perhaps have undone
the wrong, had not Madam Conway appeared with inquiries
for the baby's health. Hagar could not face her mistress,
so she turned away and pretended to busy, herself with the
arrangement of the room, while the lady bending over the
cradle, said, “I think she is improving, Hagar; I never saw
her look so well;” and she pushed back the window curtain
to obtain a better view.

With a wild startled look in her eye, Hagar held her
breath to hear what might come next, but her fears were
groundless; for in her anxiety for her daughter, Madam
Conway had heretofore scarcely seen her grand-child, and
had no suspicion now that the sleeper before her was of
plebeian birth, nor yet that the other little one, at whom she
did not deign to look, was bone of her bone, and flesh of her
flesh. She started to leave the room, but impelled by
some sudden impulse turned back and stooped to kiss the
child. Involuntarily old Hagar sprang forward to stay the
act, and grasped the lady's arm, but she was to late; the
aristocratic lips had touched the cheek of Hagar Warren's
grand-child, and the secret, if now confessed, would never be
forgiven.

“It can't be helped,” muttered Hagar, and then, when
Mrs. Conway asked an explanation of her conduct, she answered.
“I was afraid you'd wake her up, and mercy
knows I've had worry enough with both the brats.”

Not till then had Madam Conway observed how haggard
and worn was Hagar's face, and instead of reproving her for
her boldness, she said gently, “you have, indeed, been sorely
tried. Shall I send up Bertha to relieve you?”

“No, no,” answered Hagar hurriedly, “I am better
alone.”

The next moment Madam Conway was moving silently
down the narrow hall, while Hagar on her knees was weeping
passionately. One word of kindness had effected
more than a thousand reproaches would have done; and
wringing her hands she cried, “I will not do it; I cannot.”

Approaching the cradle she was about to lift the child,
when again Madam Conway was at the door. She had
come, she said, to take the babe to Margaret, who seemed
better this morning, and had asked to see it.

“Not now, not now. Wait till I put on her a handsomer
dress, and I'll bring her myself,” pleaded Hagar.

But Madam Conway saw no fault in the fine cambric
wrapper, and taking the infant in her arms, she walked away,
while Hagar followed stealthily. Very lovingly the mother
folded to her bosom the babe, calling it her fatherless one,
and wetting its face with her tears, while through the half
closed door peered Hagar's wild dark eyes—one moment
lighting up with exultation as she muttered, “it's my flesh,
my blood, proud lady!” and the next, growing dim with
tears, as she thought of the evil she had done.

“I did not know she had so much hair,” said Mrs. Miller,
parting the silken locks. “I think it will be like mine,”
and she gave the child to her mother, while Hagar glided
swiftly back to her room.

That afternoon, the clergyman, whose church Mrs. Conway
usually attended, called to see Mrs. Miller, who suggested
that both the children should receive the rite of baptism.
Hagar was accordingly bidden to prepare them for
the ceremony, and resolving to make one more effort to undo
what she had done, she dressed the child, whom she had
thought to wrong, in its own clothes, and then anxiously
awaited her mistress's coming.

“Hagar Warren! What does this mean? Are you
crazy!” sternly demanded Madam Conway, when the
old nurse held up before her the child with the blue
nose.

“No, not crazy yet; but I shall be, if you don't take
this one first,” answered Hagar.

More than once that day Madam Conway had heard the
servants hint that Hagar's grief had driven her insane; and
now, when she observed the unnatural brightness in her
eyes, and saw what she had done, she, too, thought it possible
that her mind was partially unsettled; so she said
gently, but firmly, “this is no time for foolishness, Hagar.
They are waiting for us in the sick-room; so make haste
and change the baby's dress.”

There was something authoritative in her manner, and
Hagar obeyed, whispering incoherently to herself, and thus
further confirming her mistress's suspicions that she was
partially insane. During the ceremony, she stood tall and
erect like some dark, grim statue, her hands firmly locked
together, and her eyes fixed upon the face of the little one,
who was baptized “Margaret Miller.” As the clergyman
pronounced that name, she uttered a low, gasping moan, but
her face betrayed no emotion, and very calmly she stepped
forward with the other child upon her arm.

“What name?” asked the minister, and she answered
“her mother's; call her for her mother!”

“Hester,” said Madam Conway, turning to the clergyman,
who understood nothing from Hagar's reply.

So “Hester” was the name given to the child, in whose
veins the blood of English noblemen was flowing; and when
the ceremony was ended, Hagar bore back to her room
“Hester Hamilton,” the child defrauded of her birthright,
and “Maggie Miller,” the heroine of our story.

3. CHAPTER III.
HESTER AND MAGGIE.

“It is over now,” old Hagar thought, as she laid the
children upon their pillows. “The deed is done, and by
their own hands too. There is nothing left for me now but
a confession, and that I cannot make;” so with a heavy
weight upon her soul, she sat down resolving to keep her
own counsel and abide the consequence, whatever it might
be.

But it wore upon her terribly—that secret—and though
it helped in a measure to divert her mind from dwelling too
much upon her daughter's death, it haunted her continually,
making her a strange, eccentric woman, whom the servants
persisted in calling crazy, while even Madam Conway failed
to comprehend her. Her face, which was always dark, seemed
to have acquired a darker, harder look, while her eyes wore a
wild startled expression, as if she were constantly followed
by some tormenting fear. At first, Mrs. Miller objected to
trusting her with the babe; but when Madam Conway suggested
that the woman who had charge of little Theo
should also take care of Maggie, she fell upon her knees
and begged most piteously that the child might not be taken
from her. Every thing I have ever loved has left me,” said
she, “and I cannot give her up.”

“But they say you are crazy,” answered Madam Conway,
somewhat surprised that Hagar should manifest so much

affection for a child not at all connected to her. “They
say you are crazy, and no one trusts a crazy woman.”

Crazy!” repeated Hagar, half scornfully, “crazy—'tis
not craziness—'tis the trouble—the trouble—that's killing me.
But I'll hide it closer than it's hidden now,” she continued,
“If you'll let her stay; and 'fore Heaven, I swear, that
sooner than harm one hair of Maggie's head, I'd part with
my own life;” and taking the sleeping child in her arms, she
stood like a wild beast at bay.

Madam Conway did not herself really believe in Hagar's
insanity. She had heretofore been perfectly faithful to
whatever was committed to her care, so she bade her be
quiet, saying they would trust her for a time.

“It's the talking to myself,” said Hagar, when left alone.
“It's the talking to myself, which makes them call me
crazy; and though I might talk to many a worse woman
than old Hagar Warren, I'll stop it; I'll be still as the
grave, and when next they gossip about me, it shall be of
something besides my craziness.

So Hagar became suddenly silent, and uncommunicative,
mingling but little with the servants, but staying all day
long in her room, where she watched the children with untiring
care. Especially was she kind to Hester, who as
time passed on, proved to be a puny, sickly thing, never
noticing any one, but moaning frequently as if in pain.
Very tenderly old Hagar nursed her, carrying her often in her
arms, until they ached from very weariness, while Madam
Conway, who watched her with a vigilant eye, complained
that she neglected little Maggie.

“And what if I do?” returned Hagar, somewhat bitterly,
“Ain't there a vast difference between the two? S'pose
Hester was your own flesh and blood, would you think I
could do too much for the poor thing?” And she glanced

compassionately at the poor wasted form, which lay upon
her lap, gasping for breath, and presenting a striking contrast
to the little Maggie, who, in her cradle, was crowing
and laughing in childish glee, at the bright firelight which
blazed upon the hearth.

Maggie was indeed a beautiful child. From her mother
she had inherited the boon of perfect health, and she throve
well in spite of the bumped heads and pinched fingers,
which frequently fell to her lot, when Hagar was too busy
with the feeble child to notice her. The plaything of the
whole house, she was greatly petted by the servants, who
vied with each other in tracing points of resemblance between
her and the Conways; while the grandmother
prided herself particularly on the arched eyebrows, and
finely cut upper lip, which, she said, were sure marks of
high blood, and never found in the lower ranks! With a
most scornful expression on her face, old Hagar would listen
to these remarks, and then, when sure that no one
heard her, she would mutter, “Marks of blood! What
nonsense! I'm almost glad I've solved the riddle, and
know 'taint blood that makes the difference. Just tell her
the truth once, and she'd quickly change her mind. Hester's
blue pinched nose, which makes one think of fits, would be
the very essence of aristocracy, while Maggie's lip would
come of the little Paddy blood there is running in her
veins!”

“And still, Madam Conway herself was not one half so
proud of the bright, playful Maggie, as was old Hagar, who,
when they were alone, would hug her to her bosom, and
gaze fondly on her fair, round face, and locks of silken hair
so like those now resting in the grave. In the meantime
Mrs. Miller, who, since her daughter's birth, had never left
her room, was growing daily weaker, and when Maggie was

nearly nine months old, she died, with the little one folded
to her bosom, just as Hester Hamilton had held it, when,
she, too, passed from earth.

“Doubly blessed,” whispered old Hagar, who was present,
and then when she remembered that to poor little Hester a
mother's blessing would never be given, she felt that her load
of guilt was greater than she could bear. “She will perhaps
forgive me if I confess it to her over Miss Margaret's coffin,”
she thought; and once when they stood together by the
sleeping dead, and Madam Conway, with Maggie in her
arms was bidding the child kiss the clay cold lips of its mother,
old Hagar attempted to tell her. “Could you bear
Miss Margaret's death as well,” she said, “if Maggie, instead
of being bright and playful as she is, were weak and sick,
like Hester?” and her eyes fastened themselves upon Madam
Conway with an agonizing intensity which that lady
could not fathom. “Say, would you bear it as well—could
you love her as much—would you change with me, take
Hester for your own, and give me little Maggie?” she persisted,
and Madam Conway, surprised at her excited manner,
which she attributed in a measure to envy, answered
coldly. “Of course not. Still, if God had seen fit to give
me a child like Hester, I should try to be reconciled, but I
am thankful he has not thus dealt with me.”

“'Tis enough. I am satisfied,” thought Hagar. “She
would not thank me for telling her. The secret shall be
kept;” and half exultingly she anticipated the pride she
should feel in seeing her grand-daughter grown up a lady,
and an heiress.

Anon, however, there came stealing over her a feeling of
remorse, as she reflected that the child defrauded of its birth-right
would, if it lived, be compelled to serve in the capacity
of a servant; and many a night, when all else was silent in

the old stone house, she paced up and down the room, her
long hair, now fast turning grey, falling over her shoulders,
and her large eyes dimmed with tears, as she thought what
the future would bring to the infant she carried in her arms.
But the evil she so much dreaded never came, for when the
winter snows were again falling, they made a little grave
beneath the same pine tree where Hester Hamilton lay
sleeping, and while they dug that grave, old Hagar sat with
folded arms and tearless eyes, gazing fixedly upon the still,
white face, and thin blue lips, which would never again be
distorted with pain. Her habit of talking to herself had
returned, and as she sat there, she would at intervals
whisper, “poor little babe! I would willingly have cared
for you all my life, but I am glad you are gone to Miss Margaret,
who, it may be, will wonder what little thin-faced
angel is calling her mother! But somebody'll introduce you,
somebody'll tell her who you are, and when she knows how
proud her mother is of Maggie, she'll forgive old Hagar
Warren!”

“Gone stark mad!” was the report carried by the servants
to their mistress, who believed the story, when Hagar
herself came to her with the request that Hester might be
buried in some of Maggie's clothes.

Touched with pity by her worn, haggard face, Madam
Conway answered; “yes, take some of her common ones,”
and choosing the cambric robe which Hester had worn on
the morning when the exchange was made, Hagar dressed
the body for the grave. When, at last, everything was
ready and the tiny coffin stood upon the table, Madam
Conway drew near, and looked for a moment on the emaciated
form which rested quietly from all its pain. Hovering
at her side was Hagar, and feeling it her duty to say a
word of comfort, the stately lady remarked, that “'twas

best the babe should die; that were it her grandchild, she
should feel relieved; for had it lived, it would undoubtedly
have been physically and intellectually feeble.”

“Thank you! I am considerably comforted,” was the
cool reply of Hagar, who felt how cruel were the words, and
who for a moment was strongly tempted to claim the beautiful
Maggie as her own, and give back to the cold, proud
woman the senseless clay, on which she looked so calmly.

But love for her grandchild conquered. There was
nothing in the way of her advancement now, and when at
the grave she knelt her down to weep, as the bystanders
thought, over her dead, she was breathing there a vow that
never so long as she lived should the secret of Maggie's
birth be given to the world, unless some circumstance then
unforeseen should make it absolutely and unavoidably necessary.
To see Maggie grow up into a beautiful, refined and
cultivated woman, was now the great object of Hagar's life;
and fearing lest by some inadvertent word or action the
secret should be disclosed, she wished to live by herself,
where naught but the winds of heaven could listen to her
incoherent whisperings, which made her fellow servants
accuse her of insanity.

Down in the deepest shadow of the woods, and distant
from the old stone house nearly a mile, was a half-ruined
cottage which, years before, had been occupied by miners,
who had dug in the hillside for particles of yellow ore, which
they fancied to be gold. Long and frequent were the night
revels said to have been held in the old hut, which had at last
fallen into bad repute and been for years deserted. To one
like Hagar, however, there was nothing intimidating in its
creaking old floors, its rattling windows and noisome chimney,
where the bats and the swallows built their nests; and
when, one day, Madam Conway proposed giving little Maggie

into the charge of a younger and less nervous person than
herself, she made no objection, but surprised her mistress by
asking permission to live by herself in the “cottage by the
mine” as it was called.

“It is better for me to be alone,” said she, “for I may
do something terrible if I stay here, something I would
sooner die than do,” and her eyes fell upon Maggie sleeping
in her cradle.

This satisfied Madam Conway that the half-crazed woman
meditated harm to her favorite grandchild, and she consented
readily to her removal to the cottage, which by her
orders was made comparatively comfortable. For several
weeks, when she came, as she did each day to the house, Madam
Conway kept Maggie carefully from her sight, until at
last she begged so hard to see her, that her wish was gratified;
and as she manifested no disposition whatever to molest
the child, Madam Conway's fears gradually subsided, and
Hagar was permitted to fondle and caress her as often as
she chose.

Here, now, for a time, we leave them; Hagar in her
cottage by the mine; Madam Conway in her gloomy home;
Maggie in her nurse's arms; and Theo, of whom as yet but
little has been said, playing on the nursery floor; while
with our readers we pass silently over a period of time which
shall bring us to Maggie's girlhood.

4. CHAPTER IV.
GIRLHOOD.

Fifteen years have passed away, and around the old stone
house there is outwardly no change. The moss still clings
to the damp, dark wall, just as it clung there long ago, while
the swaying branches of the forest trees still cast their
shadows across the floor, or scream to the autumn blast, just
as they did in years gone by, when Hagar Warren breathed
that prayer, “Lead us not into temptation.” Madam Conway,
stiff and straight and cold as ever, moves with the
same measured tread through her gloomy rooms, which are
not as noiseless now as they were wont to be, for girlhood,
joyous, merry girlhood, has a home in those dark rooms, and
their silence is broken by the sound of other feet, not moving
stealthily and slow, as if following in a funeral train, but
dancing down the stairs, tripping through the halls, skipping
across the floor, and bounding over the grass, they go,
never tiring, never ceasing, till the birds and the sun have
gone to rest.

And do what she may, the good lady cannot check the
gleeful mirth, or hush the clear ringing laughter of one at
least of the fair maidens, who, since last we looked upon
them, have grown up to womanhood. Wondrously beautiful
is Maggie Miller now, with her bright sunny face, her
soft, dark eyes and raven hair, so glossy and smooth, that

her sister, the pale faced, blue-eyed Theo, likens it to a piece
of shining satin. Now, as ever, the pet and darling of the
household, she moves among them like a ray of sunshine;
and the servants, when they hear her bird-like voice waking
the echoes of the weird old place, pause in their work to
listen, blessing Miss Margaret for the joy and gladness her
presence has brought to them.

Old Hagar, in her cottage by the mine, has kept her
secret well, whispering it only to the rushing wind and the
running brook, which have told no tales to the gay, light-hearted
girl, save to murmur in her ear that a life, untrammeled
by etiquette and form, would be a blissful life indeed.
And Maggie, listening to the voices which speak to her so
oft in the autumn wind, the running brook, the opening
flower and the falling leaf, has learned a lesson different far
from those taught her daily by the prim, stiff governess, who,
imported from England six years ago, has drilled both Theo
and Maggie, in all the prescribed rules of high-life as practised
in the old world. She has taught them how to sit and
how to stand, how to eat and how to drink, as became young
ladies of Conway blood and birth. And Madam Conway,
through her golden spectacles, looks each day to see some
good, from all this teaching, come to the bold, dashing,
untamable Maggie, who, spurning alike both birth and blood,
laughs at form and etiquette as taught by Mrs. Jeffrey, and
winding her arms around her grandmother's neck, crumples
her rich lace ruffle with a most unladylike hug, and then
bounds away to the stables, pretending not to hear the distressed
Mrs. Jeffrey calling after her “not to run, 'twas so
Yankeefied and vulgar;” or if she did hear, answering back,
“I am a Yankee, native born, and shall run for all Johnny
Bull.”

Greatly horrified at this evidence of total depravity, Mrs.

Jeffrey brushes down her black silk apron and goes back to
Theo, her more tractable pupil; while Maggie, emerging
ere long from the stable, clears the fence with one leap of
her high-mettled pony, which John, the coachman, had
bought at an enormous price, of a travelling circus, on purpose
for his young mistress, who complained that “grandma's
horses were all too lazy and aristocratic in their movements
for her.”

In perfect amazement Madam Conway looked out when
first “Gritty,” as the pony was called, was led up to the
door, prancing, pawing, chafing at the bit and impatient
to be off. “Margaret should never mount that animal,”
she said; but Margaret had ruled for sixteen years, and
now, at a sign from John, she sprang gaily upon the back of
the fiery steed, who, feeling instinctively that the rider he
carried was a stranger to fear, became under her training
perfectly gentle, obeying her slightest command, and following
her ere long like a sagacious dog. Not thus easily
could Madam Conway manage Maggie, and with a groan
she saw her each day fly over the garden gate, and out into
the woods, which she scoured in all directions.

“She'll break her neck, I know,” the disturbed old lady
would say, as Maggie's flowing skirt and waving plumes disappeared
in the shadow of the trees. “She'll break her
neck some day;” and thinking some one must be in fault,
her eyes would turn reprovingly upon Mrs. Jeffrey for
having failed in subduing Maggie, whom the old governess
pronounced the “veriest mad-cap in the world; there was
nothing like her in all England,” she said, “and her low-bred
ways must be the result of her having been born on American
soil.”

If Maggie was to be censured, Madam Conway chose to
do it herself, and on such occasions she would answer,
“Low-bred, Mrs. Jeffrey, is not a proper term to apply to

Margaret. She's a little wild, I admit, but no one with my
blood in their veins can be low-bred;” and in her indignation
at the governess, Madam would usually forget to
reprove her grand-daughter when she came back from her
ride, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining like stars with
the healthful exercise. Throwing herself upon a stool at
her grandmother's feet, Maggie would lay her head upon
the lap of the proud lady, who, very lovingly would smooth
the soft shining hair, “so much like her own,” she said.

“Before you had to color it, you mean, don't you, grandma?”
the mischievous Maggie would rejoin, looking up
archly to her grandmother, who would call her a saucy
child, and stroke still more fondly the silken locks.

Wholly unlike Maggie was Theo, a pale-faced, fair-haired
girl, who was called pretty, when not overshadowed by the
queenly presence of her more gifted sister. And Theo was
very proud of this sister, too; proud of the beautiful Maggie,
to whom, though two years her junior, she looked for
counsel, willing always to abide by her judgment; for what
Maggie did must of course be right, and grandma would not
scold. So if at any time Theo was led into error, Maggie
stood ready to bear the blame, which was never very severe,
for Mrs. Jeffrey had learned not to censure her too much,
lest by so doing she should incur the displeasure of her
employer, who in turn loved Maggie, if it were possible,
better than the daughter whose name she bore, and whom
Maggie called her mother. Well kept and beautiful was the
spot where that mother lay, and the grave was marked by a
costly marble, which gleamed clear and white through the
surrounding evergreens. This was Maggie's favorite resort,
and here she often sat in the moonlight, musing of one who
slept there, and who, they said, had held her on her bosom
when she died.

At no great distance from this spot, was another grave,
where the grass grew tall and green, and where the headstone,
half sunken in the earth, betokened that she who
rested there was of humble origin. Here Maggie seldom
tarried long. The place had no attraction for her, for rarely
now was the name of Hester Hamilton heard at the old
stone house, and all, save one, seemed to have forgotten
that such as she had ever lived. This was Hagar Warren,
who in her cottage by the mine has grown older, and more
crazy-like since last we saw her. Her hair, once so much
like that which Madame Conway likens to her own, has
bleached as white as snow, and her tall form is shrivelled
now, and bent. The secret is wearing her life away, and yet
she does not regret what she has done. She cannot, when
she looks upon the beautiful girl, who comes each day to
her lonely hut, and whom she worships with a species of
wild idolatry. Maggie knows not why it is, and yet to her
there is a peculiar fascination about that strange old woman,
with her snow-white hair, her wrinkled face, her bony hand,
and wild, dark eyes, which, when they rest on her, have in
them a look of unutterable tenderness.

Regularly each day when the sun nears the western horizon,
Maggie steals away to the cottage, and the lonely
woman, waiting for her on the rude bench by the door, can
tell her bounding footstep from all others which pass that
way. She does not say much now, herself; but the sound
of Maggie's voice, talking to her in the gathering twilight,
is the sweetest she has ever heard, and so she sits and listens,
while her hands work nervously together, and her
whole body trembles with the longing, intense desire she
feels, to clasp the young girl to her bosom, and claim her as
her own. But this she dare not do, for Madame Conway's
training has had its effect, and in Maggie's bearing there is

ever a degree of pride which forbids anything like undue
familiarity. And it was this very pride which Hagar liked
to see, whispering often to herself, “Warren blood and
Conway airs—the two go well together.”

Sometimes a word or a look, would make her start, they
reminded her so forcibly of the dead; and once she said
involuntarily. “You are like your mother, Maggie.
Exactly what she was at your age.”

“My mother!” answered Maggie. You never talked to
me of her. Tell me of her now, I did not suppose I was
like her, in anything.”

“Yes, in everything,” said old Hagar, “the same dark
eyes and hair, the same bright red cheeks, the same—”

“Why Hagar, what can you mean?” interrupted Maggie.
“My mother had light blue eyes and fair brown hair, like
Theo. Grandma says I am not like her at all, while old
Hannah, the cook, when she feels ill-natured, and wishes to
tease me, says I am the very image of Hester Hamilton.”

“And what if you are? What if you are?” eagerly rejoined
old Hagar. “Would you feel badly, to know you
looked like Hester?” and the old woman bent anxiously
forward, to hear the answer, “Not for myself, perhaps, provided
Hester was handsome, for I think a good deal of
beauty, that's a fact; but it would annoy grandma terribly to
have me look like a servant. She might fancy I was Hester's
daughter, for she wonders every day where I get my low-bred
ways, as she calls my liking to sing and laugh, and be
natural.”

“And s'posin' Hester was your mother, would you care?”
persisted Hagar.

“Of course I should,” answered Maggie, her large eyes
opening wide at the strange question. “I wouldn't for the
whole world be anybody but Maggie Miller, just who I am.

To be sure I get awfully out of patience with grandma, and
Mrs. Jeffrey, for talking so much about birth and blood and
family, and all that sort of nonsense, but after all, I wouldn't
for anything be poor and work as poor folks do.”

“I'll never tell her, never,” muttered Hagar; and Maggie
continued: “What a queer habit you have of talking to
yourself. Did you always do so?”

“Not always. It came upon me with the secret,” Hagar
answered inadvertently; and eagerly catching at the last
word, which to her implied a world of romance and mystery,
Maggie exclaimed, “The secret, Hagar, the secret! If there's
anything I delight in, it's a secret!” and sliding down from
the rude bench to the grass plat at Hagar's feet, she continued:
Tell it to me, Hagar, that's a dear old woman.
I'll never tell anybody as long as I live. I won't upon my
word,” she continued, as she saw the look of horror resting
on Hagar's face; “I'll help you to keep it, and we'll
have such grand times talking it over. Did it concern yourself?”
and Maggie folded her arms upon the lap of the old
woman, who answered in a voice so hoarse and unnatural
that Maggie involuntarily shuddered, “Old Hagar would
die inch by inch sooner than tell you, Maggie Miller, her
secret.”

“Was it then so dreadful?” asked, Maggie half fearfully,
and casting a stealthy glance at the dim woods, where the
night shadows were falling, and whose winding path she
must traverse alone, on her homeward route. “Was it
then so dreadful?”

“Yes, dreadful, dreadful; and yet, Maggie, I have sometimes
wished you knew it. You would forgive me, perhaps,
if you knew how I was tempted,” said Hagar, and her voice
was full of yearning tenderness, while her bony fingers
parted lovingly the shining hair from off the white brow

of the young girl, who plead again, “Tell it to me,
Hagar.”

There was a fierce struggle in Hagar's bosom, but the
night wind, moving through the hemlock boughs, seemed
to say, “Not yet—not yet,” and remembering her vow,
she answered. “Leave me, Maggie Miller, I cannot tell you
the secret. You of all others. You would hate me for it,
and that I could not bear. Leave me alone, or the sight of
you, so beautiful, pleading for my secret, will kill me dead.”

There was command in the tones of her voice, and rising
to her feet, Maggie walked away, with a dread feeling at her
heart, a feeling which whispered vaguely to her of a deed of
blood; for what, save this, could thus affect old Hagar?—
Her road home led near the little burying-ground, and
impelled by something she could not resist, she paused at
her mother's grave. The moonlight was falling softly upon
it, and seating herself within the shadow of the monument,
she sat a long time, thinking, not of the dead, but of Hagar
and the strange words she had uttered. Suddenly, from
the opposite side of the graveyard, there came a sound
as of some one walking, and looking up, Maggie saw
approaching her the bent figure of the old woman, who
seemed unusually excited. Her first impulse was to fly, but
knowing how improbable it was that Hagar should seek to
do her harm, and thinking she might discover some clue to
the mystery, if she remained, she sat still, while kneeling on
Hester's grave, old Hagar wept bitterly, talking the while,
but so incoherently that Maggie could distinguish nothing,
save the words, “You, Hester, have forgiven me.”

“Can it be that she has killed her own child!” thought
Mag, and starting to her feet she stood face to face with
Hagar, who screamed, “You here, Maggie Miller! Here
with the others who know my secret. But you shan't wring

it from me. You shall never know it, unless the dead rise
up to tell you.”

“Hagar Warren,” said Margaret sternly, “is murder
your secret? Did Hester Hamilton die at her mother's
hands?”

With a short gasping moan, Hagar staggered backward
a pace or two, and then standing far more erect than Margaret
had ever seen her before, she answered, “No, Maggie
Miller, no; murder is not my secret. These hands,” and she
tossed in the air her shrivelled arms, “these hands are as
free from blood as yours. And now go. Leave me alone
with my dead, and see that you tell no tales. You like
secrets, you say. Let what you have heard to-night, be your
secret. Go.”

Maggie obeyed, and walked slowly homeward, feeling
greatly relieved that her suspicion was false, and experiencing
a degree of satisfaction in thinking that she, too, had
a secret, which she would guard most carefully from her
grandmother and Theo. “She would never tell them what
she had seen and heard—never!”

Seated upon the piazza was Madam Conway and Theo,
the former of whom chided her for staying so late at the
cottage, while Theo asked what queer things the old witch-woman
had said to-night.

With a very expressive look, which seemed to say, “I
know, but I shan't tell,” Maggie seated herself at her grandmother's
feet, and asked, “how long Hagar had been crazy?
Did it come upon her when her daughter died?” she inquired;
and Madam Conway answered, “yes, about that
time, or more particularly when the baby died. Then she
began to act so strangely that I removed you from her care,
for, from something she said, I fancied she mediated harm
to you.”

For a moment Maggie sat wrapt in thought—then clapping
her hands together, she exclaimed—“I have it; I know
now what ails her. She felt so badly to see you happy with
me, that she tried to poison me. She said she was sorely
tempted—and that's the secret which is killing her.”

“Secret! What secret?” cried Theo; and womanlike,
forgetting her resolution not to tell, Mag told what she had
seen and heard, adding as her firm belief that Hagar had
made an attempt upon her life.

“I would advise you for the future to keep away from
her, then,” said Madam Conway, to whom the suggestion
seemed a very probable one.

But Maggie knew full well that whatever Hagar might
once have thought to do, there was no danger to be apprehended
from her now, and the next day found her as usual
on her way to the cottage. Bounding into the room where
the old woman sat at her knitting, she exclaimed, “I know
what it is! I know your secret!”

There was a gathering mist before Hagar's eyes, and her
face was deathly white, as she gasped, “You know the secret!
How? where? Have the dead come back to tell?
Did anybody see me do it?”

“Why, no,” answered Mag, beginning again to grow a
little mystified. “The dead have nothing to do with it.
You tried to poison me when I was a baby, and that's what
makes you crazy. Isn't it so? Grandma thought it was,
when I told her how you talked last night.”

There was a heavy load lifted from Hagar's heart, and
she answered calmly, but somewhat indignantly, “So you
told—I thought I could trust you, Maggie.”

Instantly the tears came to Maggie's eyes, and, coloring
crimson, she said: “I didn't mean to tell—indeed I didn't,
but I forgot all about your charge. Forgive me, Hagar,

do,” and, sinking on the floor, she looked up in Hagar's face
so pleadingly that the old woman was softened, and answered
gently, “You are like the rest of your sex, Margaret.
No woman but Hagar Warren ever kept a secret;
and it's killing her, you see.”

“Don't keep it then,” said Mag. “Tell it to me. Confess
that you tried to poison me because you envied grandma,”
and the soft eyes looked with an anxious, expectant expression
into the dark, wild orbs of Hagar, who replied, “Envy
was at the bottom of it all, but I never tried to harm you,
Margaret, in any way. I only thought to do you good.
You have not guessed it. You cannot, and you must not
try.”

“Tell it to me then. I want to know it so badly,” persisted
Mag, her curiosity each moment increasing.

“Maggie Miller,” said old Hagar, and the knitting dropped
from her fingers, which moved slowly on till they
reached and touched the little snow-flake of a hand, resting
on her knee; “Maggie Miller, if you knew that the telling of
that secret would make you perfectly wretched, would you
wish to hear it?”

For a moment Mag was silent, and then, half laughingly,
she replied, “I'd risk it, Hagar, for I never wanted to know
anything half so bad in all my life. Tell it to me, won't
you?”

Very beautiful looked Maggie Miller then. Her straw
flat sat jauntily on one side of her head, her glossy hair
combed smoothly back, her soft lustrous eyes shining with
eager curiosity, and her cheeks flushed with excitement.
Very, very beautiful she seemed to the old woman, who, in
her intense longing to take the bright creature to her bosom,
was, for an instant sorely tempted.

“Margaret!” she began, and at the sound of her voice

the young girl shuddered involuntarily. “Margaret!” she
said again, but ere another word was uttered, the autumn
wind, which for the last half hour had been rising rapidly,
came roaring down the wide-mouthed chimney, and the
heavy fireboard fell upon the floor with a tremendous crash,
nearly crushing old Hagar's foot, and driving for a time all
thoughts of the secret from Maggie's mind. “Served me
right,” muttered Hagar, as Maggie left the room for water
with which to bathe the swollen foot. “Served me right, and
if ever I'm tempted to tell her again may every bone in my
body be smashed!”

The foot was carefully cared for. Maggie's own hands
tenderly bandaging it up, and then with redoubled zeal she
returned to the attack, pressing old Hagar so hard that the
large drops of perspiration gathered thickly about her forehead
and lips, which were white as ashes. Wearied at last,
Mag gave it up for the time being, but her curiosity was
thoroughly aroused, and for many days she persisted in her
importunity, until at last, in self defence, old Hagar, when
she saw her coming, would steal away to the low roofed
chamber, and hiding behind a pile of rubbish, would listen
breathlessly, while Margaret hunted for her in vain. Then
when she was gone, she would crawl out from her hiding-place,
covered with cobwebs and dust, and muttering to
herself, “I never expected this, and it's more than I can
bear. Why will she torment me so, when a knowledge of
the secret would drive her mad!”

This, however, Maggie Miller did not know. Blessed
with an uncommon degree of curiosity, which increased each
time she saw old Hagar, she resolved to solve the mystery,
which she felt sure was connected with herself, though in
what manner, she could not guess. “But I will know,”
she would say to herself, when returning from a fruitless

quizzing of old Hagar, whose hiding-place she had at last
discovered; “I will know what 'tis about me. I shall
never be quite happy till I do.”

Ah, Maggie, Maggie, be happy while you can, and leave
the secret alone. It will come to you soon enough—aye,
soon enough.

5. CHAPTER V.
TRIFLES.

Very rapidly the winter passed away, and one morning,
early in March, Mag went down to the cottage with the
news that Madam Conway was intending to start immediately
for England, where she had business which would
probably detain her until fall.

“Oh, won't I have fun in her absence!” she cried. “I'll
visit every family in the neighborhood. Here she's kept
Theo and me, caged up like two wild animals, and now I
am going to see a little of the world. I don't mean to
study a bit, and instead of visiting you once a day, I shall
come at least three times.”

“The Lord help me!” ejaculated old Hagar, who, much
as she loved Maggie, was beginning to dread her daily
visits.”

“Why, do you want help?” asked Maggie, laughingly.
“Are you tired of me, Hagar? Don't you like me any
more?”

“Like-you, Maggie Miller! like you,” repeated old Hagar,
and in the tones of her voice there was a world of tenderness
and love. “There is nothing on earth I love as I do
you. But you worry me to death sometimes.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” answered Mag; “but I'm not going
to tease you awhile. I shall have so much else to do when
grandma is gone, that I shall forget it. I wish she wasn't

so proud,” she continued, after a moment. “I wish she'd
let Theo and me see a little more of the world than she
does. I wonder how she ever expects us to get married, or
be anybody, if she keeps us here in the woods like two
young savages. Why, as true as you live, Hagar, I have
never been anywhere in my life, except to church Sundays,
once to Douglas's store, in Worcester, once to Patty Thompson's
funeral, and once to a Methodist camp-meeting; and
I never spoke to more than a dozen men besides the minister
and the school-boys. It's too bad!” and Maggie pouted
quite becomingly at the injustice done her by her grandmother
in keeping her thus secluded. “Theo don't care,”
she said. “She is prouder than I am, and does not wish to
know the Yankees, as grandma calls the folks in this country;
but I'm glad I am a Yankee. I wouldn't live in England
for anything.”

“Why don't your grandmother take you with her?”
asked Hagar, who in a measure sympathized with Maggie
for being thus isolated.

“She says we are too young to go into society,” answered
Mag. “It will be time enough two years hence, when I'm
eighteen and Theo twenty. Then I believe she intends taking
us to London, where we can show off our accomplishments,
and practise that wonderful courtesy which Mrs.
Jeffrey has taught us. I daresay the queen will be astonished
at our qualifications;” and with a merry laugh, as she
thought of the appearance she should make at the Court of
St. James, Mag leaped on Gritty's back and bounded away,
while Hagar looked wistfully after her, saying as she wiped
the tears from her eyes, “Heaven bless the girl! She
might sit on the throne of England any day, and Victoria
wouldn't disgrace herself at all by doing her reverence, even
if she be a child of Hagar Warren.”

As Maggie had said, Madam Conway was going to England.
At first, she thought of taking the young ladies with
her, but, thinking they were hardly old enough yet to be
emancipated from the school-room, she decided to leave
them under the supervision of Mrs. Jeffrey, whose niece she
promised to bring with her on her return from America.
Upon her departure she bade Theo and Mag a most affectionate
adieu, adding:

“Be good girls while I am away,” keep in the house,
mind Mrs. Jeffrey, and don't fall in love.”

This last injunction came involuntarily from the old lady,
to whom the idea of their falling in love was quite as preposterous
as to themselves.

“Fall in love!” repeated Maggie, when her tears were
dried, and she with Theo was driving slowly home. “What
could grandma mean! I wonder who there is for us to
love, unless it be John the coachman, or Bill the gardener.
I 'most wish we could get in love though, just to see how
'twould seem, don't you?” she continued.

“Not with anybody here,” answered Theo, her nose slightly
elevated at the thoughts of people whom she had been
educated to despise.

“Why not here as well as elsewhere?” asked Maggie.
“I don't see any difference. But grandma needn't be troubled,
for such things as men's boots never came near our
house. I think it's a shame though,” she continued, “that
we don't know anybody, either male or female. Let's go
down to Worcester, some day, and get acquainted. Don't
you remember the two handsome young men whom we saw
five years ago, in Douglas's store, and how they winked at
each other when grandma ran down their goods, and said
there were not any darning needles fit to use, this side of
the water!”

On most subjects, Theo's memory was treacherous, but
she remembered perfectly well the two young men, particularly
the taller one, who had given her a remnant of blue
ribbon, which he said was just the color of her eyes. Still,
the idea of going to Worcester did not strike her favorably.
“She wished Worcester would come to them,” she said,
“but she should not dare to go there. They would surely
get lost. Grandma would not like it, and Mrs. Jeffrey
would not let them go, even if they wished.”

“A fig for Mrs. Jeffrey,” said Maggie. “I shan't mind
her much. I'm going to have a real good time, doing as I
please, and if you are wise, you'll have one too.”

“I suppose I shall do what you tell me to—I always do,”
answered Theo, submissively, and there the conversation
ceased.

Arrived at home they found dinner awaiting them, and
Maggie, when seated, suggested to Mrs. Jeffrey that she
should give them a vacation of a few weeks, just long enough
for them to get rested and visit the neighbors. But this
Mrs. Jeffrey refused to do.

“She had her orders to keep them at their books,” she
said, and “study was healthful;” at the same time she bade
them be in the school-room on the morrow. There was a
wicked look in Maggie's eyes, but her tongue told no tales,
and when next morning she went with Theo, demurely to
the school-room, she seemed surprised at hearing from Mrs.
Jeffrey that every book had disappeared from the desk,
where they were usually kept; and though the greatly disturbed
and astonished lady had sought for them nearly an
hour, they were not to be found.

“Maggie has hidden them, I know,” said Theo, as she
saw the mischievous look on her sister's face.

“Margaret wouldn't do such a thing, I'm sure,” answered

Mrs. Jeffrey, her voice and manner indicating a little doubt,
however, as to the truth of her assertion.

But Maggie had hidden them, and no amount of coaxing
could persuade her to bring them back. “You refused me
a vacation when I asked for it,” she said, “so I'm going
to have it perforce;” and playfully catching up the little
dumpy figure of her governess, she carried her out upon the
piazza, and seating her in a large easy-chair, bade her “take
snuff and comfort, too, as long as she liked.”

Mrs. Jeffrey knew perfectly well that Maggie in reality was
mistress of the house, that whatever she did Madam Conway
would ultimately sanction; and as a rest was by no means
disagreeable, she yielded with a good grace, dividing her
time between sleeping, snuffing and dressing, while Theo
lounged upon the sofa and devoured some musty old novels,
which Maggie, in her rummaging, had discovered.

Meanwhile Maggie kept her promise of visiting the neighbors,
and almost every family had something to say in praise
of the merry light-hearted girl, of whom they had heretofore
known but little. Her favorite recreation, however, was
riding on horseback, and almost every day she galloped
through the woods and over the fields, usually terminating
her ride with a call upon old Hagar, whom she still continued
to tease unmercifully for the secret, and who was
glad when at last an incident occurred which for a time
drove all thoughts of the secret from Maggie's mind.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE JUNIOR PARTNER.

One afternoon towards the middle of April, when Maggie
as usual was flying through the woods, she paused for a
moment beneath the shadow of a sycamore, while Gritty
drank from a small running brook. The pony having
quenched his thirst, she gathered up her reins for a fresh
gallop, when her ear caught the sound of another horse's
hoofs; and looking back, she saw approaching her at a
rapid rate a gentleman whom she knew to be a stranger.
Not caring to be overtaken, she chirruped to the spirited
Gritty, who, bounding over the velvety turf, left the unknown
rider far in the rear.

“Who can she be?” thought the young man, admiring
the utter fearlessness with which she rode; then, feeling a
little piqued, as he saw how the distance between them was
increasing, he exclaimed, “be she woman, or be she witch,
I'll overtake her,” and whistling to his own fleet animal, he,
too, dashed on at a furious rate.

“Trying to catch me, are you?” thought Maggie. “I'd
laugh to see you do it,” and entering at once into the spirit
of the race, she rode on for a time with headlong speed—
then, by way of tantalizing her pursuer, she paused for a
moment until he had almost reached her, when at a peculiar
whistle Gritty sprang forward, while Maggie's mocking
laugh was borne back to the discomfited young man, whose

interest in the daring girl increased each moment. It was
a long, long chase she led him, over hills, across the plains,
and through the grassy valley, until she stopped at last
within a hundred yards of the deep, narrow gorge, through
which the millstream ran.

“I have you now,” thought the stranger, who knew by
the dull, roaring sound of the water, that a chasm lay between
him and the opposite bank.

But Maggie had not yet half displayed her daring feats of
horsemanship, and when he came so near that his waving
brown locks and handsome dark eyes were plainly discernible,
she said to herself, “he rides tolerably well. I'll see
how good he is at a leap,” and, setting herself more firmly
in the saddle, she patted Gritty upon the neck. The well
trained animal understood the signal, and rearing high in
the air, was fast nearing the bank, when the young man,
suspecting her design, shrieked out, “Stop, lady, stop! It's
madness to attempt it.”

“Follow me if you can,” was Maggie's defiant answer,
and the next moment she hung in mid air over the dark
abyss.

Involuntarily the young man closed his eyes, while his ear
listened anxiously for the cry which would come next. But
Maggie knew full well what she was doing. She had leaped
that narrow gorge often, and now when the stranger's eyes
unclosed, she stood upon the opposite bank, caressing the
noble animal which had borne her safely there.

“It shall never be said that Henry Warner was beaten
by a school-girl,” muttered the stranger. “If she can clear
that, I can, bad rider as I am!” and burying his spurs deep
in the sides of his horse, he pressed on while Maggie held
her breath in fear, for she knew that without practice no
one could do what she had done.

There was a partially downward plunge—a fierce struggle
on the shelving bank, where the animal had struck a
few feet from the top,—then the steed stood panting on
terra firma, while a piercing shriek broke the deep silence
of the wood, and Maggie's cheeks blanched to a marble hue.
The rider, either from dizziness or fear, had fallen at the
moment the horse first struck the bank, and from the ravine
below there came no sound to tell if yet he lived.

“He's dead; he's dead!” cried Maggie. “'Twas my
own foolishness which killed him,” and springing from Gritty's
back she gathered up her long riding skirt, and glided
swiftly down the bank, until she came to a wide, projecting
rock, where the stranger lay, motionless and still, his white
face upturned to the sunlight, which came stealing down
through the overhanging boughs. In an instant she was
at his side, and his head was restng on her lap, while her
trembling fingers parted back from his pale brow the damp
mass of curling hair.

“The fall alone would not kill him,” she said, as her eye
measured the distance, and then she looked anxiously round
for water, with which to bathe his face.

But water there was none, save in the stream below,
whose murmuring flow fell mockingly on her ears, for it
seemed to say she could not reach it. But Maggie Miller
was equal to any emergency, and venturing out to the very
edge of the rock, she poised herself on one foot, and looked
down the dizzy height, to see if it were possible to descend.

“I can try at least,” she said, and glancing at the pale
face of the stranger, unhesitatingly resolved to attempt it.

The descent was less difficult than she had anticipated,
and in an incredibly short space of time, she was dipping
her tasteful velvet cap in the brook, whose sparkling foam
had never before been disturbed by the touch of a hand as

soft and fair as hers. To ascend was not so easy a matter;
but chamois-like, Maggie's feet trod safely the dangerous
path, and she soon knelt by the unconscious man, bathing
his forehead in the clear cold water, until he showed signs
of returning life. His lips moved slowly, at last, as if he
would speak; and Maggie, bending low to catch the faintest
sound, heard him utter the name of “Rose.” In Maggie's
bosom, there was no feeling for the stranger, save that
of pity, and yet, that one word “Rose,” thrilled her with a
strange undefinable emotion, awaking at once a yearing
desire to know something of her who bore that beautiful
name, and who, to the young man, was undoubtedly the
one in all the world most dear.

“Rose,” he said again, “is it you?” and his eyes, which
opened slowly, scanned with an eager, questioning look, the
face of Maggie, who, open-hearted and impulsive as usual,
answered somewhat sadly: “I am nobody but Maggie
Miller. I am not Rose, though I wish I was, if you would
like to see her.

The tones of her voice recalled the stranger's wandering
mind, and he answered: “Your voice is like Rose,
but I would rather see you, Maggie Miller. I like your
fearlessness, so unlike most of your sex. Rose is far more
gentle, more feminine than you, and if her very life depended
upon it, she would never dare leap that gorge.”

The young man intended no reproof; but Maggie took his
words as such, and for the first time in her life, began to think
that possibly her manner was not always as womanly as
might be. At all events she was not like the gentle Rose,
whom she instantly invested with every possible grace and
beauty, wishing that she herself was like her, instead of the
wild mad-cap she was. Then thinking her conduct required
some apology, she answered, as none save one as fresh and

ingenuous as Maggie Miller would have answered, “I don't
know any better than to behave as I do. I've always lived
in the woods—have never been to school a day in my life—
never been anywhere except to camp meeting, and once to
Douglas's store in Worcester!”

This was entirely a new phase of character to the man of
the world, who laughed aloud, and at the mention of Douglas's
store, started so quickly, that a spasm of pain distorted
his features, causing Maggie to ask if he were badly hurt.

“Nothing but a broken leg,” he answered; and Maggie
to whose mind broken bones conveyed a world of pain and
suffering, replied. “Oh, I am so sorry for you, and it's my
fault, too. Will you forgive me?” and her little chubby
hands clasped his so pleadingly, that raising himself upon
his elbow, so as to obtain a better view of her bright face,
he answered; “I'd willingly break a hundred bones for the
sake of meeting a girl like you, Maggie Miller.”

Maggie was unused to flattery, save as it came from her
grandmother, Theo, or old Hagar, and now paying no heed
to his remark, she said, “Can you stay here alone, while I
go for help? our house is not far away.”

“I'd rather you would remain with me,” he replied; “but
as you cannot do both, I suppose you must go.”

“I shan't be gone long,” said Maggie, “and I'll send
old Hagar to keep you company;” so saying, she climbed
the bank, and mounting Gritty, who stood quietly awaiting
her, she seized the other horse by the bridle, and rode
swiftly away, leaving the young man to meditate upon the
novel situation in which he had so suddenly been placed.

“Ain't I in a pretty predicament?” said he, as he tried in
vain to move his swollen limb, which was broken in two
places, but which being partially benumbed, did not now
pain him much. “But it serves me right for chasing a

harum-scarum thing, when I ought to have been minding my
own business, and collecting bills for Douglas & Co. And
she says she's been there, too. I wonder who she is, the
handsome sprite. I believe I made her more than half
jealous, talking of my golden-haired Rose; but she is far
more beautiful than Rose, more beautiful than any one I
ever saw. I wish she'd come back again,” and shutting his
eyes, he tried to recall the bright, animated face, which had
so lately bent anxiously above him. “She tarries long,” he
said, at last, beginning to grow uneasy. “I wonder how
far it is, and where the deuce can this old Hagar be, of
whom she spoke.”

“She's here,” answered a shrill voice, and looking up, he
saw before him the bent form of Hagar Warren, at whose
door Maggie had paused for a moment, while she told of the
accident, and begged of Hagar to hasten.

Accordingly, equipped with a blanket and pillow, a brandy
bottle and the camphor, old Hagar had come, but when she
offered the latter for the young man's acceptance, he pushed
it from him, saying, “Camphor was his detestation, but he
shouldn't object particularly to smelling of the other bottle!”

“No you don't,” said Hagar, who thought him in not
quite so deplorable a condition as she had expected to find
him. “My creed is never to give young folks brandy, except
in cases of emergency; so saying she made him more comfortable
by placing a pillow beneath his head, and then thinking
possibly, that this, to herself, was “a case of emergency,”
she withdrew to a little distance, and sitting down upon the
gnarled roots of an upturned tree, drank a swallow of the
old Cognac, while the young man, maimed and disabled,
looked wistfully at her!

Not that he cared for the brandy, of which he seldom

tasted; but he needed something to relieve the deathlike
faintness which occasionally came over him, and which old
Hagar, looking only at his mischievous eyes, failed to
observe. Only those who knew Henry Warner intimately
gave him credit for the many admirable qualities he really
possessed; so full was he of fun. It was in his merry eyes,
and about his quizzically-shaped mouth, that the principal
difficulty lay; and most persons, seeing him for the first
time, fancied that, in some way, he was making sport of
them. This was old Hagar's impression, as she sat there in
dignified silence, rather enjoying, than otherwise, the occasional
groans which came from his white lips. There were
intervals, however, when he was comparatively free from
pain, and these he improved by questioning her with regard
to Maggie, asking who she was, and where she lived.

“She is Maggie Miller, and she lives in a house,” answered
the old woman, rather pettishly.

“Ah, indeed—snappish are you?” said the young man,
attempting to turn himself a little, the better to see his companion.
“Confound that leg!” he continued, as a fierce
twinge gave him warning not to try many experiments. “I
know her name is Maggie Miller, and I supposed she lived
in a house; but who is she, any way, and what is she?”

“If you mean is she anybody, I can answer that question
quick,” returned Hagar. “She calls Madam Conway her
grandmother, and Madam Conway came from one of the
best families in England—that's who she is; and as to what
she is, she's the finest, handsomest, smartest girl in
America; and as long as old Hagar Warren lives, no city
chap with strapped down pantaloons and sneering mouth is
going to fool with her either!”

“Confound my mouth! It's always getting me into
trouble,” thought the stranger, trying in vain to smooth

down the corners of the offending organ, which in spite of
him would curve with what Hagar called a sneer, and from
which there finally broke a merry laugh, sadly at variance
with the suffering expression of his face.

“Your leg must hurt you mightily, the way you go on,”
muttered Hagar, and the young man answered: “It does
almost murder me, but when a laugh is in a fellow, he can't
help letting it out, can he? But where the plague can
that witch of a—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hagar,” he
added hastily, as he saw the frown settling on the old
woman's face, “I mean to say where can Miss Miller be? I
shall faint away unless she comes soon, or you give me a
taste of the brandy!”

This time there was something in the tone of his voice
which prompted Hagar to draw near, and she was about to
offer him the brandy, when Maggie appeared, together
with three men, bearing a litter, or small cot-bed. The
sight of her produced a much better effect upon him than
Hagar's brandy would have done, and motioning the old
woman aside, he declared himself ready to be removed.

“Now, John, do pray be careful and not hurt him much,”
cried Maggie, as she saw how pale and faint he was, while
even Hagar forgot the curled lip, which the young man bit
until the blood started through, so intense was his agony
when they lifted him upon the litter. “The camphor,
Hagar, the camphor,” said Maggie, and the stranger did
not push it aside when her hand poured it on his head; but
the laughing eyes, now dim with pain, smiled gratefully upon
her, and the quivering lips once murmured as she walked
beside him, “Heaven bless you, Maggie Miller!”

Arrived at Hagar's cottage, the old woman suggested
that he be carried in there, saying as she met Maggie's
questioning glance, “I can take care of him better than
any one else.”

The pain by this time was intolerable, and scarcely knowing
what he said, the stranger whispered, “Yes, yes, leave
me here.”

For a moment the bearers paused, while Maggie, bending
over the wounded man, said softly. “Can't you bear it a
little longer, until our house is reached? You'll be more
comfortable there. Grandma has gone to England, and I'll
take care of you myself!”

This last was perfectly in accordance with Maggie's frank,
impulsive character, and it had the desired effect. Henry
Warner would have borne almost death itself for the sake
of being nursed by the young girl beside him, and he signified
his willingness to proceed, while at the same time his
hand involuntarily grasped that of Maggie, as if in the
touch of her snowy fingers there were a mesmeric power to
soothe his pain. In the meantime a hurried consultation
had been held between Mrs. Jeffrey and Theo, as to the
room suitable for the stranger to be placed in.

“It's not likely he is much,” said Theo, “and if grandma
were here I presume she would assign him the chamber over
the kitchen. The wall is low on one side I know, but I dare
say he is not accustomed to anything better.”

Accordingly several articles of stray lumber were removed
from the chamber, which the ladies arranged with care, and
which, when completed, presented quite a respectable appearance.
But Maggie had no idea of putting her guest, as she
considered him, in the kitchen chamber; and when, as the
party entered the house, Mrs. Jeffrey, from the head of the
stairs, called out, “This way, Maggie, tell them to come
this way,” she waved her aside, and led the way to a large
airy room over the parlor, where, in a high, old fashioned
bed, surrounded on all sides by heavy damask curtains, they
laid the weary stranger. The village surgeon arriving soon

after, the fractured bones were set, and then, as perfect
quiet seemed necessary, the room was vacated by all save
Maggie, who glided noiselessly around the apartment,
while the eyes of the sick man followed her with eager,
admiring glances, so beautiful she looked to him in her new
capacity of nurse.

Henry Warner, as the stranger was called, was the junior
partner of the firm of Douglas & Co., Worcester, and
his object in visiting the Hillsdale neighborhood was to collect
several bills which for a long time had been due. He
had left the cars at the depot, and hiring a livery horse was
taking the shortest route from the east side of town to the
west, when he came accidentally upon Maggie Miller, and
as we have seen, brought his ride to a sudden close. All
this he told to her on the morning following the accident,
retaining until the last the name of the firm of which he
was a member.

“And you were once there at our store,” he said. “How
long ago?”

“Five years” answered Maggie, “when I was eleven,
and Theo thirteen;” then, looking earnestly at him she
exclaimed, “and you are the very one, the clerk with the
saucy eyes whom grandma disliked so much, because she
thought he made fun of her; but we didn't think so—Theo
and I,” she added hastily, as she saw the curious expression
on Henry's mouth, and fancied he might be displeased. “We
liked them both very much, and knew they must of course be
annoyed with grandma's English whims.”

For a moment the saucy eyes studied intently the fair
girlish face of Maggie Miller, then slowly closed, while a
train of thought something like the following passed through
the young man's mind; “a woman and yet a perfect child,
innocent and unsuspecting as little Rose herself. In one

respect they are alike, knowing no evil and expecting none;
and if I, Henry Warner, do aught by thought or deed to
injure this young girl, may I never again look on the light
of day or breathe the air of heaven.”

The vow had passed his lips. Henry Warner never broke
his word, and henceforth Maggie Miller was as safe with
him as if she had been an only and well beloved sister.
Thinking him to be asleep, Maggie started to leave the
room, but he called her back, saying. “Don't go; stay
with me, won't you?”

“Certainly,” she answered, drawing a chair to the bedside.
“I supposed you were sleeping.”

“I was not,” he replied. “I was thinking of you and of
Rose. Your voices are much alike. I thought of it yesterday
when I lay upon the rock.”

“Who is Rose?” trembled on Maggie's lips, while at the
sound of that name, she was conscious of the same undefinable
emotion she had once before experienced. But the question
was not asked. “If she were his sister he would tell
me,” she thought; “and if she is not his sister”—

She did not finish the sentence, neither did she understand
that if Rose to him was something dearer than a
sister, she, Maggie Miller, did not care to know it.

“Is she beautiful as her name, this Rose?” she asked at
last.

“She is beautiful, but not so beautiful as you. There are
few who are,” answered Henry; and his eyes fixed themselves
upon Maggie, to see how she would bear the compliment.

But she scarcely heeded it, so intent was she upon knowing
something more of the mysterious Rose. “She is beautiful,
you say. Will you tell me how she looks?” she continued;
and Henry Warner answered, “she is a frail, delicate

little creature, almost dwarfish in size, but perfect in
form and feature.”

Involuntarily Maggie shrunk back in her chair, wishing
her own queenly form had been a very trifle shorter, while
Mr. Warner continued, “She has a sweet, angel face, Maggie,
with eyes of lustrous blue, and curls of golden hair.”

“You must love her very dearly,” said Maggie, the tone
of her voice indicating a partial dread of what the answer
might be.

“I do indeed love her,” was Mr. Warner's reply, “love
her better than all the world beside. And she has made me
what I am; but for her, I should have been a worthless
dissipated fellow. It's my natural disposition; but Rose has
saved me, and I almost worship her for it. She is my good
angel—my darling—my”—

Here he paused abruptly, and leaning back upon his pillows
rather enjoyed than otherwise the look of disappointment
plainly visible on Maggie's face. She had fully expected to
learn who Rose was; but this knowledge he purposely kept
from her. It did not need a very close observer of human
nature, to read at a glance the ingenuous Maggie, whose
speaking face betrayed all she felt. She was unused to the
world. He was the first young gentleman whose acquaintshe
had ever made, and he knew that she already felt for
him a deeper interest than she supposed. To increase this
interest was his object, and this he thought to do by withholding
from her, for a time, a knowledge of the relation existing
between him and the Rose of whom he had talked so
much. The ruse was successful, for during the remainder
of the day, thoughts of the golden-haired Rose were running
through Maggie's mind, and it was late that night ere
she could compose herself to sleep, so absorbed was she in
wondering “what Rose was to Henry Warner. Not that

she cared particularly,” she tried to persuade herself; “but
she would like to be at ease upon that subject.”

To Theo she had communicated the fact, that their guest
was a partner of Douglas & Co. and this tended greatly to
raise the young man in the estimation of a young lady like
Theo Miller. Next to rank and station money was with her
the one thing necessary to make a person somebody. Douglas,
she had heard, was an immensely wealthy man; possibly
the junior partner was wealthy, too; and if so, the parlor
chamber, to which she had at first objected, was none too
good for his aristocratic bones. She would go herself and
see him in the morning.

Accordingly, on the morning of the second day she went
with Maggie to the sick room, speaking to the stranger for
the first time; but keeping still at a respectful distance,
until she should know something definite concerning him.

“We have met before, it seems,” he said, after the first
interchange of civilities was over; “but I did not think our
acquaintance would be renewed in this manner.”

No answer from Theo, who, like many others, had taken
a dislike to his mouth, and felt puzzled to know whether he
intended ridiculing her or not.

“I have a distinct recollection of your grandmother,” he
continued, “and now I think of it, I believe Douglas has
once or twice mentioned the elder of the two girls. That
must be you?” and he looked at Theo, whose face brightened
perceptibly.

“Douglas,” she repeated. “He is the owner of the
store, and the one I saw, with black eyes and black hair
was only a clerk.”

“The veritable man himself,” cried Mr. Warner. “George
Douglas, the senior partner of the firm, said by some to be
worth two hundred thousand dollars, and only twenty-eight

years old, and the best fellow in the world, except that he
pretends to dislike women.”

By this time, Theo's proud blue eyes shone with delight,
and when, after a little further conversation, Mr. Warner
expressed a wish to write to his partner, she brought her
own rose-wood writing-desk for him to use, and then seating
herself by the window, waited until the letter was
written.

“What shall I say for you, Miss Theo?” he asked, near
the close; and coloring slightly, she answered, “Invite him
to come out and see you.”

“Oh, that will be grand!” cried Maggie, who was far
more enthusiastic, though not more anxious than her sister.

Of her, Henry Warner did not ask any message. He
would not have written it had she sent one; and folding
the letter, after adding Theo's invitation, he laid it aside.

“I must write to Rose next,” he said, “'Tis a whole
week since I have written, and she has never been so long
without hearing from me.”

Instantly there came a shadow over Maggie's face, while
Theo, less scrupulous, asked, “who Rose was.”

“A very dear friend of mine,” said Henry, and, as Mrs.
Jeffrey just then sent for Theo, Maggie was left with him
alone.

“Wait one moment,” she said, as she saw him about to
commence the letter. “Wait till I bring you a sheet of
gilt-edged paper. It is more worthy of Rose, I fancy, than
the plainer kind.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I will tell her of your suggestion.”

The paper was brought, and then seating herself by the
window, Maggie looked out abstractedly, seeing nothing,
and hearing nothing save the sound of the pen, as it wrote

down words of love, for the gentle Rose. It was not a long
epistle; and, as at the close of the Douglas letter he had
asked a message from Theo, so now at the close of this, he
claimed one from Maggie.

“What shall I say for you?” he asked; and coming toward
him, Margaret answered, “Tell her I love her, though
I don't know who she is!”

“Why have you never asked me?” queried Henry, and
coloring crimson, Maggie answered hesitatingly, “I thought
you would tell me if you wished me to know.”

“Read this letter and that will explain who she is,” the
young man continued, offering the letter to Maggie, who,
grasping it eagerly, sat down opposite, so that every motion
of her face was visible to him.

The letter was as follows:

“Oh,” said Maggie, catching her breath, which for a
time had been partially suspended, “Oh;” and in that single
monosyllable, there was to the young man watching her,
a world of meaning. “She's your sister, this little Rose;”
and the soft dark eyes, flashed brightly upon him.

“What did you suppose her to be?” he asked, and Maggie
answered, “I thought she might be your wife, though I
should rather have her for a sister, if I were you.”

The young man smiled involuntarily, thinking to himself
how his fashionable city friends would be shocked at such
perfect frankness, which meant no more than their own
studied airs.

“You are a good girl, Maggie,” he said, at last, “and I
would not for the world deceive you; Rose is my step-sister.
We are in no way connected save by a marriage, still I love
her all the same. We were brought up together by a lady
who is aunt to both, and Rose seems to me like an own
dear sister. She has saved me from almost everything. I

once loved the wine cup; but her kindly words and gentle
influence won me back, so that now I seldom taste it. And
once I thought to run away to sea, but Rose found it out,
and meeting me at the gate, persuaded me to return. It is
wonderful, the influence she has over me, keeping my wild
spirits in check, and if I am ever anything, I shall owe it all
to her.”

“Does she live in Worcester?” asked Maggie; and Henry
answered, “No, in Leominster, which is not far distant. I
go home once a month, and I fancy I can see Rose now, just
as she looks when she comes tripping down the walk to
meet me, her blue eyes shining like stars, and her golden
curls blowing over her pale forehead. She is very, very
frail: and sometimes when I look upon her, the dread fear
steals over me, that there will come a time, ere long, when I
shall have no sister.”

There were tears in Maggie's eyes, tears for the fair young
girl whom she had never seen, and she felt a yearning desire
to look once on the beautiful face of her whom Henry Warner
called his sister. “I wish she would come here, I
want to see her,” she said, at last, and Henry replied, “She
does not go often from home. But I have her daguerreotype
in Worcester. I'll write to Douglas to bring it,” and
opening the letter, which was not yet sealed, he added a
few lines. “Come, Maggie,” he said, when this was finished,
“you need exercise. Suppose you ride over to the office
with these letters.”

Maggie would rather have remained with him: but she
expressed her willingness to go, and in a few moments was
seated on Gritty's back, with the two letters clasped firmly
in her hand. At one of these, the one bearing the name of
Rose Warner, she looked often and wistfully; “'twas a most
beautiful name,” she thought, “and she who bore it was

beautiful too.” And then there arose within her a wish,
shadowy and undefined to herself, it is true—but still a wish
that she, Maggie Miller, might one day call that gentle
Rose her sister. “I shall see her sometimes, any way, she
thought, “and this George Douglas, too. I wish they'd
visit us together,” and having by this time reached the
post office, she deposited the letters, and galloped rapidly
toward home.

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE SENIOR PARTNER.

The large establishment of Douglas & Co. was closed for
the night. The clerks had gone each to his own place;
old Safford, the poor relation, the man of all work, who
attended faithfully to everything, groaning often and praying
oftener, over the careless habits of “the boys,” as he
called the two young men, his employers, had sought his
comfortless bachelor attic, where he slept always with one
ear open, listening for any burglarious sound which might
come from the store below, and which had it come to him
listening thus, would have frightened him half to death.
George Douglas, too, the senior partner of the firm, had retired
to his own room, which was far more elegantly furnished than
that of the old man in the attic, and now in a velvet easy
chair, he sat reading the letter from Hillsdale, which had
arrived that evening, and a portion of which we subjoin for
the reader's benefit.

After giving an account of his accident, and the manner
in which it occurred, Warner continued:

For a time after reading the above, George Douglas sat
wrapt in thought, then bursting into a laugh as he thought
how much the letter was like the jovial, light-hearted fellow
who wrote it, he put it aside, and leaning back in his chair
mused long and silently, not of Theo, but of Maggie, half
wishing he were in Warner's place instead of being there in
the dusty city. But as this could not be, he contented himself
with thinking that at some time not far distant he would
visit the old stone house—would see for himself this wonderful
Maggie—and, though he had been warned against it,
would possibly win her from his friend, who, unconsciously
perhaps, had often crossed his path, watching him jealously
lest he should look too often and too long upon the fragile
Rose, blooming so sweetly in her bird's-nest of a home 'mong
the tall old trees of Leominster.

“But he need not fear,” he said somewhat bitterly, “he
need not fear for her, for it is over now. She has refused
me, this Rose Warner, and though it touched my pride to
hear her tell me no, I cannot hate her for it. `She had
given her love to another,' she said, and Warner is blind or
crazy that he does not see the truth. But it is not for me
to enlighten him. He may call her sister if he likes, though

there is no tie of blood between them. I'd far rather it
would be thus, than something nearer;” and slowly rising
up, George Douglas retired to dream of a calm, almost heavenly
face, which but the day before had been bathed in
tears as he told to Rose Warner the story of his love.
Mingled too with that dream was another face, a laughing,
sparkling, merry face, upon which no man ever yet had
looked and escaped with a whole heart.

The morning light dispelled the dream, and when in the
store old Safford inquired “what news from the boy?” the
senior partner answered gravely that he was lying among
the Hillsdale hills, with a broken leg caused by a fall from
his horse.

“Always was a careless rider,” muttered old Safford,
mentally deploring the increased amount of labor which
would necessarily fall upon him, but which he performed
without a word of complaint.

The fair May blossoms were faded, and the last June
roses were blooming ere George Douglas found time or inclination
to accept the invitation indirectly extended to him
by Theo Miller. Rose Warner's refusal had affected him
more than he chose to confess, and the wound must be
slightly healed ere he could find pleasure in the sight of
another. Possessed of many excellent qualities, he had unfortunately
fallen into the error of thinking that almost
any one whom he should select would take him for his
money. And when Rose Warner, sitting by his side in the
shadowy twilight, had said, “I cannot be your wife,” the
shock was sudden and hard to bear. But the first keen bitterness
was over now, and remembering “the wild girls of
the woods,” as he mentally styled both Theo and Maggie,
he determined at last to see them for himself.

Accordingly, on the last day of June, he started for Hillsdale,

where he intended to remain until after the 4th. To find
the old house was an easy matter, for almost every one in
town was familiar with its locality, and towards the close
of the afternoon, he found himself upon its broad steps applying
vigorous strokes to the ponderous brass knocker, and
half hoping the summons would be answered by Maggie herself.
But it was not, and in the bent, white-haired woman
who came with measured footsteps we recognize old Hagar,
who spent much of her time at the house, and who came to
the door in compliance with the request of the young ladies,
both of whom, from an upper window, were curiously watching
the stranger.

“Just the old witch one would expect to find in this out
of the way place,” thought Mr. Douglas; while at the same
time he asked “if this were Madam Conway's residence, and
if a young man by the name of Warner were staying here?”

“Another city beau!” muttered Hagar, as she answered
in the affirmative, and ushered him into the parlor. “Another
city beau—there'll be high carryings on now, if he's
anything like the other one, who's come mighty nigh turning
the house upside down.”

“What did you say?” asked George Douglas, catching
the sound of her muttering, and thinking she was addressing
himself.

“I wasn't speaking to you. I was talking to a likelier
person,” answered old Hagar, in an under tone, as she
shuffled away in quest of Henry Warner, who by this time
was able to walk with the help of a cane.

The meeting between the young men was a joyful one,
for though George Douglas was a little sore on the subject
of Rose, he would not suffer a matter like that to come between
him and Henry Warner, whom he had known and
liked from boyhood. Henry's first inquiries were naturally

of a business character, and then George Douglas spoke of
the young ladies, saying he was only anxious to see Mag,
for he knew of course, he should dislike the other.

Such, however, is wayward human nature, that the fair,
pale face, and quiet, dignified manner of Theo Miller had
greater attractions for a person of George Douglas's peculiar
temperament than had the dashing, brilliant Mag. There
was a resemblance, he imagined, between Theo and Rose,
and this of itself was sufficient to attract him towards her.
Theo, too, was equally pleased; and when, that evening,
Madam Jeffrey faintly interposed her fast departing authority,
telling her quondam pupils it was time they were asleep,
Theo did not, as usual, heed the warning, but sat very still
beneath the vine-wreathed portico, listening while George
Douglas told her of the world which she had never seen.
She was not proud towards him, for he possessed the charm
of money, and as he looked down upon her, conversing with
him so familiarly, he wondered how Henry could have called
her cold and haughty—she was merely dignified, high-bred, he
thought, and George Douglas liked anything which savored
of aristocracy.

Meanwhile, Henry and Mag had wandered to a little
summer-house, where, with the bright moonlight falling upon
them, they sat together, but not exactly as of old, for
Maggie did not now look up into his face as she was wont
to do, and if she thought his eye was resting upon her, she
moved uneasily, while the rich blood deepened on her cheek.
A change has come over Maggie Miller; it is the old story,
too—old to hundreds of thousands, but new to her, the
blushing maiden. Theo calls her nervous—Mrs. Jeffrey calls
her sick—the servants call her mighty queer—while old Hagar,
hovering ever near, and watching her with a jealous eye,
knows she is in love.

Faithfully and well had Hagar studied Henry Warner, to
see if there were aught in him of evil; and though he was
not what she would have chosen for the queenly Mag, she
was satisfied if Margaret loved him and he loved Margaret.
“But did he? He had never told her so;” and in Hagar
Warren's wild black eyes, there was a savage gleam, as she
thought, “he'll rue the day that he dares trifle with Maggie
Miller.”

But Henry Warner was not trifling with her. He was
only waiting a favorable opportunity for telling her the
story of his love; and now, as they sit together in the
moonlight, with the musical flow of the millstream falling
on his ear, he essays to speak—to tell how she has grown
into his heart; to ask her to go with him where he goes;
to make his home her home, and so be with him always;
but ere the first word was uttered, Maggie asked if Mr.
Douglas had brought the picture of his sister.

“Why, yes,” he answered, “I had forgotten it entirely.
Here it is;” and taking it from his pocket, he passed it to her.

It was a face of almost ethereal loveliness, which through
the moonlight looked up to Maggie Miller, and again she
experienced the same undefinable emotion, a mysterious,
invisible something, drawing her towards the original of the
beautiful likeness.

“It is strange how thoughts of Rose always affect me,”
she said, gazing earnestly upon the large eyes of blue,
shadowed forth upon the picture. “It seems as though she
must be nearer to me than an unknown friend.”

“Seems she like a sister?” asked Henry Warner, coming
so near that Maggie felt his warm breath upon her cheek.

“Yes, yes, that's it,” she answered, with something of her
olden frankness. “And had I somewhere in the world an
unknown sister, I should say it was Rose Warner!”

There were a few low, whispered words, and when the
full moon which for a time, had hidden itself behind the
clouds, again shone forth in all its glory, Henry had asked
Maggie Miller to be the sister of Rose Warner, and Maggie
had answered “yes!”

That night, in Maggie's dreams, there was a strange commingling
of thought. Thoughts of Henry Warner, as he
told her of his love—thoughts of the gentle girl whose eyes
of blue had looked so lovingly up to her, as if between them
there was indeed a common bond of sympathy—and
stranger far than all, thoughts of the little grave beneath
the pine, where slept the so-called child of Hester Hamilton
—the child defrauded of its birth-right, and who, in the misty
vagaries of dreamland, seemed alone to stand between her
and the beautiful Rose Warner!

8. CHAPTER VIII.
STARS AND STRIPES.

On the rude bench by her cabin door, sat Hagar Warren,
her black eyes peering out into the woods, and her
quick ear turned to catch the first sound of bounding footsteps,
which came at last, and Maggie Miller was sitting by
her side.

“What is it, darling?” Hagar asked, and her shrivelled
hand smoothed, caressingly, the silken hair, as she looked
into the glowing face of the young girl and half guessed
what was written there.

To Theo, Mag had whispered the words, “I am engaged,”
and Theo had coldly answered, “Pshaw? Grandma will
quickly break that up. Why, Henry Warner is comparatively
poor. Mr. Douglas told me so, or rather I quizzed
him until I found it out. He says, though, that Henry has
rare business talents, and he could not do without him.”

To the latter part of Theo's remark, Maggie paid little
heed; but the mention of her grandmother troubled her.
She would oppose it, Mag was sure of that, and it was to
talk on this very subject she had come to Hagar's cottage.

“Just the way I s'posed it would end,” said Hagar, when
Mag, with blushing, half-averted face, told the story of her
engagement; “Just the way I s'posed 'twould end, but I
didn't think 'twould be so quick.”

“Two months and a half is a great while, and then we
have been together so much,” replied Maggie, at the
same time asking if Hagar did not approve her choice.

“Henry Warner's well enough,” answered Hagar. “I've
watched him close and see no evil in him; but he isn't the
one for you, nor are you the one for him. You are both too
wild, too full of fun, and if yoked together will go to destruction,
I know. You need somebody to hold you back,
and so does he.”

Involuntarily, Maggie thought of Rose, mentally resolving
to be, if possible, more like her.

“You are not angry with me?” said Hagar, observing
Maggie's silence. “You asked my opinion, and I gave it to
you. You are too young to know who you like. Henry
Warner is the first man you ever knew, and, in two years'
time you'll tire of him.”

“Tire of him, Hagar? Tire of Henry Warner!” cried
Mag, a little indignantly. “You do not know me, if you
think I'll ever tire of him; and then, too, did I tell you
grandma keeps writing to me about a Mr. Carrollton, who
she says is wealthy, fine looking, highly educated, and very
aristocratic, and that last makes me hate him! I've heard
so much about aristocracy, that I'm sick of it, and just for
that reason I would not have this Mr. Carrollton, if I knew
he'd make me Queen of England. But grandma's heart is
set upon it, I know, and she thinks of course he would marry
me—says he is delighted with my daguerreotype—that awful
one, too, with the staring eyes. In grandma's last letter,
he sent me a note. 'Twas beautifully written, and I
dare say he is a fine young man, at least he talks common
sense, but I shan't answer it; and if you'll believe me, I used
part of it in lighting Henry's cigar, and with the rest I shall
light fire-crackers on the 4th of July; Henry has bought a

lot of them, and we're going to have fun. How grandma
would scold!—but I shall marry Henry Warner, any way.
Do you think she will oppose me, when she sees how determined
I am?”

“Of course she will,” answered Hagar, “I know these
Carrolltons; they are a haughty race, and if your grandmother
has one of them in view she'll turn you from her
door sooner than see you married to another, and an American,
too.”

There was a moment's silence, and then with an unnatural
gleam in her eye, old Hagar turned towards Mag, and
grasping her shoulder, said, “If she does this thing, Maggie
Miller—if she casts you off, will you take me for your grandmother?
Will you let me live with you? I'll be your
drudge, your slave; say, Maggie, may I go with you?
Will you call me grandmother? I'd willingly die if only
once I could hear you speak to me thus, and know it was in
love.”

For a moment Mag looked at her in astonishment; then
thinking to herself, “She surely is half-crazed,” she answered
laughingly, “Yes, Hagar, if grandma casts me off,
you may go with me. I shall need your care, but I can't
promise to call you grandma, because you know you are
not.”

The corners of Hagar's mouth worked nervously, but her
teeth shut firmly over the thin, white lip, forcing back the
wild words trembling there, and the secret was not told.

“Go home, Maggie Miller,” she said, at last, rising slowly
to her feet. “Go home now, and leave me alone. I am
willing you should marry Henry Warner, nay, I wish you to
do it; but you must remember your promise.”

Maggie was about to answer, when her thoughts were
directed to another channel by the sight of George Douglas

and Theo, coming slowly down the shaded pathway, which
led past Hagar's door. Old Hagar saw them, too, and,
whispering to Maggie, said, “there's another marriage brewing,
or the signs do not tell true, and madam will sanetion
this one, too, for there's money there, and gold can purify
any blood.”

Ere Maggie could reply, Theo called out, “you here,
Mag, as usual?” adding, aside, to her companion, “she has
the most unaccountable taste, so different from me, who
cannot endure anything low and vulgar. Can you? But I
need not ask,” she continued, “for your associations have
been of a refined nature.”

George Douglas did not answer, for his thoughts were
back in the brown farmhouse at the foot of the hill, where
his boyhood was passed, and he wondered what the high-bred
lady at his side would say if she could see the sunburnt
man and plain, old-fashioned woman, who called him
their son, George Washington! He would not confess that
he was ashamed of his parentage, for he tried to be a kind
and dutiful child, but he would a little rather that Theo Miller
should not know how democratic had been his early
training. So he made no answer, but, addressing himself
to Mag, asked “how she could find it in her heart to leave
her patient so long?”

“I'm going back directly,” she said, and donning her flat,
she started for home, thinking she had gained but little
satisfaction from Hagar, who, as Douglas and Theo passed
on, resumed her seat by the door, and listening to the sound
of Margaret's retreating footsteps, muttered, “the old lightheartedness
is gone. There are shadows gathering round
her; for once in love, she'll never be as free and joyous
again. But it can't be helped; it's the destiny of women,
and I only hope this Warner is worthy of her, but he ain't

He's too wild—too full of what Hagar Warren calls bedevilment.
And Mag does everything he tells her to do. Not
content with tearing down his bed-curtains, which have hung
there full twenty years, she's set things all cornerwise,
because the folks do so in Worcester, and has turned the
parlor into a smoking room, till all the air of Hillsdale can't
take away that tobacco scent. Why, it almost knocks me
down!” and the old lady groaned aloud, as she recounted
to herself the recent innovations upon the time-honored
habits of her mistress's house.

Henry Warner was, indeed, rather a fast young man, but
it needed the suggestive presence of George Douglas to
bring out his true character; and for the four days succeeding
the arrival of the latter, there were rare doings at the
old stone house, where the astonished and rather delighted
servants looked on in amazement, while the young men sang
their jovial songs and drank of the rare old wine, which Mag,
utterly fearless of what her grandmother might say, brought
from the cellar below. But when, on the morning of the
4th, Henry Warner suggested that they have a celebration,
or, at least, hang out the American flag by way of showing
their patriotism, there were signs of rebellion in the kitchen,
while even Mrs. Jeffrey, who had long since ceased to interfere,
felt it her duty to remonstrate. Accordingly, she
descended to the parlor, where she found George Douglas
and Mag dancing to the tune of Yankee Doodle, which
Theo played upon the piano, while Henry Warner whistled
a most stirring accompaniment! To be heard above that
din was impossible, and involuntarily patting her own slippered
foot to the lively strain, the distressed little lady went
back to her room, wondering what Madam Conway would
say if she knew how her house was being desecrated.

But Madam Conway did not know. She was three

thousand miles away, and with this distance between them,
Maggie dared do anything; so when the flag was again
mentioned, she answered apologetically, as if it were something
of which they ought to be ashamed: “We never had
any, but we can soon make one, I know. 'Twill be fun to
see it float from the house-top!” and, flying up the stairs
to the dusty garret, she drew from a huge oaken chest, a
scarlet coat, which had belonged to the former owner of the
place, who little thought, as he sat in state, that his
favorite coat would one day furnish materials for the
emblem of American freedom!

No such thought as this, however, obtruded itself upon
Mag, as she bent over the chest. “The coat is of no use,” she
said, and gathering it up, she ran back to the parlor, where,
throwing it across Henry's lap, she told how it had belonged
to her great-great-grandfather, who, at the time of
the Revolution, went home to England. The young men
exchanged a meaning look, and then burst into a laugh, but
the cause of their merriment they did not explain, lest the
prejudices of the girls should be aroused.

“This is just the thing,” said Henry, entering heart and
soul into the spirit of the fun. “This is grand. Can't
you find some blue for the ground-work of the stars?”

Mag thought a moment, and then exclaimed, “Oh, yes,
I have it, grandma has a blue satin bodice, which she wore
when she was a young lady. She once gave me a part of
the back for my dolly's dress. She won't care if I cut up
the rest for a banner.”

“Of course not,” answered George Douglas. “She'll be
glad to have it used for such a laudable purpose,” and walking
to the window, he laughed heartily as he saw in fancy
the wrath of the proud English woman, when she learned
the use to which her satin bodice had been appropriated.

The waist was brought in a twinkling, and then, when
Henry asked for some white, Mag cried, “A sheet will be
just the thing—one of grandma's small linen ones. It
won't hurt it a bit,” she added, as she saw a shadow on
Theo's brow, and, mounting to the top of the high chest
of drawers, she brought out a sheet of finest linen, which,
with rose leaves, and fragrant herbs, had been carefully
packed away.

It was a long, delightful process, the making of that banner,
and Maggie's voice rang out loud and clear, as she saw
how cleverly Henry Warner managed the shears, cutting
the red coat into stripes. The arrangement of the satin
fell to Maggie's lot, and, while George Douglas made the
stars, Theo looked on, a little doubtfully, not that her nationality
was in any way affected, for what George Douglas sanctioned
was by this time right with her; but she felt some misgiving
as to what her grandmother might say; and thinking
if she did nothing but look on and laugh, the blame would
fall on Mag, she stood aloof, making occasionally a suggestion,
and seeming as pleased as any one, when, at last,
the flag was done. A quilting frame served as a flag-staff,
and Mag was chosen to plant it upon the top of the house,
where was a cupola, or miniature tower, overlooking the
surrounding country. Leading to this tower was a narrow
staircase, and up these stairs Mag bore the flag, assisted by
one of the servant girls, whose birth-place was green Erin,
and whose broad, good-humored face shone with delight,
as she fastened the pole securely in its place, and then shook
aloft her checked apron, in answer to the cheer which came
up from below, when first the American banner waved over
the old stone house.

Attracted by the noise, and wondering what fresh mischief
they were doing, Mrs. Jeffrey went out into the yard

just in time to see the flag of freedom as it shook itself out
in the summer breeze.

“Heaven help me!” she ejaculated; “Stars and Stripes,
on Madam Conway's house!” and resolutely shutting her
eyes, lest they should look again, on what to her seemed
sacrilege, she groped her way back to the house, and retiring
to her room, wrote to Madam Conway an exaggerated
account of the proceedings, bidding her hasten home, or
Mag and Theo would be ruined.

The letter being written, the good lady felt better—so
much better, indeed, that after an hour's deliberation she
concluded not to send it, inasmuch as it contained many
complaints against the young lady Margaret, who she knew
was sure in the end to find favor in her grandmother's eyes.
This was the first time Mrs. Jeffrey had attempted a letter
to her employer, for Maggie had been the chosen correspondent,
Theo affecting to dislike anything like letter-writing.
On the day previous to Henry Warner's arrival at the
stone house, Mag had written to her grandmother, and ere
the time came for her to write again, she had concluded to
keep his presence there a secret: so Madam Conway was,
as yet, ignorant of his existence; and while in the homes of
the English nobility, she bore herself like a royal princess,
talking to young Arthur Carrollton of her beautiful grandaughter,
she little dreamed of the real state of affairs at
home.

But it was not for Mrs. Jeffrey to enlighten her, and tearing
her letter in pieces, the governess sat down in her easy-chair
by the window, mentally congratulating herself upon
the fact that “the two young savages,” as she styled Douglas
and Warner, were to leave on the morrow. This last
act of theirs, the hoisting of the banner, had been the culminating
point, and too indignant to sit with them at the

same table, she resolutely kept her room throughout the
entire day, poring intently over “Baxter's Saint's Rest,”
her favorite volume when at all flurried or excited. Occasionally,
too, she would stop her ears with jeweller's cotton, to
shut out the sound of Hail Columbia as it came up to her
from the parlor below, where the young men were doing
their best to show their patriotism.

Towards evening, alarmed by a whizzing sound, which
seemed to be often repeated, and wishing to know the cause,
she stole half way down the stairs, when the mischievous
Mag greeted her with a serpent, which hissing beneath her
feet, sent her quickly back to her room, from which she did
not venture again. Mrs. Jeffrey was very good natured,
and reflecting that “young folks must have fun,” she became
at last comparatively calm, and at an early hour sought her
pillow. But thoughts of “stars and stripes” waving directly
over her head, as she knew they were, made her nervous,
and the long clock struck the hour of two, while she was
yet restless and wakeful.

“Maybe the Saint's Rest will quiet me a trifle,” she
thought, and striking a light, she attempted to read; but in
vain, for every word was a star, every line a stripe, and
every leaf a flag. Shutting the book and hurriedly pacing
the floor, she exclaimed, “It's of no use trying to sleep, or
meditate either. Baxter himself couldn't do it with that
thing over his head, and I mean to take it down. It's a
duty I owe to King George's memory, and to Madam Conway;”
and stealing from her room, she groped her way up
the dark, narrow stairway, until emerging into the bright
moonlight, she stood directly beneath the American banner,
waving so gracefully in the night wind. “It's a clever
enough device,” she said, gazing rather admiringly at it.
“And I'd let it be if I s'posed I could sleep a wink; but I

can't. It's worse for my nerves than strong green tea, and
I'll not lie awake for all the Yankee flags in Christendom;”
so saying, the resolute little woman tugged at the quilt-frame
until she loosened it from its fastenings, and then
started to return.

But, alas! the way was narrow and dark, the banner was
large and cumbersome, while the lady that bore it was nervous
and weak. It is not strange, then, that Maggie, who
slept at no great distance, was awakened by a tremendous
crash, as of some one falling the entire length of the tower
stairs, while a voice, frightened and faint, called out, “Help
me, Margaret, do! I am dead! I know I am!”

Striking a light, Maggie hurried to the spot, while her
merry laugh aroused the servants, who came together in a
body. Stretched upon the floor, with one foot thrust
entirely through the banner, which was folded about her
so that the quilt-frame lay directly upon her bosom, was
Mrs. Jeffrey, the broad frill of her cap standing up erect,
and herself asserting with every breath that “she was dead
and buried, she knew she was.”

“Wrapped in a winding sheet, I'll admit,” said Maggie,
“but not quite dead, I trust;” and putting down her light,
she attempted to extricate her governess, who continued to
apologize for what she had done. “Not that I cared so
much about your celebrating America; but I couldn't sleep
with the thing over my head; I was going to put it back in
the morning before you were up. There! there! careful!
It's broken short off!” she screamed, as Maggie tried to release
her foot from the rent in the linen sheet, a rent which
the frightened woman persisted in saying, “she could darn
as good as new,” while at the same time she implored of
Maggie to handle carefully her ankle, which had been
sprained by the fall.

Maggie's recent experience in broken bones had made her
quite an adept, and taking the slight form of Mrs. Jeffrey in
her arms, she carried her back to her room, where growing
more quiet, the old lady told her how she happened to fall,
saying, “she never thought of stumbling, until she fancied
that Washington and all his regiment were after her, and
when she turned her head to see, she lost her footing, and
fell.

Forcing back her merriment, which in spite of herself
would occasionally burst forth, Maggie made her teacher as
comfortable as possible, and then staid with her until morning,
when, leaving her in charge of a servant, she went below
to say farewell to her guests. Between George Douglas
and Theo, there were a few low spoken words, she
granting him permission to write, while he promised to visit
her again in the early autumn. He had not yet talked to
her of love, for Rose Warner had still a home in his heart,
and she must be dislodged ere another could take her place.
But his affection for her was growing gradually less. Theo
suited him well, her family suited him better, and when at
parting he took her hand in his, he resolved to ask her for
it, when next he came to Hillsdale.

Meanwhile, between Henry Warner and Maggie there
was a far more affectionate farewell, he whispering to her
of a time not far distant, when he would claim her as his
own, and she should go with him. He would write to her
every week, he said, and Rose should write, too. He would
see her in a few days, and tell her of his engagement, which
he knew would please her.

“Let me send her a line,” said Maggie, and on a tiny
sheet of paper, she wrote, “Dear Rose: Are you willing
I should be your sister, Maggie?”

Half an hour later, and Hagar Warren, coming through

the garden gate, looked after the carriage which bore the
gentlemen to the depot, muttering to herself, “I'm glad the
high bucks have gone. A good riddance to them both.”

In her disorderly chamber, too, Mrs. Jeffrey hobbled on
one foot to the window, where, with a deep sigh of relief,
she sent after the young men a not very complimentary
adieu, which was echoed in part by the servants below,
while Theo, on the piazza, exclaimed against “the lonesome
old house, which was never so lonesome before,” and Maggie
seated herself upon the stairs and cried!

9. CHAPTER IX.
ROSE WARNER.

Nestled among the tall old trees which skirt the borders
of Leominster village, was the bird's-nest of a cottage, which
Rose Warner called her home, and which, with its wealth of
roses, its trailing vines and flowering shrubs, seemed fitted
for the abode of one like her. Slight as a child twelve summers
old, and fair as the white pond lily, when first to the
morning sun it unfolds its delicate petals, she seemed too
frail for earth, and both her aunt and he whom she called
brother, watched carefully lest the cold north wind should
blow too rudely on the golden curls, which shaded her childish
brow. Very, very beautiful was little Rose, and yet
few ever looked upon her without a feeling of sadness; for
in the deep blue of her eyes, there was a mournful, dreamy
look, as if the shadow of some great sorrow were resting
thus early upon her.

And Rose Warner had a sorrow, too, a grief which none
save one had ever suspected. To him it had come with the
words, “I cannot be your wife, for I love another; one who
will never know how dear he is to me.”

The words were involuntarily spoken, and George Douglas,
looking down upon her, guessed rightly that he “who
would never know how much he was beloved,” was Henry
Warner. To her the knowledge that Henry was something
dearer than a brother had come slowly, filling her heart

with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to
his bosom, as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow,
he thought of her only as a brother thinks of a beautiful
and idolized sister. It had heretofore been some consolation
to know that his affections were untrammelled with thoughts
of another, that she alone was the object of his love, and
hope had sometimes faintly whispered of what perchance
might be; but from that dream she was waking now, and
her face grew whiter still, as there came to her from time
to time letters fraught with praises of Margaret Miller; and
if in Rose Warner's nature, there had been a particle of bitterness,
it would have been called forth toward one who,
she foresaw, would be her rival. But Rose knew no malice,
and she felt that she would sooner die than do aught to mar
the happiness of Maggie Miller.

For nearly two weeks she had not heard from Henry, and
she was beginning to feel very anxious, when one morning,
two or three days succeeding the memorable Hillsdale celebration,
as she sat in a small arbor so thickly overgrown with
the Michigan rose as to render her invisible at a little distance,
she was startled by hearing him call her name, as he
came in quest of her down the garden walk. The next moment
he held her in his arms, kissing her forehead, her lips,
her cheek; then holding her off, he looked to see if there
had been in her aught of change since last they met.

“You are paler than you were, Rose darling,” he said,
“and your eyes look as if they had of late been used to tears.
What is it dearest? What troubles you?”

Rose could not answer immediately, for his sudden coming
had taken away her breath, and as he saw a faint blush
stealing over her face, he continued, “Can it be my little
sister has been falling in love during my absence?”

Never before had he spoken to her thus; but a change

had come over him, his heart was full of a beautiful image,
and fancying Rose might have followed his example, he
asked her the question he did, without, however, expecting
or receiving a definite answer.

“I am so lonely, Henry, when you are gone and do not
write to me!” she said; and in the tones of her voice, there
was a slight reproof which Henry felt keenly.

He had been so engrossed with Maggie Miller, and the
free joyous life he led in the Hillsdale woods, that for a time
he had neglected Rose, who, in his absence, depended so
much on his letters for comfort.

“I have been very selfish, I know,” he said; “but I was
so happy, that for a time I forgot everything save Maggie
Miller.”

An involuntary shudder ran through Rose's slender form;
but conquering her emotion, she answered calmly. “What
of this Maggie Miller? Tell me of her, will you?”

Winding his arm around her waist, and drawing her
closely to his side, Henry Warner rested her head upon his
bosom, where it had often lain, and smoothing her golden
curls, told her of Maggie Miller, of her queenly beauty, of
her dashing, independent spirit; her frank, ingenuous manner;
her kindness of heart, and last of all, bending very low, lest
the vine leaves and the fair blossoms of the rose should
hear, he told her of his love, and Rose, the fairest flower of
all which bloomed around that bower, clasped her hand upon
her heart, lest he should see its wild throbbings, and forcing
back the tears which moistened her long eyelashes, listened
to the knell of all her hopes. Henceforth her love for
him must be an idle mockery, and the time would come,
when to love him as she loved him then, would be a sin, a
wrong to herself, a wrong to him, and a wrong to Maggie
Miller.

“You are surely not asleep,” he said at last, as she made
him no reply, and bending forward, he saw the tear drops
resting on her cheek. “Not asleep, but weeping!” he exclaimed.
“What is it, darling? What troubles you?”
And lifting up her head, Rose Warren answered, “I was
thinking how this new love of yours would take you from me
and I should be alone.”

“No, not alone,” he said, wiping her tears away. “Maggie
and I have arranged that matter. You are to live with
us, and instead of losing me, you are to gain another—
a sister, Rose. You have often wished you had one,
and you could surely find none worthier than Maggie
Miller.”

“Will she watch over you, Henry? Will she be to you
what your wife should be?” asked Rose; and Henry
answered, “She is not at all like you, my little sister. She
relies implicitly upon my judgment; so you see I shall need
your blessed influence all the same, to make me what your
brother and Maggie's husband ought to be.”

“Did she send me no message?” asked Rose; and taking
out the tiny note, Henry passed it to her, just as his aunt
called to him from the house, whither he went, leaving her
alone.

There were blinding tears in Rose's eyes as she read the
few lines, and involuntarily she pressed her lips to the paper,
which she knew had been touched by Maggie Miller's hands.

“My sister,—sister Maggie,” she repeated, and at the
sound of that name her fast-beating heart grew still, for
they seemed very sweet to her, those words “my sister,”
thrilling her with a new and strange emotion, and awakening
within her a germ of the deep, undying love; she was
yet to feel for her who had traced those words, and asked
to be her sister, “I will do right,” she thought, “I will

conquer this foolish heart of mine, or break it in the struggle,
and Henry Warner shall never know how sorely it was
wrung.”

The resolution gave her strength, and rising up, she too
sought the house, where, retiring to her room, she penned a
hasty note to Maggie, growing calmer with each word she
wrote.

The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother,
who, after its perusal, kissed her saying, “It is right, my

darling. I will send it to-morrow with mine; and now for
a ride. I will see what a little exercise can do for you. I
do not like the color of your face.”

But neither the fragrant summer air, nor yet the presence
of Henry Warner, who tarried several days, could rouse
the drooping Rose; and when at last she was left alone,
she sought her bed, where for many weeks she hovered between
life and death, while her brother and her aunt hung
over her pillow, and Maggie, from her woodland home, sent
many an anxious inquiry and message of love to the sick
girl. In the close atmosphere of his counting-room, George
Douglas, too, again battled manfully with his olden love,
listening each day to hear that she was dead. But not thus
early was Rose to die, and with the waning summer days
she came slowly back to life. More beautiful than ever,
because more ethereal and fair, she walked the earth like
one who, having struggled with a mighty sorrow, had won
the victory at last; and Henry Warner, when he looked on
her sweet, placid face, and listened to her voice as she made
plans for the future, when “Maggie would be his wife,”
dreamed not of the grave hidden in the deep recesses of
her heart, where grew no flower of hope or semblance of
earthly joy.

Thus little know mankind of each other!

10. CHAPTER X.
EXPECTED GUESTS.

On the Hillsdale hills the October sun was shining, and
the forest trees were donning their robes of scarlet and
brown, when again the old stone house presented an air of
joyous expectancy. The large, dark parlors were thrown
open, the best chambers were aired, the bright, autumnal
flowers were gathered and in tastefully arranged bouquets
adorned the mantels, while Theo and Maggie, in their best
attire, flitted uneasily from room to room, running sometimes
to the gate to look down the grassy road, which led from
the highway, and again mounting the tower stairs to obtain
a more extended view.

In her pleasant apartment, where last we left her with a
sprained ankle, Mrs. Jeffrey, too, fidgeted about, half sympathizing
with her pupils in their happiness, and half regretting
the cause of that happiness, which was the expected
arrival of George Douglas and Henry Warner, who,
true to their promise, were coming again “to try for a
week the Hillsdale air, and retrieve their character as fast
young men.” So, at least, they told Mrs. Jeffrey, who,
mindful of her exploit with the banner and wishing to make
some amends, met them alone on the threshold, Maggie having
at the last moment ran away, while Theo sat in a state
of dignified perturbation upon the sofa.

A few days prior to their arrival, letters had been received
from Madam Conway, saying she should probably remain in
England two or three weeks longer, and thus the house was
again clear to the young men, who, forgetting to retrieve
their characters, fairly outdid all they had done before. The
weather was remarkably clear and bracing, and the greater
part of each day was spent in the open air, either in fishing,
riding, or hunting; Maggie teaching Henry Warner how to
ride and leap, while he in turn taught her to shoot a bird
upon the wing, until the pupil was equal to her master! In
these out-door excursions George Douglas and Theo did
not always join, for he had something to say, which he
would rather tell her in the silent parlor, and which, when
told, furnished food for many a quiet conversation; so
Henry and Maggie rode oftentimes alone; and old Hagar,
when she saw them dashing past her door, Maggie usually
taking the lead, would shake her head and mutter to herself.
`'Twill never do—that match. He ought to hold her back,
instead of leading her on. I wish Madam Conway would
come home and end it.”

Mrs. Jeffrey wished so too, as night after night her slumbers
were disturbed by the sounds of merriment which came
up to her from the parlor below, where the young people
were “enjoying themselves,” as Maggie said, when reproved
for the noisy revel. The day previous to the one set for
their departure chanced to be Henry Warner's twenty-seventh
birth-day, and this Maggie resolved to honor with an extra
supper, which was served at an unusually late hour in the
dining-room, the door of which opened out upon a closely
latticed piazza.

“I wish we could think of something new to do,” said
Maggie as she presided at the table, “something real funny;”
then, as her eyes fell upon the dark piazza, where a single

light was burning dimly; sheexclaimed, “Why can't we
get up tableaux? There are heaps of the queerest clothes in
the big oaken chest in the garret. The servants can be
audience, and they need some recreation!”

The suggestion was at once approved, and in half an
hour's time the floor was strewn with garments of every conconceivable
fashion, from long stockings and small-clothes
to scarlet cloaks and gored skirts, the latter of which were
immediately donned by Henry Warner, to the infinite delight
of the servants, who enjoyed seeing the grotesque costumes,
even if they did not exactly understand what the
tableaux were intended to represent. The banner, too, was
brought out, and after bearing a conspicuous part in the performance,
was placed at the end of the dining-room, where
it would be the first thing visible to a person opening the
door opposite. At a late hour the servants retired, and
then George Douglas, who took kindly to the luscious old
wine, which Maggie again had brought from her grandmother's
choicest store, filled a goblet to the brim, and
pledging first the health of the young girls, drank to “the
old lady across the water,” with whose goods they were
thus making free!

Henry Warner rarely tasted wine, for though miles away
from Rose, her influence was around him—so, filling his
glass with water, he, too, drank to the wish that “the lady
across the sea would remain there yet awhile, or at all events
not stumble upon us to-night!”

“What if she should!” thought Maggie, glancing around
at the different articles scattered all over the floor, and
laughing as she saw in fancy her grandmother's look of dismay,
should she by any possible chance obtain a view of the
room, where perfect order and quiet had been went to reign.

But the good lady was undoubtedly taking her morning

nap on the shores of old England. There was no danger to
be apprehended from her unexpected arrival, they thought;
and just as the clock struck one, the young men sought their
rooms, greatly to the relief of Mrs. Jeffrey, who in her long
night robes, with streaming candle in hand, had more than
a dozen times leaned over the banister, wondering “if the
carouse would ever end.”

It did end at last, and tired and sleepy, Theo went
directly to her chamber, while Maggie staid below, thinking
to arrange matters a little, for their guests were to leave on
the first train, and she had ordered an early breakfast.
But it was a hopeless task, the putting of that room to
rights; and trusting much to the good nature of the housekeeper,
she finally gave it up and went to bed, forgetting in
her drowsiness to fasten the outer door, or yet to extinguish
the lamp which burned upon the side-board.

11. CHAPTER XI.
UNEXPECTED GUESTS.

At the delightful country seat of Arthur Carrollton, Madam
Conway had passed many pleasant days, and was fully
intending to while away several more, when an unexpected
summons from his father made it necessary for the young
man to go immediately to London, and as an American
steamer was about to leave the port of Liverpool, Madam
Conway determined to start for home at once. Accordingly
she wrote for Anna Jeffrey, whom she had promised to take
with her, to meet her in Liverpool, and a few days previous
to the arrival of George Douglas and Henry Warner at
Hillsdale, the two ladies embarked with an endless variety
of luggage, to say nothing of Miss Anna's guitar-case, bird-cage
and favorite lap-dog “Lottie.”

Once fairly on the sea, Madam Conway became exceedingly
impatient and disagreeable, complaining both of fare
and speed, and at length came on deck one morning with
the firm belief that something dreadful had happened to
Maggie! She was dangerously sick, she knew, for never
but once before had she been visited with a like presentiment,
and that was just before her daughter died. Then it
came to her just as this had done, in her sleep, and very
nervously the lady paced the vessel's deck, counting the
days as they passed, and almost weeping for joy when told

Boston was in sight. Immediately after landing, she made
inquiries as to when the next train passing Hillsdale station
would leave the city, and though it was midnight, she
resolved at all hazards to go on, for if Maggie were really
ill, there was no time to be lost!

Accordingly, when at four o'clock A.M. Maggie, who
was partially awake, heard in the distance the shrill scream
of the engine, as the night express thundered through the
town, she little dreamed of the boxes, bundles, trunks and
bags, which lined the platform of Hillsdale station, nor yet
of the resolute woman in brown, who persevered until a rude
one horse wagon was found in which to transport herself and
her baggage to the old stone house. The driver of the vehicle
in which, under ordinary circumstances, Madam Conway
would have scorned to ride, was a long, lean, half-witted
fellow, utterly unfitted for his business. Still, he managed
quite well until they turned into the grassy by-road, and
Madam Conway saw through the darkness the light which
Maggie had inadvertently left within the dining-room!

There was no longer a shadow of uncertainty; “Margaret
was dead,” and the lank Tim was ordered to drive
faster, or the excited woman, perched on one of her travelling
trunks, would be obliged to foot it! A few vigorous
strokes of the whip set the sorrel horse into a canter, and as
the night was dark, and the road wound round among the
trees, it is not at all surprising that Madam Conway, with
her eye still on the beacon light, found herself seated rather
unceremoniously in the midst of a brush heap, her goods and
chattels rolling promiscuously around her, while lying across
a log, her right hand clutching at the bird-cage, and her
left grasping the shaggy hide of Lottie, who yelled most
furiously, was Anna Jeffrey, half blinded with mud, and bitterly
denouncing American drivers and Yankee roads! To

gather themselves together was not an easy matter, but the
ten pieces were at last all told, and then, holding up her
skirts, bedraggled with dew, Madam Conway resumed her
seat in the wagon, which was this time driven in safety to
her door. Giving orders for her numerous boxes to be
safely bestowed, she hastened forward and soon stood upon
the threshold.

“Great Heaven!” she exclaimed, starting backward so
suddenly that she trod upon the foot of Lottie, who again
sent forth an outcry, which Anna Jeffrey managed to choke
down. “Is this bedlam or what?” and stepping out upon
the piazza, she looked to see if the blundering driver had
made a mistake. But no, it was the same old grey stone
house she had left some months before; and again pressing
boldly forward, she took the lamp from the side-board, and
commenced to reconnoitre. “My mother's wedding dress,
as I live! and her scarlet broadcloth, too!” she cried, holding
to view the garments which Henry Warner had thrown
upon the arm of the long settee. A turban or cushion,
which she recognized as belonging to her grandmother, next
caught her view, together with the small-clothes of her sire.

“The entire contents of the oaken chest,” she continued, in a
tone far from being calm and cool. “What can have happened!
It's some of that crazy Hagar's work, I know.
I'll have her put in the”—but whatever the evil was
which threatened Hagar Warren, it was not defined by
words, for at that moment the indignant lady caught sight
of an empty bottle, which she instantly recognized as having
held her very oldest, choicest wine. “The Lord help me!”
she cried, “I've been robbed;” and grasping the bottle by
the neck, she leaned up against the banner which she had
not yet descried.

“In the name of wonder, what's this?” she almost

screamed, as the full blaze of the lamp fell upon the flag,
revealing the truth at once, and partially stopping her
breath.

Robbery was nothing to insult, and forgetting entirely the
wine, she gasped, “stars and stripes in this house! In the
house of my grandfather, as loyal a subject as King George
ever boasted! What can Margaret be doing to suffer a
thing like this?”

A few steps further on, and Margaret herself might have
been seen peering out into the darkened upper hall, and
listening anxiously to her grandmother's voice. The sound
of the rattling old wagon had aroused her, and curious to
know who was stirring at this early hour, she had cautiously
opened her window, which overlooked the piazza, and to her
great dismay, had recognized her grandmother as she gave
orders concerning her baggage. Flying back to her room,
she awoke her sister, who, springing up in bed, whispered
faintly, “Will she kill us dead, Maggie? Will she kill us
dead?”

“Pshaw! no,” answered Maggie, her own courage rising
with Theo's fears. “She'll have to scold a spell, I suppose,
but I can coax her, I know!”

By this time the old lady was ascending the stairs, and
closing the door, Maggie applied her eye to the key-hole,
listening breathlessly for what might follow. George Douglas
and Henry Warner occupied separate rooms, and their
boots were now standing outside their doors, ready for the
chore boy, Jim, who thus earned a quarter every day.
Stumbling first upon the pair belonging to George Douglas,
the lady took them up, ejaculating, “Boots! boots! Yes,
men's boots, as I'm a living woman! The like was never
seen by me before in this hall. Another pair!” she continued,
as her eye fell on those of Henry Warner. “Another

pair, and in the best chamber, too! What will come next?”
And setting down her light, she wiped the drops of perspiration
from her face, at the same time looking around in
some alarm, lest the owners of said boots should come
forth.

Just at that moment Mrs. Jeffrey appeared. Alarmed by
the unusual noise, and fancying the young gentlemen might
be robbing the house, as a farewell performance, she had
donned a calico wrapper, and tying a black silk handkerchief
over her cap, had taken her scissors, the only weapon
of defence she could find, and thus equipped for battle, she
had sallied forth. She was prepared for burglars—nay, she
would not have been disappointed, had she found the
young men busily engaged in removing the ponderous
furniture from their rooms; but the sight of Madam Conway,
at that unseasonable hour, was wholly unexpected,
and in her fright she dropped the lamp which she had lighted
in place of her candle, and which was broken in fragments,
deluging the carpet with oil, and eliciting a fresh
groan from Madam Conway.

“Jeffrey, Jeffrey!” she gasped, “what have you done?”

“Great goodness!” ejaculated Mrs. Jeffrey, remembering
her adventure when once before she left her room in the night.
“I certainly am the most unfortunate of mortals. Catch me
out of bed again, let what will happen;” and turning, she
was about to leave the hall, when Madam Conway, anxious
to know what had been done, called her back, saying rather
indignantly, “I'd like to know whose house I am in?”

“A body would suppose 'twas Miss Margaret's, the way
she's conducted,” answered Mrs. Jeffrey; and Madam Conway
continued, pointing to the boots, “Who have we here?
These are not Margaret's, surely?”

“No, ma'am, they belong to the young men, who have

turned the house topsy-turvey, with their tableaux, their
Revolution celebration, their banner, and carousing generally,”
said Mrs. Jeffrey, rather pleased than otherwise at
being the first to tell the news.

“Young men!” repeated Madam Conway, “what young
men? Where did they come from, and why are they here?”

“They are Douglas & Warner,” said Mrs. Jeffrey, “two
as big scapegraces as there are this side of Old Bailey—
that's what they are. They came from Worcester, and if
I've any discernment, they are after your girls, and your
girls are after them.”

“After my girls! After Maggie! It can't be possible!”
grasped Madam Conway, thinking of Arthur Carrollton.

“It's the very truth, though,” returned Mrs. Jeffrey.
“Henry Warner, who, in my opinion, is the worst of the
two, got to chasing Margaret in the woods, as long ago as
last April; she jumped Gritty across the gorge, and he,
like a fool, jumped after, breaking his leg”—

“Pity it hadn't been his neck,” interrupted Madam
Conway, and Mrs. Jeffrey continued, “Of course he was
brought here, and Margaret took care of him. After a
while, his comrade Douglas came out, and of all the carousals
you ever thought of, I reckon they had the worst.
'Twas the 4th of July, and if you'll believe it, they made a
banner, and Maggie planted it herself on the housetop.
They went off next morning; but now they've come again,
and last night the row beat all. I never got a wink of
sleep till after two o'clock.”

Here, entirely out of breath, the old lady paused, and going
to her room, brought out a basin of water and a towel, with
which she tried to wipe off the oil. But Madam Conway
paid little heed to the spoiled carpet, so engrossed was she
with what she had heard.

“I'm astonished at Margaret's want of discretion,” said
she, “and I depended so much upon her, too.”

“I always knew you were deceived by her,” said Mrs.
Jeffrey, still bending over the oil; “but it wasn't for me
to say so, for you are blinded towards that girl. She's got
some of the queerest notions, and then she's so high strung.
She won't listen to reason. But I did my country good
service once. I went up in the dead of night to take down
the flag, and I don't regret it either, even if it did pitch me
to the bottom of the stairs, and sprained my ankle.”

“Served you right,” interposed Madam Conway, who,
not at all pleased at hearing Margaret thus censured, now
turned the full force of her wrath upon the poor little governess,
blaming her for having suffered such proceedings.
“What did Margaret and Theo know, young things as they
were? and what was Mrs. Jeffrey there for if not to keep
them circumspect! But instead of doing this, she had undoubtedly
encouraged them in their folly, and then charged
it upon Margaret.”

It was in vain that the greatly distressed and astonished
lady protested her innocence, pleading her sleepless nights
and lame ankle as proofs of having done her duty; Madam
Conway would not listen. “Somebody was of course to
blame,” and as it is a long established rule, that a part of
every teacher's duty is to be responsible for the faults of the
pupils, so Madam Conway now continued to chide Mrs.
Jeffrey as the prime mover of everything, until that lady,
overwhelmed with the sense of injustice done her, left
the oil and retired to her room, saying as she closed the
door, “I was never so injured in all my life—never, to think
that after all my trouble she should charge it to me! It
will break my heart, I know. Where shall I go for comfort
or rest?”

This last word was opportune and suggestive. If rest
could not be found in Baxter's Saints' Rest, it was not by her
to be found at all; and sitting down by the window in the
grey dawn of the morning, she strove to draw comfort from
the words of the good divine, but in vain. It had never
failed her before; but never before had she been so deeply
injured, and closing the volume at last, she paced the floor in
a very perturbed state of mind.

Meantime, Madam Conway had sought her granddaughter's
chamber, where Theo in her fright had taken refuge under
the bed, while Maggie feigned a deep, sound sleep. A few
vigorous shakes, however, aroused her, when greatly to the
amazement of her grandmother, she burst into a merry laugh,
and winding her arms around the highly scandalized lady's
neck, said, “Forgive me, grandma, I've been awake ever since
you came home. I did not mean to leave the dining-room
in such disorder, but I was so tired, and we had such fun—
hear me out,” she continued, laying her hand over the mouth
of her grandmother, who attempted to speak; “Mrs. Jeffrey
told you how Mr. Warner broke his leg, and was brought
here. He is a real nice young man, and so is Mr. Douglas,
who came out to see him. They are partners in the firm of
Douglas & Co. Worcester.”

“Henry Warner is nothing but the Co. though, Mr.
Douglas owns the store, and is worth two hundred thousand
dollars!” cried a smothered voice from under the bed; and
Theo emerged into view, with a feather or two ornamenting
her hair, and herself looking a little uneasy and frightened.

The 200,000 dollars produced a magical effect upon the
old lady, exonerating George Douglas at once from all
blame. But towards Henry Warner she was not thus
lenient; for, cowardlike, Theo charged him with having suggested

everything, even to the cutting up of the red coat
for a banner!

“What!” fairly screamed Madam Conway, who in her
hasty glance at the flag, had not observed the material,
“not taken my grandfather's coat for a banner!”

“Yes, he did,” said Theo, “and Maggie cut up your blue
satin bodice for stars, and took one of your fine linen sheets
for the foundation.”

“The wretch!” exclaimed Madam Conway, stamping her
foot in her wrath, and thinking only of Henry Warner.
“I'll turn him from my door instantly. My blue satin bodice,
indeed!”

“'Twas I, grandma—'twas I,” interrupted Maggie, looking
reproachfully at Theo. “'Twas I, who cut up the bodice.
I, who brought down the scarlet coat.”

“And I didn't do a thing but look on,” said Theo. “I
knew you'd be angry, and I tried to make Maggie behave,
but she wouldn't.”

“I don't know as it is anything to you what Maggie does,
and I think it would look quite as well in you, to take part
of the blame yourself, instead of putting it all upon your
sister,” was Madam Conway's reply; and feeling almost as
deeply injured as Mrs. Jeffrey herself, Theo began to cry,
while, Maggie with a few masterly strokes, succeeded in so
far appeasing the anger of her grandmother, that the good
lady consented for the young gentlemen to stay to breakfast,
saying, though, that “they should decamp immediately
after, and never darken her doors again.”

“But Mr. Douglas is rich,” sobbed Theo from behind her
pocket handkerchief, “immensely rich and of a very aristocratic
family, I'm sure, else where did he get his money?”

This remark was timely, and when, fifteen minutes later,
Madam Conway was presented to the gentlemen in the hall,

her manner was far more gracious towards George Douglas
than it was towards Henry Warner, to whom she merely
nodded, deigning no answer whatever to his polite apology
for having made himself so much at home in her house.
The expression of his mouth was as usual against him, and
fancying he intended adding insult to injury by laughing in
her face, she coolly turned her back upon him ere he had
finished speaking, and walked down stairs, leaving him to
wind up his speech with “an old she dragon!”

By this time both the sun and the servants had arisen,
the former shining into the disorderly dining-room, and disclosing
to the latter the weary jaded Anna, who, while
Madam Conway was exploring the house, had thrown herself
upon the lounge, and had fallen asleep.

“Who is she, and where did she come from?” was anxiously
inquired, and they were about going in quest of Margaret,
when their mistress appeared suddenly in their midst,
and their noisy demonstrations of joyful surprise awoke the
sleeping girl, who, rubbing her red eyelids, asked for her
aunt, and why she did not come to meet her.

“She has been a little excited, and forgot you, perhaps,”
answered Madam Conway, at the same time bidding one
of the servants to show the young lady to Mrs. Jeffrey's
room.

The good lady had recovered her composure somewhat,
and was just wondering why her niece did not come with
Madam Conway as had been arranged, when Anna appeared,
and in her delight at once more beholding a child of her
only sister, and her husband's brother, she forgot in a measure
how injured she had felt. Ere long the breakfast bell
rang; but Anna declared herself too weary to go down,
and as Mrs. Jeffrey felt that she could not yet meet Madam
Conway face to face, they both remained in their room,

Anna again falling away to sleep, while her aunt grown more
calm, sought, and this time found, comfort in her favorite
volume. Very cool, indeed, was that breakfast, partaken in
almost unbroken silence below. The toast was cold, the
steak was cold, the coffee was cold, and frosty as an icicle
was the lady who sat where the merry Maggie had heretofore
presided. Scarcely a word was spoken by any one;
but in the laughing eyes of Maggie there was a world of fun,
to which the mischievous mouth of Henry Warner responded,
by a curl exceedingly annoying to his stately hostess, who,
in passing him his coffee, turned her head in another direction
lest she should be too civil!

Breakfast being over, George Douglas, who began to
understand Madam Conway tolerably well, asked of her a
private interview, which was granted, when he conciliated
her first by apologizing for anything ungentlemanly he might
have done in her house, and startled her next by asking for
Theo, as his wife.

“You can,” said he, “easily ascertain my character and
standing in Worcester, where for the last ten years I have
been known first as clerk, then as junior partner, and finally
as proprietor of the large establishment which I now conduct.”

Madam Conway was at first too much astonished to speak.
Had it been Maggie for whom he asked, the matter would
have been decided at once, for Maggie was her pet, her pride,
the intended bride of Arthur Carrollton; but Theo was a
different creature altogether, and though the Conway blood
flowing in her veins entitled her to much consideration, she
was neither showy nor brilliant, and if she could marry
200,000 dollars, even though it were American coin, she
would perhaps be doing quite as well as could be expected!
So Madam Conway replied at last, that “she would consider

the matter, and if she found that Theo's feelings were
fully enlisted, she would perhaps return a favorable answer.
“I know the firm of Douglas & Co. by reputation,” said she,
“and I know it to be a wealthy firm; but with me, family is
quite as important as money.”

“My family, madam, are certainly respectable,” interrupted
George Douglas, a deep flush overspreading his face.

He was indignant at her presuming to question his
respectability, Madam Conway thought, and so she hastened
to appease him, by saying, “Certainly, I have no doubt of
it. There are marks by which I can always tell.”

George Douglas bowed low to the far-seeing lady, while a
train of thought, not altogether complimentary to her discernment
in this case, passed through his mind.

Not thus lenient would Madam Conway have been towards
Henry Warner, had he presumed to ask her that
morning for Maggie, but he knew better than to broach the
subject then. “He would write to her,” he said, immediately
after his return to Worcester, and in the meantime,
Maggie, if she saw proper, was to prepare her grandmother
for it by herself announcing the engagement. This, and
much more he said to Maggie, as they sat together in the
library, so much absorbed in each other as not to observe
the approach of Madam Conway, who entered the door just
in time to see Henry Warner with his arm around Maggie's
waist. She was a woman of bitter prejudices, and had conceived
a violent dislike for Henry, not only on account of
the stars and stripes, but because she read to a certain
extent the true state of affairs. Her suspicions were now
confirmed, and rapidly crossing the floor, she confronted
him, saying, “let my grand-daughter alone, young man, both
now, and forever.”

Something of Hagar's fiery spirit flashed from Maggie's

dark eyes, but forcing down her anger, she answered half
earnestly, half playfully, “I am nearly old enough, grandma,
to decide that matter for myself.”

A fierce expression of scorn passed over Madam Conway's
face, and harsh words might have ensued had not the carriage
at that moment been announced. Wringing Maggie's
hand, Henry arose and left the room, followed by the indignant
lady, who would willingly have suffered him to walk,
but thinking 200,000 dollars quite too much money to go
on foot, she had ordered her carriage, and both the senior
and junior partner of Douglas & Co. were ere long riding a
second time away from the old house by the mill.

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED.

“Grandma wishes to see you, Maggie, in her room,” said
Theo to her sister one morning, three days after the departure
of their gnests.

“Wishes to see me! For what?” asked Maggie; and
Theo answered, “I don't know, unless it is to talk with
you about Arthur Carrollton.”

“Arthur Carrolton!” repeated Maggie. “Much good it
will do her to talk to me of him. I hate the very sound of
his name;” and rising, she walked slowly to her grandmother's
room, where in her stiff brown satin dress, her golden
spectacles planted firmly upon her nose, and the Valenciennes
border of her cap shading but not concealing the determined
look on her face, Madam Conway sat erect in her
high backed chair, with an open letter upon her lap.

It was from Henry. Maggie knew his handwriting in a
moment, and there was another, too, for her; but she was
too proud to ask for it, and seating herself by the window,
she waited for her grandmother to break the silence, which
she did ere long as follows:

“I have just received a letter from that Warner, asking
me to sanction an engagement which he says exists between
himself and you. Is it true? Are you engaged to him?”

“I am,” answered Maggie, playing nervously with the

tassel of her wrapper, and wondering why Henry had written
so soon, before she had prepared the way by a little judicious
coaxing.

“Well then,” continued Madam Conway, “the sooner it
is broken the better. I am astonished that you should stoop
to such an act, and I hope you are not in earnest.”

“But I am,” answered Maggie, and in the same cold, decided
manner, her grandmother continued: “Then nothing
remains for me, but to forbid your having any communication
whatever with one whose conduct in my house has been
so unpardonably rude and vulgar. You will never marry him,
Margaret, never! Nay, I would sooner see you dead than
the wife of that low, mean, impertinent fellow.”

In the large dark eyes there was a gleam decidedly
Hagarish as Maggie arose, and standing before her grandmother,
made answer: “You must not, in my presence,
speak thus of Henry Warner. He is neither low, mean, vulgar,
nor impertinent. You are prejudiced against him, because
you think him comparatively poor, and because he
has dared to look at me, who have yet to understand why
the fact of my being a Conway, makes me any better. I
have promised to be Henry Warner's wife, and Margaret
Miller never yet has broken her word.”

“But in this instance you will,” said Madam Conway, now
thoroughly aroused. “I will never suffer it; and to prove I
am in earnest, I will here, before your face, burn the letter
he has presumed to send you; and this I will do to any
others which may come to you from him.”

Maggie offered no remonstrance; but the fire of a volcano
burned within, as she watched the letter blackening upon
the coals; and when next her eyes met those of her grandmother,
there was in them a fierce, determined look, which
prompted that lady at once to change her tactics, and try

the power of persuasion, rather than of force. Feigning a
smile, she said, “What ails you, child? You look to me
like Hagar. It was wrong in me, perhaps, to burn your
letter, and had I reflected a moment, I might not have
done it; but I cannot suffer you to receive any more. I
have other prospects in view for you, and have only waited a
favorable opportunity to tell you what they are. Sit down
by me, Margaret, while I talk with you on the subject.”

The burning of her letter had affected Margaret strangely,
and with a benumbed feeling at her heart, she sat down
without a word, and listened patiently to praises long and
praises loud of Arthur Carrollton, who was described as
being every way desirable, both as a friend and a husband.
“His father, the elder Mr. Carrollton, was an intimate
friend of my husband,” said Madam Conway, “and wishes
our families to be more closely united, by a marriage between
you and his son Arthur, who is rather fastidious in
his taste, and though twenty-eight years old, has never yet
seen a face which suited him. But he is pleased with you,
Maggie. He liked your picture, imperfect as it is, and he
liked the tone of your letters, which I read to him. They
were so original, he said, so much like what he fancied you
to be. He has a splendid country seat, and more than one
nobleman's daughter would gladly share it with him; but I
think he fancies you. He has a large estate near Montreal,
and some difficulty connected with it will ere long bring him
to America. Of course he will visit here, and with a little
tact on your part, you can, I'm sure, secure one of the best
matches in England. He is fine looking, too. I have his
daguerreotype,” and opening her work-box, she drew it
forth, and held it before Maggie, who resolutely shut her
eyes, lest she should see the face of one she was so determined
to dislike.

“What do you think of him?” asked Madam Conway,
as her arm began to ache, and Maggie had not yet spoken.

“I haven't looked at him,” answered Maggie, “I hate
him, and if he comes here after me, I'll tell him so, too. I
hate him because he is an Englishman. I hate him because
he is aristocratic. I hate him for everything, and before I
marry him I'll run away!”

Here, wholly overcome, Maggie burst into tears, and precipitately
left the room. An hour later, and Hagar, sitting
by her fire, which the coolness of the day rendered necessary,
was startled by the abrupt entrance of Maggie, who,
throwing herself upon the floor, and burying her face in the
old woman's lap, sobbed bitterly.

“What is it, child? What is it, darling?” asked Hagar;
and in a few words Maggie explained the whole. “She
was persecuted, dreadfully persecuted. Nobody before ever
had so much trouble as she. Grandma had burned a letter
from Henry Warner, and would not give it to her. Grandma
said, too, she should never marry him, should never
write to him, nor see anything he might send to her. Oh,
Hagar, Hagar, isn't it cruel?” and the eyes, whose wrathful,
defiant expression was now quenched in tears, looked
up in Hagar's face for sympathy.

The right chord was touched, and much as Hagar might
have disliked Henry Warner, she was his fast friend now.
Her mistress's opposition and Maggie's tears had wrought a
change, and henceforth all her energies should be given to
the advancement of the young couple's cause.

“I can manage it,” she said, smoothing the long silken
tresses which lay in disorder upon her lap. “Richland post
office is only four miles from here; I can walk double that
distance easy. Your grandmother never thinks of going
there, neither am I known to any one in that neighborhood.

Write your letter to Henry Warner, and before the sun
goes down, it shall be safe in the letter box. He can write
to the same place, but he had better direct to me, as your
name might excite suspicion.”

This plan seemed perfectly feasible; but it struck Maggie
unpleasantly. She had never attempted to deceive in her
life, and she shrunk from the first deception. She would
rather, she said, try again to win her grandmother's consent.
But this she found impossible, Madam Conway was determined,
and would not listen.

“It grieved her sorely,” she said, “thus to cross her favorite
child, whom she loved better than her life; but 'twas for
her good, and must be done.”

So she wrote a cold, and rather insulting letter to Henry
Warner, bidding him, as she had once done before, “let her
grand-daughter alone,” and saying “it was useless for him
to attempt anything secret, for Maggie would be closely
watched, the moment there were indications of a clandestine
correspondence.”

This letter, which was read to Magaret, destroyed all
hope, and still she wavered, uncertain whether it would be
right to deceive her grandmother. But while she was yet
undecided, Hagar's fingers, of late unused to the pen, traced
a few lines to Henry Warner, who acting at once upon her
suggestion, wrote to Margaret a letter, which he directed to
“Hagar Warren, Richland.”

In it he urged so many reasons why Maggie should avail
herself of this opportunity for communicating with him, that
she yielded at last, and regularly each week, old Hagar
toiled through sunshine and through storm to the Richland
post office, feeling amply repaid for her trouble, when she saw
the bright expectant face which almost always greeted her
return. Occasionally, by way of lulling the suspicions of

Madam Conway, Henry would direct a letter to Hillsdale,
knowing full well it would never meet the eyes of Margaret,
over whom, for the time being, a spy had been set, in the
person of Anna Jeffrey.

This young lady, though but little connected with our
story, may perhaps deserve a brief notice. Older than
either Theo or Margaret, she was neither remarkable for
beauty or talent. Dark haired, dark eyed, dark browed,
and as the servants said, “dark in her disposition,” she was
naturally envious of those whose rank in life entitled them
to more attention than she was herself accustomed to receive.
For this reason, Maggie Miller had from the first
been to her an object of dislike, and she was well pleased
when Madam Conway, after enjoining upon her the strictest
secrecy, appointed her to watch that young lady, and see
that no letter was ever carried by her to the post office which
Madam Conway had not first examined. In the snaky
eyes there was a look of exultation, as Anna Jeffrey promised
to be faithful to her trust, and for a time she became
literally Maggie Miller's shadow, following her here, following
her there, and following her everywhere, until Maggie
complained so bitterly of the annoyance, that Madam Conway
at last, feeling tolerably sure that no counterplot
was intended, revoked her orders, and bade Anna Jeffrey
leave Margaret free to do as she pleased.

Thus relieved from espionage, Maggie became a little
more like herself, though a sense of the injustice done her
by her grandmother, together with the deception she knew
she was practising, wore upon her; and the servants at
their work listened in vain for the merry laugh they had
loved so well to hear. In the present state of Margaret's
feelings, Madam Conway deemed it prudent to say nothing
of Arthur Carrollton, whose name was never mentioned

save by Theo and Anna, the latter of whom had seen him in
England, and was never so well pleased as when talking of
his fine country seat, his splendid park, his handsome horses,
and last, though not least, of himself. “He was,” she said,
“without exception, the most elegant and aristocratic young
man she had ever seen;” and then for more than an hour, she
would entertain Theo with a repetition of the many agreeable
things he had said to her during the one day she had
spent at his house, while Madam Conway was visiting
there.

In perfect indifference, Maggie, who was frequently present,
would listen to these stories, sometimes listlessly turning
the leaves of a book, and again smiling scornfully as she
thought how impossible it was that the fastidious Arthur
Carrollton should have been at all pleased with a girl like
Anna Jeffrey; and positive as Maggie was that she hated
him, she insensibly began to feel a very slight degree of interest
in him, “at least, she would like to know how he
looked;” and one day when her grandmother and Theo
were riding, she stole cautiously to the box where she knew
his picture lay, and taking it out, looked to see, “if he were
so very fine looking.”

“Yes he was,” Maggie acknowledged that; and sure that
she hated him terribly, she lingered long over that picture,
admiring the classically shaped head, the finely cut mouth,
and more than all the large dark eyes which seemed so full
of goodness and truth. “Pshaw!” she exclaimed, at last,
restoring the picture to its place, “If Henry were only a
little taller, and had as handsome eyes, he'd be a great deal
better looking. Any way, I like him, and I hate Arthur
Carrollton, who I know is domineering, and would try to
make me mind. He has asked for my daguerreotype,
grandma says, one which looks as I do now. I'll send it

too,” and she burst into a loud laugh at the novel idea which
had crossed her mind.

That day when Madam Conway returned from her ride,
she was surprised at Maggie's proposing that Theo and herself
should have their likenesses taken for Arthur Carrollton.

“If he wants my picture,” said she, “I am willing he
shall have it. It is all he'll ever get.”

Delighted at this unexpected concession, Madam Conway
gave her consent, and the next afternoon found Theo and
Maggie at the daguerrean gallery in Hillsdale, where the latter
astonished both her sister and the artist by declaring her
intention of not only sitting with her bonnet and shawl on;
but also of turning her back to the instrument! It was in
vain that Theo remonstrated! “That position or none,”
she said; and the picture was accordingly taken, presenting
a very correct likeness when finished, of a bonnet, a veil, and
a shawl, beneath which Maggie Miller was supposed to be.

Strange as it may seem, this freak struck Madam Conway
favorably. Arthur Carrollton knew that Maggie was unlike
any other person, and the joke, she thought, would increase
rather than diminish the interest he already felt in her. So she
made no objection, and in a few days it was on its way to
England, together with a lock of Hagar's snow white hair,
which Maggie had coaxed from the old lady, and unknown
to her grandmother, placed in the casing at the last moment.

Several weeks passed away, and then there came an answer
—a letter so full of wit and humor that Maggie confessed
to herself that he must be very clever to write so many
shrewd things, and be withal so perfectly refined. Accompanying
the package, was a small rosewood box, containing
a most exquisite little pin made of Hagar's frosty hair, and

richly ornamented with gold. Not a word was written concerning
it, and as Maggie kept her own counsel, both Theo
and her grandmother marvelled greatly, admiring its beauty
and wondering for whom it was intended.

“For me, of course,” said Madam Conway. “The hair
is Lady Carrollton's, Arthur's grandmother. I know it by its
soft silky look. She has sent it as a token of respect, for
she was always fond of me;” and going to the glass,
she very complacently ornamented her Honiton collar with
Hagar's hair, while Maggie, bursting with fun, beat a hasty
retreat from the room, lest she should betray herself.

Thus the winter passed away, and early in the spring,
George Douglas, to whom Madam Conway had long ago
sent a favorable answer, came to visit his betrothed, bringing
to Maggie a note from Rose, who had once or twice
sent messages in Henry's letters. She was in Worcester
now, and her health was very delicate. “Sometimes,” she
wrote, “I fear I shall never see you, Maggie Miller—shall
never look into your beautiful face, or listen to your voice;
but whether in heaven or on earth I am first to meet with
you, my heart claims you as a sister, the one whom of all the
sisters in the world I would rather call my own.”

“Darling Rose!” murmured Maggie, pressing the delicately
traced lines to her lips, “how near she seems to me!
nearer almost than Theo;” and then involuntarily her
thoughts went backward to the night when Henry Warner
first told her of his love, and when in her dreams there had
been a strange blending together of herself, of Rose, and
the little grave beneath the pine!

But not yet was that veil of mystery to be lifted. Hagar's
secret must be kept a little longer, and unsuspicious of the
truth, Maggie Miller must dream on of sweet Rose Warner,
whom she hopes one day to call her sister!

There was also a message from Henry, and this George
Douglas delivered in secret, for he did not care to displease
his grandmother elect, who, viewing him through a golden
setting, thought he was not to be equalled by any one in
America. “So gentlemanly,” she said, “and so modest,
too,” basing her last conclusion upon his evident unwillingness
to say very much of himself or his family. Concerning
the latter she had questioned him in vain, eliciting nothing
save the fact that they lived in the country several miles
from Worcester, that his father always staid at home, and
consequently his mother went but little into society.

“Despises the vulgar herd, I dare say,” thought Madam
Conway, contemplating the pleasure she should undoubtedly
derive from an acquaintance with Mrs. Douglas, senior!

“There was a sister, too,” he said, and at this announcement
Theo opened wide her blue eyes, asking her name, and
“why he had never mentioned her before.”

“I call her Jenny,” said he, coloring slightly, and adding
playfully, as he caressed Theo's smooth, round cheek,
“wives do not usually like their husband's sisters.”

“But I shall like her, I know,” said Theo. “She has a
beautiful name, Jenny Douglas—much prettier than Rose
Warner, about whom Maggie talks to me so much.”

A gathering frown on her grandmother's face warned
Theo that she had touched upon a forbidden subject, and
as Mr. Douglas manifested no desire to continue the conversation,
it ceased for a time, Theo wishing “she could see
Jenny Douglas,” and George wondering what she would
say when she did see her!

For a few days longer he lingered, and ere his return, it
was arranged that early in July, Theo should be his bride.
On the morning of his departure, as he stood upon the steps
alone with Madam Conway, she said, “I think I can rely

upon you, Mr. Douglas, not to carry either letter, note, or
message from Maggie to that young Warner. I've forbidden
him my house, and I mean what I say.”

“I assure you, madam, she has not asked me to carry
either,” answered George; who, though he knew perfectly
well of the secret correspondence, had kept it to himself.
“You mistake Mr. Warner, I think,” he continued, after
a moment. “I have known him long and esteem him
highly.”

“Tastes differ,” returned Madam Conway, coldly. “No
man of good breeding would presume to cut up my grandfather's
coat, or drink up my best wine.”

“He inteuded no disrespect, I'm sure,” answered George.
“He only wanted a little fun with the stars and stripes.”

“It was fun for which he will pay most dearly though,”
answered Madam Conway, as she bade Mr. Douglas good
bye; then walking back to the parlor, she continued speaking
to herself, “Stars and stripes!” I'll teach him to
cut up my blue bodice for fun. I wouldn't give him Margaret
if his life depended upon it;” and sitting down she wrote to
Arthur Carrollton, asking if he really intended visiting
America, and when.

13. CHAPTER XIII.
SOCIETY.

During the remainder of the spring, matters at the old
stone house proceeded about as usual, Mag writing regularly
to Henry, who as regularly answered, while old Hagar
managed so adroitly, that no one suspected the secret correspondence,
and Madam Conway began to hope her grand-daughter
had forgotten the foolish fancy. Arthur Carrollton
had replied that his visit to America, though sure to take
place, was postponed indefinitely, and so the good lady had
nothing, in particular, with which to busy herself, save the
preparations for Theo's wedding, which was to take place
near the first of July.

Though setting a high value upon money, Madam Conway
was not penurious, and the bridal trousseau far exceeded
anything which Theo had expected. As the young couple
were not to keep house for a time, a most elegant suite of
rooms had been selected in a fashionable hotel; and determining
that Theo should not, in point of dress, be rivalled
by any of her fellow-boarders, Madam Conway spared
neither time nor money in making the outfit perfect. So,
for weeks, the old stone house presented a scene of great
confusion. Chairs, tables, lounges and piano, were piled
with finery, on which Anna Jeffrey worked industriously,
assisted sometimes by her aunt, whom Madam Conway pronounced

altogether too superannuated for a governess, and
who, though really an excellent scholar, was herself far better
pleased with muslin robes and satin bows, than with
French idioms and Latin verbs. Perfectly delighted, Mag
joined in the general excitement, wondering occasionally
when, and where her own bridal would be. Once she ventured
to ask if Henry Warner and his sister might be
invited to Theo's wedding; but Madam Conway answered
so decidedly in the negative, that she gave it up, consoling
herself with thinking that she would sometime visit her sister,
and see Henry, in spite of her grandmother.

The marriage was very quiet, for Madam Conway had no
acquaintance, and the family alone witnessed the ceremony.
At first Madam Conway had hoped that Mr. and Mrs.
Douglas, senior, together with their daughter Jenny, would
be present, and she had accordingly requested George to
invite them, feeling greatly disappointed when she learned
that they could not come.

“I wanted so much to see them,” she said to Mag, “and
know whether they are worthy to be related to the Conways
—but of course they are, as much so as any American
family. George has every appearance of refinement and
high-breeding.”

“But his family, for all that, may be as ignorant as
farmer Canfield's,” answered Mag; to which her grandmother
replied, “you needn't tell me that, for I'm not to be
deceived in such matters. I can tell at a glance if a person
is low-born, no matter what their education or advantages
may have been.—Who's that?” she added, quickly, and
turning round she saw old Hagar, her eyes lighted up, and
her lips moving with an incoherent sound, not easily understood.

Hagar had come up to the wedding, and had reached the

door of Madam Conway's room just in time to hear the last
remark, which roused her at once.

“Why don't she discover my secret, then,” she muttered,
“if she has so much discernment? Why don't she see the
Hagar blood in her? for it's there, plain as day;” and she
glanced proudly at Mag, who, in her simple robe of white,
was far more beautiful than the bride.

And still Theo, in her handsome travelling dress, was very
fair to look upon, and George Douglas felt proud, that she
was his, resolving, as he kissed away the tears she shed at
parting, that the vow he had just made should never be broken.
A few weeks of pleasant travel westward, and then
the newly-wedded pair came back to what, for a time, was
to be their home.

George Douglas was highly respected in Worcester, both
as a man of honor and a man of wealth; consequently,
every possible attention was paid to Theo, who was petted
and admired, until she began to wonder why neither Mag,
nor yet her all-discerning grandmother, had discovered how
charming and faultless she was!

Among George's acquaintance, was a Mrs. Morton, a dashing,
fashionable woman, who determined to honor the bride
with a party, to which all the élite of Worcester were invited,
together with many of the Bostonians Madam
Conway and Mag were of course upon the list, and as timely
notice was given them by Theo, Madam Conway went
twice to Springfield in quest of a suitable dress for Mag.
“She wanted something becoming,” she said, and a delicate
rose-colored satin, with a handsome overskirt of lace, was,
at last, decided upon.

“She must have some pearls for her hair,” thought
Madam Conway, and when next Maggie, who, girl-like,
tried the effect of her first party dress at least a dozen times,

stood before the glass to see “if it were exactly the right
length,” she was presented with the pearls, which Anna Jeffrey,
with a feeling of envy at her heart, arranged in the
shining braids of her hair.

“Oh, isn't it perfectly splendid!” cried Mag, herself half
inclined to compliment the beautiful image reflected in the
mirror.

“You ought to see Arthur Carrollton's sister, when she
is dressed, if you think you look handsome,” answered
Anna, adding that “diamonds were much more fashionable
than pearls.”

“You have attended a great many parties and seen a
great deal of fashion, so I dare say you are right,” Mag
answered, ironically; and then, as through the open window
she saw Hagar approaching, she ran out upon the piazza to
see what the old woman would say.

Hagar had never seen her thus before, and now, throwing
up her hands in astonishment, she involuntarily dropped
upon her knees, and while the tears rained over her time-worn
face, whispered, “Hester's child—my grand-daughter—
heaven be praised!”

“Do I look pretty?” Margaret asked; and Hagar answered,
“More beautiful than any one I ever saw. I wish
your mother could see you now.”

Involuntarily Maggie glanced at the tall marble gleaming
through the distant trees, while Hagar's thoughts were
down in that other grave—the grave beneath the pine.
The next day was the party, and at an early hour, Madam
Conway was ready. Her rich purple satin and Valenciennes
laces, with which she hoped to impress Mrs. Douglas senior,
were carefully packed up together with Maggie's dress; and
then, shawled and bonneted, she waited impatiently for her
carriage, which she preferred to the cars. It came at last,

but in place of John, the usual coachman, Mike, a rather
wild youth of twenty, was mounted upon the box. His
father, he said, had been taken suddenly ill, and had deputed
him to drive.

For a time Madam Conway hesitated, for she knew Mike's
one great failing, and she hardly dared risk herself with him,
lest she should find a seat less desirable even than the memorable
brush-heap. But Mike protested loudly to having
joined the “Sons of Temperance” only the night before,
and as in his new suit of blue, with shining brass buttons,
he presented a more stylish appearance than his father, his
mistress finally decided to try him, threatening all manner
of evil if, in any way, he broke his pledge, either to herself
or the “Sons,” the latter of whom had probably never
heard of him. He was perfectly sober now, and drove
them safely to Worcester, where they soon found themselves
in Theo's handsome rooms. Her wrappings removed and
herself snugly ensconced in a velvet-cushioned chair.
Madam Conway asked, “How long before Mrs. Douglas,
semior, would probably arrive.”

A slight shadow, which no one observed, passed over
Theo's face as she answered, “George's father seldom
goes into society, and consequently, his mother will not
come.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” replied Madam Conway, thinking
of the purple satin, and continuing, “Nor the young lady,
either?”

“None of them,” answered Theo, adding hastily, as if to
change the conversation, “Isn't my piano perfectly elegant?”
and she ran her fingers over an exquisitely carved instrument,
which had inscribed upon it simply “Theo;” and
then, as young brides sometimes will, she expatiated upon
the kindness and generosity of George, showing, withal,

that her love for her husband was founded upon something
far more substantial than family or wealth.

Her own happiness, it would seem, had rendered her less
selfish and more thoughtful for others; for once that afternoon,
on returning to her room after a brief absence, she
whispered to Mag that “some one in the parlor below wished
to see her.”

Then seating herself at her grandmother's feet, she entertained
her so well with a description of her travels, that
the good lady failed to observe the absence of Mag, who,
face to face with Henry Warner, was making amends for
their long separation. Much they talked of the past, and
then Henry spoke of the future; but of this Mag was less
hopeful. Her grandmother would never consent to their
marriage, she knew—the stars and stripes had decided that
matter, even though there were no Arthur Carrollton across
the sea, and Mag sighed despondingly as she thought of the
long years of single-blessedness in store for her.

“There is but one alternative left then,” said Henry.
“If your grandmother refuses her consent altogether, I must
take you without her consent.”

“I shan't run away,” said Mag; “I shall live an old
maid, and you must live an old bachelor, until grandma”—

She did not have time to finish the sentence ere Henry
commenced unfolding the following plan:—

“It was necessary,” he said, “for either him or Mr. Douglas
to go to Cuba; and, as Rose's health made a change of
climate advisable for her, George had proposed to him to
go, and take his sister there for the winter. And, Maggie,”
he continued, “will you go, too? We are to sail the middle
of October, stopping for a few weeks in Florida, until the
unhealthy season in Havana is passed. I will see your
grandmother to-morrow morning—will once more honorably

ask her for your hand, and if she still refuses, as you think
she will, it cannot surely be wrong in you to consult your
own happiness instead of her prejudices. I will meet you at
old Hagar's cabin at the time appointed. Rose and my
aunt, who is to accompany her, will be in New York,
whither we will go immediately. A few moments more and
you will be my wife, and beyond the control of your grandmother.
Do you approve my plan, Maggie, darling? Will
you go.”

Maggie could not answer him then, for an elopement was
something from which she instinctively shrunk, and with a
faint hope that her grandmother might consent, she went
back to her sister's room, where she had not yet been
missed. Very rapidly the remainder of the afternoon passed
away, and at an early hour, wishing to know “exactly how
she was going to look,” Mag commenced her toilet. Theo,
too, desirous of displaying her white satin as long as possible,
began to dress; while Madam Conway, in no haste to don
her purple satin, which was uncomfortably tight, amused
herself by watching the passers by, nodding at intervals, in
her chair.

While thus occupied, a perfumed note was brought to her,
the contents of which elicited from her an exclamation of
surprise.

“Can it be possible!” she said; and thrusting the note into
her pocket, she hastily left the room.

She was gone a long, long time; and when at last she returned,
she was evidently much excited, paying no attention
whatever to Theo, who, in her bridal robes, looked charmingly,
but minutely inspecting Mag, to see if in her adornings
there was aught out of its place. Her dress was faultless,
and she looked so radiantly beautiful, as she stood before
her grandmother, that the old lady kissed her fondly,

whispering, as she did so, “You are indeed beautiful.” It
was a long time ere Madam Conway commenced her own
toilet, and then she proceeded so slowly that George
Douglas became impatient, and she finally suggested that he
and Theo should go without her, sending the carriage back
for herself and Mag. To this proposition he at last yielded;
and when they were left alone, Madam Conway greatly
accelerated her movements, dressing herself in a few moments,
and then, much to Mag's surprise, going below without a
word of explanation. A few moments only clasped ere a
servant was sent to Mag saying that her presence was desired
at No. 40, a small private parlor, adjoining the public
drawing-rooms.

“What can it mean? Is it possible that Henry is there?”
Mag, asked herself, as with a beating heart she descended
the stairs.

A moment more, and Mag stood on the threshold of No.
40. Seated up on the sofa was Madam Conway, her purple
satin seeming to have taken a wide sweep, and her face betokening
the immense degree of satisfaction she felt in being
there thus with the stylish, elegant looking stranger who
stood at her side, with his deep, expressive eyes fixed upon
the door expectantly. Maggie knew him in a moment—
knew it was Arthur Carrollton; and, turning pale, she started
backward, while he advanced forward and offering her
his hand, looked down upon her with a winning smile, saying,
as he did so, “Excuse my familiarity. You are Maggie
Miller, I am sure.”

For an instant Mag could not reply, but soon recovering
her composure, she received the stranger gracefully, and
then taking the chair he politely brought her, she listened
while her grandmother told that “he had arrived at Montreal
two weeks before; that he had reached Hillsdale that

morning, an hour or two after their departure, and learning
their destintion, had followed them in the cars; that she
had taken the liberty of informing Mrs. Morton of his
arrival, and that lady had of course extended to him an
invitation to be present at her party.”

“Which invitation I accept, provided Miss Maggie allows
me to be her escort,” said the young man, and again his
large, black eyes rested admiringly upon her.

Mag had anticipated a long, quiet talk with Henry Warner,
and, wishing the Englishman anywhere but there, she
answered coldly, “I cannot well decline your escort, Mr.
Carrollton, so of course I accept it.”

Madam Conway bit her lip, but Mr. Carrollton, who was
prepared for anything from Maggie Miller, was not in the
least displeased, and, consulting his diamond-set watch,
which pointed to nearly ten, he asked “if it were not time to
go.”

“Certainly,” said Madam Conway. “You remain here,
Maggie; I will bring down your shawl,” and she glided
from the room, leaving them purposely alone.

Mag was a good deal astonished, slightly embarrassed
and a little provoked, all of which Arthur Carrollton readily
saw; but this did not prevent his talking to her, and during
the few minutes of Madam Conway's absence, he decided
that neither Margaret's beauty, nor yet her originality, had
been overrated by her partial grandmother, while Mag, on
her part, mentally pronounced him “the finest looking, the
most refined, the most gentlemanly, the proudest, and the
hatefullest man she had ever seen!”

Wholly unconscious of her cogitation, he wrapped her
shawl very carefully about her, taking care to cover her
white shoulders from the night air; then offering his arm
to her grandmother, he led the way to the carriage, whither

she followed him, wondering if Henry would be jealous, and
thinking her first act would be to tell him “how she hated
Arthur Carrollton, and always should!”

It was a gay, brilliant scene which Mrs. Morton's drawing-rooms
presented, and as yet the centre of attraction,
Theo, near the door, was bowing to the many strangers who
sought her acquaintance. Greatly she marvelled at the long
delay of her grandmother and Maggie, and she had just suggested
to Henry that he should go in quest of them, when
she saw her sister ascending the stairs.

On a sofa across the room, sat a pale, young girl, arrayed
in white, her silken curls falling around her neck like a
golden shower, and her mournful eyes of blue, scanning
eagerly each new comer, then with a look of disappointment
drooping beneath the long lashes which rested wearily upon
her colorless cheek. It was Rose Warner, and the face she
sought was Maggie Miller's. She had seen no semblance of
it yet, for Henry had no daguerreotype. Still, she felt sure
she would know it, and when at last, in all her queenly
beauty, Maggie came, leaning on Arthur Carrollton's arm,
Rose's heart made ready answer to the oft repeated question,
“who is she?”

“Beautiful, gloriously beautiful,” she whispered softly,
while, from the grave of her buried hopes, there came one
wild heart-throb, one sudden burst of pain caused by the
first sight of her rival, and then Rose Warner grew calm
again, and those who saw the pressure of her hand upon
her side, dreamed not of the fierce pang within. She had
asked her brother not to tell Maggie she was to be there.
She would rather watch her awhile, herself unknown; and

now with eager, curious eyes, she followed Maggie, who was
quickly surrounded by a host of admirers.

It was Maggie's first introduction into society, and yet, so
perfect was her intuition of what was proper, that neither
by word or deed did she do aught to shock the most fastidious.
It is true her merry laugh more than once rang out
above the din of voices; but it was so joyous that no one
objected, particularly when they looked in her bright and
almost childish face. Arthur Carrollton, too, acting as her
escort, aided her materially, for it was soon whispered
around that he was a wealthy Englishman, and many were
the comments made upon the handsome couple, who seemed
singularly adapted to each other. A glance had convinced
Arthur Carrollton, that Maggie was by far the most beautiful
lady present, and feeling that on this, her first introduction
into society, she needed some one to shield her, as it
were, from the many foolish, flattering speeches which were
sure to be made in her hearing, he kept her at his side,
where she was nothing loth to stay; for notwithstanding
that she “hated him so,” there was about him a fascination
she did not try to resist.

“They are a splendid couple,” thought Rose, and then she
looked to see how Henry was affected by the attentions of
the handsome foreigner.

But Henry was not jealous, and standing a little aloof, he
felt more pleasure than pain in watching Maggie as she received
the homage of the gay throng. Thoughts similar to
those of Rose, however, forced themselves upon him as he
saw the dignified bearing of Mr. Carrollton, and for the first
time in his life he was conscious of an uncomfortable feeling
of inferiority to something or somebody, he hardly knew what.
This feeling, however, passed away when Maggie came at
last to his side, with her winning smile, and playful words.

Very closely Madam Conway watched her now; but
Maggie did not heed it, and leaning on Henry's arm, she
seemed oblivious to all save him. After a time, he led her
out upon a side piazza, where they would be comparatively
alone. Observing that she seemed a little chilly, he left
her for a moment, while he went in quest of her shawl.
Scarcely was he gone when a slight, fairy form came flitting
through the moonlight to where Maggie sat, and twining its
snow white arms around her neck, looked lovingly into her
eyes, whispering soft and low, “My sister.”

“My sister!” How Maggie's blood bounded at the
sound of that name, which even the night wind, sighing
through the trees, seemed to take up and repeat, “My sister!”
What was there in those words thus to affect her?
Was that fair young creature, who hung so fondly over her,
naught to her save a common stranger? Was there no tied
between them, no bond of sympathy and love? We ask
this of you, our reader, and not of Maggie Miller, for to
her there came no questioning like this. She only knew
that every pulsation of her heart responded to the name of
sister, when breathed by sweet Rose Warner, and folding
her arms about her, she pillowed the golden head upon her
bosom, and pushing back the clustering curls, gazed long
and earnestly into a face which seemed so heavenly and
pure.

Few were the words they uttered at first, for the mysterious,
invisible something which prompted each to look into
the other's eyes, to clasp the other's hands, to kiss the
other's lips, and whisper the other's name.

“I have wished so much to see you, to know if you are
worthy of my noble brother,” said Rose at last, thinking
she must say something on the subject uppermost in both
their minds.

“And am I worthy?” asked Maggie, the bright blushes
stealing over her cheek. “Will you let me be your sister?”

“My heart would claim you for that, even though I had
no brother,” answered Rose, and again her lips touched
those of Maggie.

Seeing them thus together, Henry tarried purposely a
long time, and when at last he rejoined them, he proposed
returning to the drawing-room, where many inquiries were
making for Maggie.

“I have looked for you a long time, Miss Maggie,” said
Mr. Carrollton. “I wish to hear you play,” and taking her
arm in his, he led her to the piano.

From the moment of her first introduction to him, Maggie
had felt that there was something commanding in his manner,
something she could not disobey; and now, though she
fancied it was impossible to play before that multitude, she
seated herself mechanically, and while the keys swam before
her eyes, went through with a difficult piece, which she had
never but once before executed correctly.

“You have done well, much better than I anticipated,”
said Mr. Carrollton, again offering her his arm; and though
a little vexed, those few words of commendation were worth
more to Maggie than the most flattering speech which
Henry Warner had ever made to her.

Soon after leaving the piano, a young man approached,
and invited her to waltz. This was something in which
Maggie excelled; for two winters before, Madam Conway
had hired a teacher to instruct her grand-daughters in dancing,
and she was about to accept the invitation, when,
drawing her arm still closer within his own, Mr. Carrollton
looked down upon her, saying softly, “I wouldn't.”

Maggie had often waltzed with Henry at home. He saw no
harm in it, and now when Arthur Carrollton objected, she

was provoked, while at the same time she felt constrained to
decline.

“Sometime, when I know you better, I will explain to
you why I do not think it proper for young girls to waltz
with every one,” said Mr. Carrollton; and leading her from
the drawing-room, he devoted himself to her for the remainder
of the evening, making himself so perfectly agreeable,
that Maggie forgot everything, even Henry Warner,
who in the meantime had tried to recognize Madam Conway
as an acquaintance.

A cool nod, however, was all the token of recognition she
had to give him. This state of feeling augured ill for the
success of his suit; but when at a late hour that night, in
spite of grandmother or Englishman, he handed Maggie to
the carriage, he whispered to her softly, “I will see her to-morrow
morning, and know the worst.”

The words caught the quick ear of Madame Conway;
but not wishing Mr. Carrollton to know there was anything particular
between her grand-daughter and Henry Warner, she
said nothing, and when arrived at last at the hotel, she asked
an explanation, Maggie, who hurried off to bed, was too
sleepy to give her any answer.

“I shall know before long, any way, if he sees me in the
morning,” she thought, as she heard a distant clock strike
two, and settling her face into the withering frown with
which she intended to annihilate Henry Warner, the old
lady was herself, ere long, much faster asleep than the young
girl at her side, who was thinking of Henry Warner, wishing
he was three inches taller, or herself three inches shorter,
and wondering if his square shoulders would not be somewhat
improved by braces!

“I never noticed how short and crooked he was,” she
thought, “until I saw him standing by the side of Mr.

Carrollton, who is such a splendid figure, so tall and straight;
but big, overgrown girls like me, always get short husbands,
they say,” and satisfied with this conclusion, she fell
asleep.

14. CHAPTER XIV.
MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS.

At a comparatively early hour Madam Conway arose,
and going to the parlor, found there Arthur Carrollton, who
asked if Margaret were not yet up. “Say that I wish
her to ride with me on horseback,” said he. “The morning
air will do her good;” and quite delighted, Madam Conway
carried the message to her grand-daughter.

“Tell him I shan't do it,” answered the sleepy Maggie,
adjusting herself for another nap. Then, as she thought
how his eyes probably looked as he said, “I wish her to
ride,” she felt impelled to obey, and greatly to her grandmother's
surprise, she commenced dressing.

Theo's riding dress was borrowed, and though it did not
fit her exactly, she looked unusually well, when she met Mr.
Carrollton in the lower hall, and once mounted upon the gay
steed, and galloping away into the country, she felt more
than repaid for the loss of her morning slumber.

“You ride well,” said Mr. Carrollton, when at last they
paused upon the brow of a hill, overlooking the town, “but
you have some faults, which, with your permission I will
correct,” and in the most polite and gentlemanly manner, he
proceded to speak of a few points wherein her riding might
be improved.

Among other things, he said she rode too fast for a lady;

and biting her lip, Maggie thought, “If I only had Gritty
here, I'd lead him such a race as would either break his
bones or his neck, I'm not particular which.”

Still, she followed his directions implicitly, and when, ere
they reached home, he told her that she excelled many who
had been for years to riding schools, she felt repaid for his
criticisms, which she knew were just, even if they were not
agreeable. Breakfast being over, he announced his intentention
of going down to Boston, telling Maggie he should
probably return that evening and go with her to Hillsdale
on the morrow.

Scarcely had he gone when Henry Warner appeared, asking
an interview with Madam Conway, who haughtily led
the way into a private room. Very candidly and honorably
Henry made known to her his wishes, whereupon a most
stormy scene ensued, the lady so far forgetting herself as to
raise her voice several notes above its usual pitch, while
Henry, angered by her insulting words, bade her take the
consequences of her refusal, hinting that girls had been
known to marry without their guardian's consent.

“An elopement, hey? He threatens me with an elopement,
does he?” said Madam Conway, as the door closed
after him. “I am glad he warned me in time,” and then
trembling in every limb lest Maggie should be spirited away
before her very eyes, she determined upon going home immediately,
and leaving Arthur Carrollton to follow in the
cars.

Accordingly Maggie was bidden to pack her things at
once, the excited old lady keeping her eye constantly upon
her to see that she did not disappear through the window
or some other improbable place. In silence Maggie obeyed,
pouting the while a very little, partly because she should
not again see Henry, partly because she had confidently expected

to ride home with Mr. Carrollton! and partly because
she wished to stay to the firemen's muster, which had
long been talked about, and was to take place on the morrow.
They were ready at last, and then in a very perturbed
state of feeling, Madam Conway waited for her carriage,
which was not forthcoming, and upon inquiry, George Douglas
learned that, having counted upon another day in the
city, Mike was now going through with a series of plunge
baths, by way of sobering himself ere appearing before his
mistress. This, however George kept from Madam Conway,
not wishing to alarm her; and when, after a time, Mike appeared,
sitting bolt upright upon the box, with the lines
grasped firmly in his hands, she did not suspect the truth,
nor know that he, too, was angry for being thus compelled
to go home before he saw the firemen.

Thinking him sober enough to be perfectly safe, George
Douglas felt no fear, and bowing to his new relatives, went
back to comfort Theo, who, as a matter of course cried a
little when the carriage drove away. Worcester was left
behind, and they were far out in the country ere a word
was exchanged between Madam Conway and Maggie; for
while the latter was pouting behind her veil, the former
was wondering what possessed Mike to drive into every rut
and over every stone.

“You, Mike,” she exclaimed at last leaning from the window.
“What ails you?”

“Nothing, as I'm a living man,” answered Mike, halting
so suddenly as to jerk the lady backwards and mash the
crown of her bonnet.

Straightening herself up, and trying in vain to smooth
the jam, Madam Conway continued, “In liquor, I know.
I wish I had staid at home;” but Mike loudly denied the
charge, declaring “he had spent the blessed night at a

meeting of the Sons, where they passed round nothing
stronger than lemons and water, and if the horses chose to
run off the track, 'twasn't his fault—he couldn't help it,”
and with the air of one deeply injured, he again started forward,
turning off ere long into a cross road, which, as they
advanced, grew more stony and rough, while the farmhouses,
as a general thing, presented a far less respectable
appearance than those on the Hillsdale route.

“Mike, you villain!” ejaculated the lady, as they ran
down into a ditch, and she sprang to one side to keep the
carriage from going over.

But ere she had time for anything further, one of the axletrees
snapped asunder, and to proceed further in their
present condition was impossible. Alighting from the carriage,
and setting her little feet upon the ground with a
vengeance, Madam Conway first scolded Mike unmercifully
for his carelessness, and next chided Maggie for manifesting
no more concern.

“You'd as lief go to destruction as not, I do believe!”
said she, looking carefully after the bandbox containing her
purple satin.

“I'd rather go there first,” answered Maggie, pointing to
a brown, old-fashioned farmhouse, about a quarter of a
mile away.

At first, Madam Conway objected, saying she preferred
sitting on the bank to intruding herself upon strangers; but
as it was now noon-day, and the warm September sun
poured fiercely down upon her, she finally concluded to follow
Maggie's advice, and gathering up her box and parasol
started for the house, which, with its tansy patch on the
right, and its single poplar tree in front, presented rather
an uninviting appearance.

“Some vulgar creatures live there, I know. Just hear

that old tin horn,” she exclaimed, as a blast, loud and shrill,
blown by practised lips, told to the men in a distant field
that dinner was ready.

A nearer approach disclosed to view a slanting roofed
farm-house, such as is often found in New England, with
high, narrow windows, small panes of glass, and the most
indispensable paper curtains of blue, closely shading the windows
of what was probably “the best room.” In the apartment
opposite, however, they were rolled up, so as to show
the old-fashioned drapery of dimity, bordered with a netted
fringe. Half a dozen broken pitchers and pots held geraniums,
verbenas and other plants, while the well kept beds of
hollyhocks, sunflowers and poppies, indicated a taste for
flowers in some one. Everything about the house was
faultlessly neat. The door-sill was scrubbed to a chalky-white,
while the uncovered floor wore the same polished hue.

All this Madam Conway saw at a glance, but it did not
prevent her from holding high her aristocratic skirts, lest
they should be contaminated, and when, in answer to her
knock, an odd-looking, peculiarly dressed woman appeared,
she uttered an exclamation of disgust, and turning to Maggie,
said, “You talk—I can't!”

But the woman did not stand at all upon ceremony.
For the last ten minutes she had been watching the strangers
as they toiled over the sandy road, and when sure they
were coming there, had retreated into her bed-room, donning
a flaming red calico, which, guiltless of hoops, clung to her
tenaciously, showing her form to good advantage, and rousing
at once the risibles of Maggie. A black lace cap, ornamented
with ribbons of the same fanciful color as the dress,
adorned her head; and with a dozen or more pins in her
mouth, she now appeared, hooking her sleeve and smoothing
down the black collar upon her neck.

In a few words, Maggie explained to her their misfortune,
and asked permission to tarry there until the carriage was
repaired.

“Certing, certing,” answered the woman, courtesying
almost to the floor. “Walk right in, if you can git in. It's
my cheese day, or I should have been cleared away sooner.
Here Betsey Jane, you have prinked long enough; come
and hist the winders in t'other room, and wing'em off, so
the ladies can set in there out of this dirty place,” then
turning to Madam Conway, who was industriously freeing
her French kids from the sand they had accumulated during
her walk, she continued. “Have some of my shoes to
rest your feet a spell;” and diving into a recess or closet she
brought forth a pair of slippers large enough to hold both of
Madam Conway's feet at once.

With a haughty frown the lady declined the offer, while
Maggie looked on in delight, pleased with an adventure which
promised so much fun. After a moment, Betsey Jane appeared,
attired in a dress similar to that of her mother, for
whose lank appearance she made ample amends in the wonderful
expansion of her robes, which minus gather or fold at
the bottom, set out like a miniature tent, upsetting at once
the band-box which Madam Conway had placed upon a
chair, and which, with its contents, rolled promiscuously
over the floor!

“Betsey Jane! How can you wear them abominable
things!” exclaimed the distressed woman, stooping to pick
up the purple satin which had tumbled out.

A look from the more fashionable daughter, as with a
swinging sweep she passed on into the parlor, silenced the
mother on the subject of hoops, and thinking her guests must
necessarily be thirsty after their walk, she brought them a
pitcher of water, asking if “they'd chuse it clear, or with a

little ginger and molasses,” at the same time calling to Betsey
Jane to know if them windows was wung off!

The answer was in the affirmative, whereupon the ladies
were invited to enter, which they did the more willingly, as
through the open door they had caught glimpses of what
proved to be a very handsome Brussels carpet, which in
that room seemed a little out of place, as did the sofa, and
handsome hair-cloth rocking chair. In this last Madam
Conway seated herself, while Maggie reclined upon a lounge,
wondering at the difference in the various articles of furniture,
some of which were quite expensive, while others were
of the most common kind.

“Who can they be? She looks like some one I have
seen,” said Maggie as Betsey Jane left the room. “I mean
to ask their names;” but this her grandmother would not suffer.
“It was too much like familiarity,” she said, “and
she did not believe in putting one's self on a level with such
people.”

Another loud blast from the horn was blown, for the bustling
woman of the house was evidently getting uneasy, and
ere long three or four men appeared, washing themselves
from the spout of the pump, and wiping upon a coarse towel,
which hung upon a roller near the back door.

“I shan't eat at the same table with those creatures,”
said Madam Conway, feeling intuitively that she would be
invited to dinner.

“Why, grandman, yes you will, if she asks you to,” answered
Maggie. “Only think how kind they are to us perfect
strangers!”

What else she might have said was prevented by the entrance
of Betsey Jane, who informed them that “dinner was
ready;” and with a mental groan, as she thought how she
was about to be martyred, Madam Conway followed her to

the dining-room, where a plain substantial farmer's meal
was spread. Standing at the head of the table, with her
good-humored face all in a glow, was the hostess, who
pointing Madam Conway to a chair, said, “Now set right
by, and make yourselves to hum. Mebby I orto have set the
table over, and I guess I should if I had anything fit to eat.
Be you fond of biled victuals?” and taking it for granted
they were, she loaded both Madam Conway's and Maggie's
plate with every variety of vegetables used in the preparation
of the dish known everywhere as “boiled victuals.”

By this time the men had ranged themselves in respectful
silence upon the opposite side of the table, each stealing
an admiring though modest glance at Maggie; for the masculine
heart, whether it beat beneath a homespun frock or
coat of finest cloth, is alike susceptible to glowing, youthful
beauty like that of Maggie Miller. The head of the house
was absent—“had gone to town with a load of wood,” so
his spouse informed the ladies, at the same time pouring out
a cup of tea, which she said she had tried to make strong
enough to bear up an egg. “Betsey Jane,” she continued,
casting a deprecating glance, first at the blue sugar bowl
and then at her daughter, “what possessed you to put on
this brown sugar, when I told you to get crush?—Have
some of the apple sass? it's new—made this morning.
Dew have some,” she continued as Madam Conway shook
her head. “Mebby it's better than it looks. Seem's ef you
wasn't goin' to eat nothin'. Betsey Jane, now you're up
after the crush, fetch them china sassers for the cowcumbers.
Like enough she'll eat some of them.”

But affecting a headache, Madam Conway declined everything,
save the green tea and a Boston cracker, which, at
the first mention of headache, the distressed woman had
brought her. Suddenly remembering Mike, who, having

fixed the carriage, was fast asleep on a wheelbarrow
under the wood-shed, she exclaimed, “For the land of
massy, if I hain't forgot that young gentleman! Go, William
and call him this minute. Are you sick at your stomach?”
she asked, turning to Madam Conway, who, at the
thoughts of eating with her drunken coachman, had uttered
an exclamation of disgust. “Go, Betsey Jane, and fetch
the camphire, quick!”

But Madam Conway did not need the camphor, and so
she said, adding that Mike was better where he was. Mike
thought so too, and refused to come, whereupon the woman
insisted that he must. “There was room enough,” she
said, “and no kind of sense in Betsey Jane's taking up the
hull side of the table with them ratans. She could set
nearer the young lady.”

“Certainly,” answered Maggie, anxious to see how the
ratans would manage to squeeze in between herself and the
table-leg, as they would have to do if they came an inch
nearer.

This feat could not be done, and in attempting it Betsey
Jane upset Maggie's tea upon her handsome travelling
dress, eliciting from her mother the exclamation, “Betsey
Jane Douglas, you allus was the blunderin'est girl!”

This little accident diverted the woman's mind from Mike,
while Madam Conway, starting at the name of Douglas,
thought to herself, “Douglas!—Douglas! I did not suppose
'twas so common a name. But then it don't hurt
George any, having these creatures bear his name.”

Dinner being over, Madam Conway and Maggie returned
to the parlor, where, while the former resumed her chair,
the latter amused herself by examining the books and odd-looking
daguerreotypes which lay upon the table.

“Oh, grandmother!” she almost screamed, bounding to

that lady's side, “as I live, here's a picture of Theo and
George Douglas taken together,” and she held up a handsome
casing before the astonished old lady, who donning her
golden spectacles in a twinkling saw for herself that what
Maggie said was true.

“They stole it,” she gasped. “We are in a den of thieves!
Who knows what they'll take from my bandbox?” and she
was about to leave the room, when Maggie, whose quick
mind saw farther ahead, bade her stop.

“I may discover something more,” said she, and taking a
handsomely bound volume of Lamb, she turned to the flyleaf,
and read, “Jenny Douglas, from her brother George,
Worcester, Jan. 8th.”

It was plain to her now; but any mortification she might
otherwise have experienced was lost in the one absorbing
thought, “What will grandma say?”

“Grandmother,” said she, showing the book, “don't you
remember the mother of that girl called her Betsey Jane
Douglas?”

“Yes, yes,” gasped Madam Conway, raising both hands,
while an expression of deep, intense anxiety was visible
upon her face.

“And don't you know, too,” continued Maggie, “that
George always seemed inclined to say as little as possible
of his parents? Now, in this country, it is not unusual for
the sons of just such people as these to be among the most
wealthy and respectable citizens.”

“Maggie, Maggie,” hoarsely whispered Madam Conway,
grasping Maggie's arm, “do you mean to insinuate—am I
to understand that you believe that odious woman and
hideous girl to be the mother and sister of George Douglas?”

“I haven't a doubt of it,” answered Maggie. “'Twas the

resemblance between Betsey Jane and George, which I
observed at first.”

Out of her chair to the floor tumbled Madam Conway,
fainting entirely away, while Maggie, stepping to the door,
called for help.

“I mistrusted she was awful sick at dinner,” said Mrs.
Douglas, taking her hands from the dishwater, and running
to the parlor. “I wish she'd smelt of the camphor, as I
wanted her to. Does she have such spells often?”

By this time Betsey Jane had brought a basin of water,
which she dashed in the face of the unconscious woman, who
soon began to revive.

“Pennyryal tea'll settle her stomach quicker'n anything
else,” said Mrs. Douglas. “I'll clap a little right on the
stove;” and helping Madam Conway to the sofa, she left the
room.

“There may possibly be a mistake, after all,” thought
Maggie. “I'll question the girl,” and turning to Betsey
Jane, she said, taking up the book which had before
attracted her attention, “Is this, Jenny Douglas, intended
for you?”

“Yes, ma'am,” answered the girl, coloring slightly.
“Brother George calls me Jenny, because he thinks Betsey
so old fashioned.”

An audible groan from the sofa, and Maggie continued,
“Where does your brother live?”

“In Worcester, ma'am. He keeps a store there,”
answered Betsey, who was going to say more, when her
mother reëntering the room, took up the conversation by
saying, “Was you tellin' 'em about George Washington?
Wal, he's a boy no mother need to be ashamed on, though
my old man sometimes says he's ashamed of us, we are so
different. But then he orto consider the advantages he's

had. We only brung him up till he was ten years old, and
then an uncle he was named after took him, and gin him a
college schoolin', and then put him into his store in Worcester.
Your head aches wus, don't it? Poor thing! The
pennyryal will be steeped directly,” she added, in an aside
to Madam Conway, who had groaned aloud as if in pain.
Then resuming her story, she continued, “Better'n six year
ago, Uncle George, who was a bachelder, died, leaving the
heft of his property, seventy-five thousand dollars, or more,
to my son, who is now top of the heap in the store, and
worth $100,000, I presume; some say, $200,000: but
that's the way some folks have of agitatin' things.”

“Is he married?” asked Maggie, and Mrs. Douglas, mistaking
the motive which prompted the question, answered,
“Yes, dear, he is. If he wan't, I know of no darter-in-law
I'd as soon have as you. I don't believe in finding fault
with my son's wife; but there's a proud look in her face, I
don't like. This is her picter,” and she passed to Maggie
the daguerreotype of Theo.

“I've looked at it before,” said Maggie, and the good
woman proceeded. “I hain't seen her yet; but he's goin'
to bring her to Charlton bimeby. He's a good boy, George
is, free as water;—gave me this carpet, the sofy and chair,
and has paid Betsey Jane's schoolin' one winter at Leicester.
But Betsey don't take to books much. She's more like me,
her father says. They had a big party for George last
night, but I wasn't invited. Shouldn't a' gone if I had been;
but for all that, a body don't wan't to be slighted, even if
they don't belong to the quality. If I'm good enough to be
George's mother I'm good enough to go to a party with his
wife. But she wan't to blame, and I shan't lay it up against
her. I shall see her to-morrow, pretty likely, for Sam
Babbit's wife and I are goin' down to the firemen's muster.

You've heard on't, I s'pose. The different engines are goin'
to see which will shute water the highest over a 180 foot
pole. I wouldn't miss goin' for anything, and of course I
shall call on Theodoshy. I calkerlate to like her, and when
they go to housekeepin', I've got a hull chest full of sheets,
and piller-biers, and towels I'm goin' to give her, besides
three or four bed quilts I pieced myself, two in herrin'-bone
pattern, and one in risin' sun. I'll show 'em to you,” and
leaving the room, she soon returned with three patch-work
quilts, wherein were all possible shades of color, red and
yellow predominating, and in one the “rising sun” forming a
huge centre piece.

“Heavens!” faintly articulated Madam Conway, pressing
her hands upon her head, which was supposed to be
aching dreadfully. The thought of Theo reposing beneath
the “risin' sun,” or yet the “herrin'-bone,” was intolerable;
and looking beseechingly at Maggie, she whispered, “Do see
if Mike is ready.”

“If it's the carriage you mean,” chimed in Mrs. Douglas,
“it's been waiting quite a spell, but I thought you warn't
fit to ride yet, so I didn't tell you.”

Starting to her feet, Madam Conway's bonnet went on
in a trice, and taking her shawl in her hand, she walked out
doors, barely expressing her thanks to Mrs. Douglas, who,
greatly distressed at her abrupt departure, ran for the herb
tea, and taking the tin cup in her hand, followed her guest
to the carriage, urging her to “take a swaller just to keep
from vomiting.”

“She's better without it,” said Maggie. “She seldom
takes medicine,” and politely expressing her gratitude to Mrs.
Douglas for her kindness, she bade Mike drive on.

“Some crazy critter just out of the Asylum, I'll bet,” said
Mrs Douglas, walking back to the house with her pennyroyal

tea. “How queer she acted! but that girl's a lady, every
inch of her, and so handsome, too, I wonder who she is?”

“Don't you believe the old woman felt a little above us?”
suggested Betsey Jane, who had more discernment than her
mother.

“Like enough she did, though I never thought on't. But
she needn't. I'm as good as she is, and I'll warrant as much
thought on, where I'm known;” and quite satisfied with her
own position, Mrs. Douglas went back to her dishwashing,
while Betsey Jane stole away up stairs to try the experiment
of arranging her hair after the fashion in which Margaret
wore hers.

In the meantime, Mike, perfectly sobered, had turned his
horses' heads in the direction of Hillsdale, when Madame
Conway called out, “To Worcester, Mike—to Worcester,
as fast as you can drive.”

“To Worcester! For what?” asked Maggie, and the excited
woman answered. “To stop it. To forbid the bans. I
should think you'd ask for what?”

“To stop it,” repeated Maggie. “I'd like to see you stop
it, when they've been married two months!”

“So they have, so they have,” said Madam Conway, wringing
her hands in her despair, and crying out, “that a Conway
should be so disgraced. What shall I do? What
shall I do?”

“Make the best of it, of course,” answered Maggie. “I
don't see as George is any worse for his parentage. He is
evidently greatly respected in Worcester, where his family
are undoubtedly known. He is educated and refined, if they
are not. Theo loves him, and that is sufficient, unless I add
that he has money.”

“But not as much as I supposed,” moaned Madam Conway.
“Theo told me $200,000; but that woman said one.

Oh what will become of me? Give me the hartshorn, Maggie.
I feel so faint!”

The hartshorn was handed her, but it could not quiet her
distress. Her family pride was sorely wounded, and had
Theo been dead, she would hardly have felt worse than she
did.

“How will she bear it when it comes to her knowledge,
as it necessarily must? It will kill her, I know,” she exclaimed,
after Maggie had exhausted all her powers of reasoning
in vain; then, as she remembered the woman's
avowed intention of visiting her daughter-in-law on the morrow,
she felt that she must turn back; she must see Theo
and break it to her gently, or “the first sight of that odious
creature, claiming her for a daughter, might be of incalculable
injury.”

“Stop, Mike,” she was about to say; but ere the words
passed her lips, she reflected that to take Maggie back to
Worcester, was to throw her again in Henry Warner's way,
and this she could not do. There was then but one alternative.
She could stop at the Charlton depot, not far distant,
and wait for the downward train, while Mike drove Maggie
home, and this she resolved to do. Mike was accordingly
bidden to take her at once to the depot, which he did, while
she explained to Maggie, her reason for returning.

“Theo is much better alone, and George will not thank
you for interfering,” said Maggie, not at all pleased with
her grandmother's proceedings.

But the old lady was determined. “It was her duty,”
she said, “to stand by Theo in trouble, and if a visit from
that horrid creature wasn't trouble, she could not well define
it.”

“When will you come home?” asked Maggie.

“Not before to-morrow night. Now I have undertaken

the matter, I intend to see it through,” said Madam Conway,
referring to the expected visit of “Mrs. Douglas, senior.”

But Mike did not thus understand it, and thinking her
only object in turning back was, “to see the doin's,” as he
designated the “Fireman's Muster,” he muttered long and
loud about “being thus sent home, while his madam went to
see the fun.”

In the meantime, on a hard settee, at the rather uncomfortable
depot, Madam Conway awaited the arrival of the
train, which came at last, and in a short time, she found
herself again in Worcester. Once in a carriage, and on her
way to the “Bay State,” she began to feel a little nervous,
half-wishing she had followed Maggie's advice, and left Theo
alone. But it could not now be helped, and while trying to
think what she should say to her astonished grand-daughter,
she was set down at the door of the hotel, slightly bewildered,
and a good deal perplexed, a feeling which was
by no means diminished when she learned that Mr. and
Mrs. Douglas were both out of town.

“Where have they gone, and when will they return?”
she gasped, untying her bonnet strings for an easier respiration.

To these queries the clerk replied, that he believed Mr.
Douglas had gone to Boston on business, that he might be
at home that night; at all events, he would probably return
in the morning; she could find Mr. Warner, who would tell
her all about it. “Shall I send for him?” he continued, as
he saw the scowl upon her face.

“Certainly not,” she answered, and taking the key, which
had been left in his charge, she repaired to Theo's rooms,
and sinking into a large easy-chair, fanned herself furiously,
wondering if they would return that night, and what they
would say when they found her there. “But I don't care,”

she continued, speaking aloud and shaking her head very
decidedly at the excited woman whose image was reflected
by the mirror opposite, and who shook her head as decidedly
in return! “George Douglas has deceived us shamefully,
and I'll tell him so, too. I wish he'd come this
minute!”

But George Douglas knew well what he was doing.
Very gradually was he imparting to Theo a knowledge of
his parents, and Theo, who really loved her husband, was
learning to prize him for himself and not for his family.
Feeling certain that the firemen's muster would bring his
mother to town, and knowing that Theo was not yet prepared
to see her, he was greatly relieved at Madam Conway's
sudden departure, and had himself purposely left
home, with the intention of staying away until Friday night.
This, however, Madam Conway did not know, and very
impatiently she awaited his coming, until the lateness of the
hour precluded the possibility of his arrival, and she retired
to bed, but not to sleep, for the city was full of firemen, and
one company, failing of finding lodgings elsewhere, had
taken refuge in an empty carriage shop near by. The hard,
bare floor was not the most comfortable bed imaginable,
and preferring the bright moonlight and open air, they made
the night hideous with their noisy shouts, which the watchmen
tried in vain to hush. To sleep in that neighborhood
was impossible, and all night long Madam Conway vibrated
between her bed and the window, from which latter point
she frowned wrathfully down upon the red coats below, who,
scoffing alike at law and order as dispensed by the police,
kept up their noisy revel, shouting lustily for “Chelsea, No.
4,” and “Washington, No. 2,” until the dawn of day.

“I wish to mercy I'd gone home,!” sighed Madam Conway,
as weak and faint she crept down to the breakfast

table, doing but little justice to anything, and returning to
her room, pale, haggard and weary.

Ere long, however, she became interested in watching the
crowds of people, who at an early hour filled the streets;
and when at last the different fire companies of the State
paraded the town in a seemingly never ending procession,
she forgot in a measure her trouble, and drawing her chair
to the window, sat down to enjoy the brilliant scene,
involuntarily nodding her head to the stirring music, as
troop after troop passed by. Up and down the street, as
far as the eye could reach, the sidewalks were crowded with
men, women and children, all eager to see the sight. There
were people from the city and people from the country, the
latter of whom, having anticipated the day for weeks and
months, were now unquestionably enjoying it.

Conspucious among these was a middle aged woman, who
elicited remarks from all who beheld her, both from the
peculiarity of her dress, and the huge, blue cotton umbrella
she persisted in hoisting, to the great annoyance of those in
whose faces it was thrust, and who forgot in a measure their
vexation when they read the novel device it bore. Like
many other people who can sympathize with the good woman,
she was always losing her umbrella, and at last, in self-defence,
had embroidered upon the blue in letters of white:

“Charity Douglas.”

As the lettering was small and not very distinct, it required
a close observation to decipher it; but the plan was
a successful one, nevertheless, and for four long years the
blue umbrella had done good service to its mistress, shielding
her alike from sunshine and from storm, and now in the

crowded city it performed a double part, preventing its
nearest neighbors from seeing, while at the same time it kept
the dust from settling on the thick green veil and leghorn
bonnet of its owner. At Betsey Jane's suggestion she wore
a hoop to-day on Theo's account, and that she was painfully
conscious of the fact, was proved by the many anxious
glances she cast at her chocolate colored muslin, through the
thin folds of which it was plainly visible.

“I wish I had left the pesky thing to hum,” she thought,
feeling greatly relieved when at last, as the crowd became
greater, it was broken in several pieces and ceased to do its
duty.

From her seat near the window, Madam Conway caught
sight of the umbrella as it swayed up and down amid the
multitude, but she had no suspicion that she who bore it
thus aloft had even a better right than herself to sit where
she was sitting. In her excitement she had forgotten Mrs.
Douglas's intended visit, to prepare Theo for which she had
returned to Worcester, but it came to her at length, when
as the last fire company passed, the blue umbrella was
closed, and the leghorn bonnet turned in the direction of the
hotel. There was no mistaking the broad good-humored
face which looked so eagerly up at “George's window,”
and involuntarily Madam Conway glanced under the bed
with the view of fleeing thither for refuge!

“What shall I do?” she cried, as she heard the umbrella
on the stairs. “I'll lock her out,” she continued; and in an
instant the key was in her pocket, while, trembling in every
limb, she awaited the result.

Nearer and nearer the footsteps came; there was a
knock upon the door, succeeded by a louder one, and then, as
both these failed to elicit a response, the handle of the umbrella
was vigorously applied. But all in vain, and Madam

Conway heard the discomfited outsider say, “They told me
Theodoshy's grandmarm was here, but I guess she's in the
street. I'll come agin bime-by,” and Mrs. Douglas senior
walked disconsolately down the stairs, while Madam Conway
thought it doubtful whether she gained access to the
room that day, come as often as she might.

Not long after, the gong sounded for dinner, and unlocking
the door, Madam Conway was about descending to the
dining-room, when the thought burst upon, “What if she
should be at the table? It's just like her.”

The very idea was overwhelming, taking from her at once
all desire for dinner; and returning to her room, she tried,
by looking over the books, and examining the carpet, to
forget how hungry and faint she was. Whether she would
have succeeded is doubtful, had not an hour or two later
brought another knock from the umbrella, and driven all
thoughts of eating from her mind. In grim silence she
waited until her tormentor was gone, and then wondering
if it was not time for the train, she consulted her watch.
But alas! 'twas only four; the cars did not leave until six,
and so another weary hour went by. At the end of that
time, however, thinking the depot preferable to being a
prisoner there, she resolved to go; and leaving the key with
the clerk, she called a carriage and was soon on her way to
the cars.

As she approached the depot, she observed an immense
crowd of people, gathered together, among which the red
coats of the firemen were conspicuous. A fight was evidently
in progress, and as the horses began to grow restive, she
begged of the driver to let her alight, saying she could
easily walk the remainder of the way. Scarcely, however,
was she on terra firma, when the yelling crowd made a precipitate
rush towards her, and in much alarm, she climbed

for safety into an empty buggy, whereupon the horse,
equally alarmed, began to rear, and without pausing an instant,
the terrified lady sprang out on the side opposite to
that by which she had entered, catching her dress upon the
seat, and tearing half the gathers from the waist.

“Heaven help me!” she cried, picking herself up, and beginning
to wish she had never troubled herself with Theo's
mother-in-law.

To reach the depot was now her great object, and as the
two belligerent parties occupied the front, she thought to
effect an entrance at the rear. But the doors were locked,
and as she turned the corner of the building, she suddenly
found herself in the thickest of the fight. To advance was
impossible, to turn back equally so, and while meditating
some means of escape, she lost her footing and fell across a
wheelbarrow, which stood upon the platform, crumpling her
bonnet, and scratching her face upon a nail which protruded
from the vehicle. Nearer dead than alive, she made her way
at last into the depot, and from thence into the cars, where,
sinking into a seat, and drawing her shawl closely around
her, the better to conceal the sad condition of her dress, she
indulged in meditations not wholly complimentary to firemen
in general, and her late comrades in particular.

For half an hour she waited impatiently, but though the
cars were filling rapidly there were no indications of starting;
and it was almost seven, ere the long and heavily loaded
train moved slowly from the depot. About fifteen minutes
previous to their departure, as Madam Conway was looking
ruefully out upon the multitude, she was horrified at seeing
directly beneath her window, the veritable woman from
whom, through the entire day, she had been hiding. Involuntarily
she glanced at the vacant seat in front of her,
which, as she feared, was soon occupied by Mrs. Douglas

and her companion, who, as Madam Conway divined, was
“Sam Babbit's wife.”

Trembling nervously lest she should be discovered, she
drew her veil closely over her face, keeping very quiet, and
looking intently from the window into the gathering darkness
without. But her fears were groundless, for Mrs.
Douglas had no suspicion that the crumpled bonnet and
sorry figure, sitting so disconsolately in the corner, was the
same which but the day before had honored her with a call.
She was in high spirits, having had, as she informed her
neighbor, “a tip-top time.” On one point, however, she was
disappointed. “She meant as much as could be to have
seen Theodoshy, but she wan't to hum. Her grandmarm
was in town,” said she, “but if she was in the room, she
must have been asleep, or dreadful deaf, for I pounded with
all my might. I'm sorry, for I'd like to scrape acquaintance
with her, bein' we're connected.”

An audible groan came from beneath the thick brown
veil, whereupon both ladies turned their heads. But the indignant
woman made no sign, and in a whisper loud enough
for Madam Conway to hear, Mrs. Douglas said, “Some
Irish critter in liquor, I presume. Look at her jammed
bonnet.”

This remark drew from Mrs. Babbit a very close inspection
of the veiled figure, who, smothering her wrath, felt
greatly relieved when the train started, and prevented her
from hearing anything more. At the next station, however,
Mrs. Douglas showed her companion a crochet collar, which
she had purchased for two shillings, and which, she said,
“was almost exactly like the one worn by the woman who
stopped at her house the day before.”

Leaning forward, Madam Conway glanced contemptuously
at the coarse knit thing, which bore about the same

resemblance to her own handsome collar, as cambric does to
satin.

“Vulgar, ignorant creatures!” she muttered, while Mrs.
Babbit, after duly praising the collar, proceeded to make
some inquiries concerning the strange lady who had shared
Mrs. Douglas's hospitality.

“I've no idee who she was,” said Mrs. Douglas; “but I
think it's purty likely she was some crazy critter they was
takin' to the hospital.”

Another groan from beneath the brown veil, and turning
around, the kind hearted Mrs. Douglas asked if she was
sick, adding in an aside, as there came no answer, “been
fightin' I'll warrant!”

Fortunately for Madam Conway, the cars moved on, and
when they stopped again, to her great relief, the owner of
the blue umbrella, together with “Sam Babbit's wife,”
alighted, and amid the crowd assembled on the platform she
recognized Betsey Jane, who had come down to meet her
mother. The remainder of the way seemed tedious enough,
for the train moved but slowly, and it was near 10 o'clock
ere they reached the Hillsdale station, where, to her great
delight, Madam Conway found Margaret awaiting her,
together with Arthur Carrollton. The moment she saw the
former, who came eagerly forward to meet her, the weary,
worn-out woman burst into tears; but at the sight of Mr.
Carrollton, she forced them back, saying in reply to Maggie's
inquiries, that Theo was not at home, that she had spent a
dreadful day, and been knocked down in a fight at the
depot, in proof of which she pointed to her torn dress, her
crumpled bonnet, and scratched face. Maggie laughed
aloud in spite of herself, and though Mr. Carrollton's eyes
were several times turned reprovingly upon her, she continued
to laugh at intervals at the sorry, forlorn appearance

presented by her grandmother, who for several days was
confined to her bed, from the combined effects of fasting,
fright, firemen's muster, and her late encounter with Mrs.
Douglas, senior!

15. CHAPTER XV.
ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE.

Mr. Carrollton had returned from Boston on Thursday
afternoon, and finding them all gone from the hotel, had
come on to Hillsdale in the evening train, surprising Maggie
as she sat in the parlor alone, wishing herself in Worcester,
or in some place where it was not as lonely as there. With
his presence the loneliness disappeared, and in making his
tea and listening to his agreeable conversation, she forgot
everything, until, observing that she looked weary, he said,
“Maggie, I would willingly talk to you all night, were it not
for the bad effect it would have you on to-morrow. You
must go to bed now,” and he showed her his watch, which
pointed to the hour of midnight.

Exceedingly mortified, Maggie was leaving the room,
when noticing her evident chagrin, Mr. Carrollton came to
her side and laying his hand very respectfully on hers, said
kindly, “It is my fault, Maggie, keeping you up so late, and
I only send you away now, because those eyes are growing
heavy, and I know that you need rest. Good night to you,
and pleasant dreams.”

He went with her to the door, watching her until she disappeared
up the stairs; then half wishing he had not sent
her from him, he, too, sought his chamber; but not to sleep,
for Maggie, though absent, was with him still in fancy. For
more than a year he had been haunted with a bright, sunshiny

face, whose owner embodied the dashing, independent
spirit, and softer qualities which made Maggie Miller so attractive.
Of this face he had often thought, wondering if the
real would equal the ideal, and now that he had met with
her, had looked into her truthful eyes, had gazed upon her
sunny face, which mirrored faithfully her every thought and
feeling, he was more than satisfied, and to love that beautiful
girl seemed to him an easy matter. She was so childlike,
so artless, so different from any one whom he had ever
known, that he was interested in her at once. But Arthur
Carrollton never did a thing precipitately. She might have
many glaring faults, he must see her more, must know her
better, ere he lavished upon her the love whose deep fountains
had never yet been stirred.

After this manner he reasoned as he walked up and down
his chamber, while Maggie, on her sleepless pillow, was
thinking, too, of him, wondering if she did hate him as
much as she intended, and if Henry would be offended at
her sitting up with him until after twelve o'clock.

It was nearly half-past nine when Maggie awoke next
morning, and making a hasty toilet, she descended to the
dining-room, where she found Mr. Carrollton awaiting her.
He had been up a long time; but when Anna Jeffrey,
blessed with an uncommon appetite, fretted at the delay of
breakfast, and suggested calling Margaret, he objected, saying
she needed rest, and must not be disturbed. So, in
something of a pet, the young lady breakfasted alone with
her aunt, Mr. Carrollton preferring to wait for Maggie.

“I am sorry I kept you waiting,” said Maggie, seating
herself at the table, and continuing to apologize for her
tardiness.

But Mr. Carrollton felt more than repaid by having her
thus alone with him, and many were the admiring glances he

cast towards her, as with her shining hair, her happy face,
her tasteful morning gown of pink, and her beautiful white
hands which handled so gracefully the silver coffee-urn, she
made a living, glowing picture, such as any man might
delight to look upon. Breakfast being over, Mr. Carrollton
proposed a ride, and as Anna Jeffrey at that moment
entered the parlor, he invited her to accompany them.
There was a shadow on Maggies brow, as she left the room
to dress, a shadow which had not wholly disappeared when
she returned; and observing this, Mr. Carrollton said,
“Were I to consult my own wishes, Maggie, I should leave
Miss Jeffrey at home; but she is a poor girl whose enjoyments
are far less than ours, consequently I invited her for
this once, knowing how fond she is of riding.”

“How thoughtful you are of other people's happiness!”
said Maggie, the shadow leaving her brow at once.

“I am glad that wrinkle has gone, at all events,” returned
Mr. Carrollton, laughingly, and laying his hand upon her
forehead, he continued: “Were you my sister Helen, I
should probably kiss you for having so soon got over your
pet; but as you are Maggie Miller, I dare not,” and he
looked earnestly at her, to see if he had spoken the truth.

Coloring crimson as it became the affianced bride of
Henry Warner to do, Maggie turned away, thinking Helen
must be a happy girl, and half wishing she, too, were
Arthur Carrollton's sister. It was a long, delightful excursion
they took, and Maggie, when she saw how Anna Jeffrey
enjoyed it, did not altogether regret her presence. On their
way home she proposed calling upon Hagar, “whom she had
not seen for three whole days.”

“And who, pray, is Hagar?” asked Mr. Carrollton; and
Maggie replied, “She is my old nurse,—a strange, crazy
creature, whom they say I somewhat resemble.”

By this time they were near the cottage, in the door of
which old Hagar was standing, with her white hair falling
round her face.

“I see by your looks, you don't care to call, but I shall,”
said Maggie, and bounding from her saddle, she ran up to
Hagar, pressing her hand and whispering in her ear, that it
would soon be time to hear from Henry.

“Kissed her, I do believe!” said Anna Jeffrey. “She
must have admirable taste!”

Mr. Carrollton thought so too, and with a half comical,
half displeased expression, he watched the interview between
that weird old woman, and fair young girl, little
suspecting how nearly they were allied.

“Why didn't you come and speak to her?” said Maggie,
as he alighted to assist her in again mounting Gritty. “She
used to see you in England, when you were a baby, and if
you won't be angry, I'll tell you what she said, it was, that
you were the crossest, ugliest young one she ever saw!
There, there, don't set me down so hard!” and the saucy
eyes looked mischievously at the proud Englishman, who,
truth to say, did place her in the saddle with a little more
force than was at all necessary.

Not that he was angry. He was only annoyed for what
he considered Maggie's undue familiarity with a person like
Hagar, but he wisely forbore making any comments in Anna
Jeffrey's presence, except, indeed, to laugh heartily at Hagar's
complimentary description of himself when a baby.
Arrived at home, and alone again with Maggie, he found
her so very good-natured and agreeable, that he could not
chide her for anything, and Hagar was for a time forgotten.

That evening, as the reader knows, they went together to
the depot, where they waited four long hours, but not impatiently;
for sitting there in the moonlight, with the winding

Chicopee full in view, and Margaret Miller at his side, Arthur
Carrollton forgot the lapse of time, especially when
Maggie, thinking no harm, gave a most ludicrous description
of her call upon Mrs. Douglas senior, and of her grandmother's
distress at finding herself so nearly connected with
what she termed “a low, vulgar family.”

Arthur Carrollton was very proud, and had Theo been his
sister, he might, to some extent, have shared in Madam
Conway's chagrin; and so he said to Maggie, at the same
time fully agreeing with her that George Douglas was a refined,
agreeable man, and as such entitled to respect. Still,
had Theo known of his parentage, he said, it would probably
have made some difference; but now that it could not be
helped, it was wise to make the best of it.

These words were little heeded then by Maggie, but with
most painful distinctness they recurred to her in the after
time, when, humbled in the very dust, she had no hope that
the highborn, haughty Carrollton would stoop to a child of
Hagar Warren! But no shadow of the dark future was
over her now; and very eagerly she drank in every word and
look of Arthur Carrollton, who, all unconsciously, was trampling
on another's rights, and gradually weakening the fancied
love she bore for Henry Warner.

The arrival of the train brought their pleasant conversation
to a close, and for a day or two Maggie's time was
wholly occupied with her grandmother, to whom she frankly
acknowledged having told Mr. Carrollton of Mrs. Douglas
and her daughter Betsey Jane. The fact that he knew of
her disgrace and did not despise her was of great benefit to
Madam Conway, and after a few days she resumed her usual
spirits, and actually told of the remarks made by Mrs. Douglas
concerning herself and the fight she had been in! As
time passed on she became reconciled to the Douglases, having,

as she thought, some well-founded reasons for believing
that for Theo's disgrace, Maggie would make amends by
marrying Mr. Carrollton, whose attentions each day became
more and more marked, and were not apparently altogether
disagreeable to Maggie. On the contrary, his presence at
Hillsdale was productive of much pleasure to her, as well as
of a little annoyance.

From the first he seemed to exercise over her an influence
she could not well resist—a power to make her do whatever
he willed that she should do; and though she sometimes rebelled,
she was pretty sure in the end to yield the contest,
and submit to one who was evidently the ruling spirit. As
yet nothing had been said of the hair ornament which, out
of compliment to him, her grandmother wore every morning
in her collar, but at last, one day Madam Conway spoke of
it herself, asking “if it were, as she had supposed, his grandmother's
hair?”

“Why, no,” he answered involuntarily; “it is a lock
Maggie sent me in that wonderful daguerreotype!”

“The stupid thing!” thought Maggie, while her eyes
fairly danced with merriment, as she anticipated the question
she fancied was sure to follow, but did not.

One glance at her tell-tale face was sufficient for Madam
Conway. In her whole household there was but one head
with locks as white as that, and whatever her thoughts
might have been, she said nothing, but from that day forth,
Hagar's hair was never again seen ornamenting her person!
That afternoon Mr. Carrollton and Maggie went out to ride,
and in the course of their conversation he referred to the
pin, asking whose hair it was and seeming much amused
when told that it was Hagar's.

“But why did you not tell her when it first came,” he
said; and Maggie answered, “Oh, it was such fun to see her

sporting Hagar's hair, when she is so proud. It didn't hurt
her either, for Hagar is as good as anybody. I don't believe
in making such a difference because one person chances to
be richer than another.”

“Neither do I,” returned Mr. Carrollton. “I would not
esteem a person for wealth alone, but there are points of
difference which should receive consideration. For instance,
this old Hagar may be well enough in her way, but suppose
she were nearly connected to you—your grandmother if you
like—it would certainly make some difference in your position.
You would not be Maggie Miller, and I”—

“Wouldn't ride with me, I dare say,” interrupted Maggie;
to which he replied, “I presume not,” adding as he saw
slight indications of pouting, “and therefore I am glad you
are Maggie Miller, and not Hagar's grandchild.”

Mentally pronouncing him a “proud hateful thing,” Maggie
rode on a while in silence. But Mr. Carrollton knew well
how to manage her, and he, too, was silent until Maggie,
who could never refrain from talking any length of time,
forgot herself and began chatting away as gaily as before.
During their excursion they came near to the gorge of
Henry Warner memory, and Maggie, who had never
quite forgiven Mr Carrollton for criticising her horsemanship,
resolved to show him what she could do. The signal was
accordingly given to Gritty, and ere her companion was aware
of her intention she was tearing over the ground at a speed
he could hardly equal. The ravine was just on the border
of the wood, and without pausing an instant, Gritty leaped
across it, landing safely on the other side, where he stopped,
while half fearfully, half exultingly, Maggie looked back to
see what Mr. Carrollton would do. At first he had fancied
Gritty beyond her control, and when he saw her directly
over the deep chasm he shuddered, involuntarily stretching

out his arms to save her; but the look she gave him as she
turned around, convinced him that the risk she had run was
done on purpose. Still he had no intention of following her,
for he feared his horse's ability as well as his own to clear
that pass.

“Why don't you jump? Are you afraid?” and Maggie's
eyes looked archly out from beneath her tasteful riding
cap.

For half a moment he felt tempted to join her, but
his better judgment came to his aid, and he answered,
“Yes, Maggie, I am afraid, having never tried such an experiment.
But I wish to be with you in some way, and as I
cannot come to you, I ask you to come to me. You seem
accustomed to the leap!”

He did not praise her. Nay, she fancied there was more
of censure in the tones of his voice; at all events, he had
asked her rather commandingly to return, and “she
wouldn't do it.” For a moment she made no reply, and he
said again, “Maggie, will you come?” then half playfully,
half reproachfully, she made answer, “A gallant Englishman
indeed! willing I should risk my neck where you dare
not venture yours. No, I shan't try the leap again to-day,
I don't feel like it; but I'll cross the long bridge half a
mile from here—good bye,” and fully expecting him to meet
her, she galloped off, riding, ere long, quite slowly, “so he'd
have a nice long time to wait for her!”

How then was she disappointed, when, on reaching the
bridge, there was nowhere a trace of him to be seen,
neither could she hear the sound of his horse's footsteps,
though she listened long and anxiously.

“He is certainly the most provoking man I ever saw;”
she exclaimed, half crying with vexation. “Henry wouldn't
have served me so, and I'm glad I was engaged to him before

I saw this hateful Carrollton, for grandma might possibly
have coaxed me into marrying him, and then wouldn't
Mr. Dog and Mrs. Cat have led a stormy life! No, we
wouldn't,” she continued; “I should in time get accustomed
to minding him, and then I think he'd be splendid, though
no better than Henry. I wonder if Hagar has a letter for
me!” and chirruping to Gritty, she soon stood at the door
of the cabin.

“Have you two been qarrelling?” asked Hagar, noticing
Mag's flushed cheeks. “Mr. Carrollton passed here twenty
minutes, or more, ago, looking mighty sober, and here you
are with your face as red—What has happened?”

“Nothing,” answered Mag, a little testily, “only he's the
meanest man!—Wouldn't follow me, when I leaped the
gorge, and I know he could, if he had tried.”

“Showed his good sense,” interrupted Hagar, adding that
Maggie mustn't think every man was going to risk his neck
for her.

“I don't think so, of course,” returned Maggie; “but he
might act better—almost commanded me to come back and
join him, as though I was a little child; but I wouldn't do
it. I told him I'd go down to the long bridge and cross,
expecting, of course, he'd meet me there; and instead of
that, he has gone off home. How did he know what accident
would befall me?”

“Accident!” repeated Hagar; “accident befall you,
who know every crook and turn of these woods so much
better than he does?”

“Well, any way, he might have waited for me,” returned
Mag. “I don't believe he'd care if I were to get killed. I
mean to scare him and see;” and springing from Gritty's
back, she gave a peculiar whistling sound, at which the
pony bounded away towards home while she followed Hagar

into the cottage, where a letter from Henry awaited
her.

They were to sail for Cuba on the 15th of October, and
he now wrote, asking if Maggie would go without her
grandmother's consent. But, though irresolute when he
before broached the subject, Mag was decided now. “She
would not run away,” and so she said to Hagar, to whom
she confided the whole affair.

“I do not think it would be right to elope,” she said.
“In three years more, I shall be twenty-one, and free to do
as I like; and if grandma will not let me marry Henry,
now, he must wait. I can't run away. Rose would not
approve of it, I'm sure, and I 'most know Mr. Carrollton
would not.”

“I can't see how his approving, or not approving can
affect you,” said Hagar; then bending down, so that her
wild eyes looked full in Maggie's eyes, she said, “Are you
beginning to like this Englishman?”

“Why, no, I guess I ain't,” answered Mag, coloring
slightly. “I dislike him dreadfully, he's so proud. Why,
he did the same as to say, that if I were your grandchild,
he would not ride with me.”

“My grandchild, Maggie Miller!—my grandchild!”
shrieked Hagar. “What put that into his head?”

Thinking her emotion caused by anger at Arthur Carrollton,
MAg mentally chided herself for having inadvertently
said what she did, while, at the same time, she tried to
soothe old Hagar, who rocked to and fro, as was her custom
when her “crazy spells” were on. Growing a little
more composed, she said, at last, “Marry Henry Warner,
by all means, Maggie; he ain't as proud as Carrollton—he
would not care as much if he knew it.”

“Know what?” asked Mag; and, remembering herself in

time, Hagar answered, adroitly, “knew of your promise to
let me live with you. You remember it, don't you?” and
she looked wistfully towards Mag, who, far more intent
upon something else, answered, “Yes, I remember. But
hush! don't I hear horses' feet coming rapidly through the
woods?” and running to the window, she saw Mr. Carrollton,
mounted upon Gritty, and riding furiously towards the house.

“You go out, Hagar, and see if he is looking for me,”
whispered Mag, stepping back, so he could not see.

“Henry Warner must snare the bird quick, or he will
lose it,” muttered Hagar, as she walked to the door, where,
evidently much excited, Mr. Carrollton asked if “she knew
aught of Miss Miller, and why Gritty had come home alone?
It is such an unusual occurrence,” said he, “that we felt
alarmed, and I have come in quest of her.”

From her post near the window, Maggie could plainly see
his face, which was very pale, and expressive of much concern,
while his voice, she fancied, trembled as he spoke her
name.

“He does care,” she thought; woman's pride was satisfied,
and ere Hagar could reply, she ran out saying laughingly,
“And so you thought maybe I was killed, but I'm
not. I concluded to walk home and let Gritty go on in advance.
I did not mean to frighten grandma.”

“She was not as much alarmed as myself,” said Mr. Carrollton,
the troubled expression of his countenance changing
at once. “You do not know how anxious I was, when I
saw Gritty come riderless to the door, nor yet how relieved
I am in finding you thus unharmed.”

Maggie knew she did not deserve this, and blushing like a
guilty child, she offered no resistance when he lifted her in
the saddle gently—tenderly, as if she had indeed escaped
from some great danger.

“It is time you were home,” said he, and throwing the
bridle across his arm, he rested his hand upon the saddle
and walked slowly by her side.

All his fancied coldness was forgotten; neither was the
leap nor yet the bridge once mentioned, for he was only too
happy in having her back alive, while she was doubting the
propriety of an experiment which, in the turn matters had
taken, seemed to involve deception. Observing at last that
he occasionally pressed his hand upon his side, she asked
the cause, and was told that he had formerly been subject
to a pain in his side, which excitement or fright greatly
augmented. “I hoped I was free from it,” he said, “but
the sight of Gritty dashing up to the door without you,
brought on a slight attack; for I knew if you were harmed,
the fault was mine for having rather unceremoniously
deserted you.”

This was more than Mag could endure in silence. The
frank ingenuousness of her nature prevailed, and turning towards
him her dark, beautiful eyes, in which tears were
shining, she said: “Forgive me, Mr. Carrollton. I sent
Gritty home on purpose to see if you would be annoyed, for
I felt vexed because you would not humor my whim and
meet me at the bridge. I am sorry I caused you any uneasiness,”
she continued, as she saw a shadow flit over his face.
“Will you forgive me?”

Arthur Carrollton could not resist the pleading of those
lustrous eyes, nor yet refuse to take the ungloved hand she
offered him; and if, in token of reconciliation, he did press
it a little more fervently than Henry Warner would have
thought at all necessary, he only did what, under the circumstances,
it was very natural he should do. From the
first Maggie Miller had been a puzzle to Arthur Carrollton;
but he was fast learning to read her—was beginning to understand

how perfectly artless she was—and this little incident
increased, rather than diminished, his admiration.

“I will forgive you, Maggie,” he said, on one condition.
“You must promise never again to experiment with my
feelings, in a similar manner.”

The promise was readily given and then they proceeded
on as leisurely as if at home, there was no anxious grandmother
vibrating between her high-backed chair and the
piazza, nor yet an Anna Jeffrey, watching them enviously as
they came slowly up the road.

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 Mag 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 bye, 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 her
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 up stairs, 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 Mag
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 bye; 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, Mag 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 house-top. A
slight suspicion of the truth came upon him, and kissing his
hand, he waved it gracefully towards her. Mag'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 bye.

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 'most 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 autumnal 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 the 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 distrubed, 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
at 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 at 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.

16. 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 off, 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 would not be very long,” she said “and in the
new scenes to which he was going,” a part of it would 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
travellers 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 brouht 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.”

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 Betsey 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 reading the letter, then tossing it into
the fire 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 very kind in
you not to have said anything 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 rapt in thought. Could it be possible that during 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 first of December.

The day came, and, unusually excited, Maggie flitted from

room to room, seeing that everything was in order, 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 any
one, 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 from him away, 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 atoues
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 but 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 pretence 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 awhile 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 one would be glad to have me leave.”

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 exclaimed, “engaged, when I
was hoping 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 or 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 lamp light would fall
fully upon her face and reveal its every expression. Closing

the piano, she complied with his request, and then awaited
in silence for what he was 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 out 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 out-grown,
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 of 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. “Oh 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 Mag, 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, Mag 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 grand-daughter, 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 Mag'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-traveller, 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 Mag,

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 Mag 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,
where, in another chapter, we will for a moment go.

17. 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 upon the vessel's deck, where she
could breathe the fresh morning air as it came rippling o'er
the sea. But neither 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
thoughts 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 first
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 sunset-light
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 to 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 by-gone scenes, where,
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 Mag, 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 himself—a
wrong to her—and a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom his
troth was 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 stilly
night, watched 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 wearily over the eyes of blue, but
they could not keep back the tears which rolled down

her face, as she answered 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.

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PEDDLER.

It was a rainy April day—a day which precluded all out-door
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 so affected 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 her 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 toward 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, 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 hearth-stone
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 the
next moment a tall, large 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 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,
Connecticut.

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. Any how, 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 step-child, 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 step-child.

“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 fellin' 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 every one 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 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 old Hagar lay, moaning bitterly.
“My sin has found me out, 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 Mag, 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 half-way rock is reached—nearer
and nearer she comes—her shadow falls across the floor—
her hand is on your arm—her voice is in your ear—Maggie
Miller is at your side—Heaven help you both!

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

“Hagar! Hagar!” exclaimed Mag, playfully bounding
to her side, and laying her hand upon her arm; “What aileth
thee, Hagar?”

The words were mete, 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 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 so 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
Mag 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 Mag 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 the 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
Mag, 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 Mag,
half playfully; and turning around, 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, Mag 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, Mag, 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 shrivelled, 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, she had

risen to her feet, and now, tall and erect as the mountain
ash which grew on her native hills, she stood before her,
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 'tis—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 heart-broken 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 found woman who had cherished her so
tenderly—neither were 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
shrivelled, 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, be-draggled 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 ain't;
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 were 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 hated
her,” she said, “hated her for what she could not help;”
and when, as he often did, he came to her bedside, speaking
to her 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 it 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, and
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 was 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've 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 fibre 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 of 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.

20. 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 should you 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; and 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 his face would wear, 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.”

“Margaret,” 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 their existence, and now that she was reminded of
it, she could not help fancying that Hester said the step-child
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 bye. 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 cannot 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 musical pine overshadowing
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, heart-broken 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 the train in time to save the life of the
man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had falled 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, she was
still debtor to the Boston & Albany Railroad for the sum of
seventy cents. 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
“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 this 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 house, saying to him who
hovers at her side, “that somebody, she knows not whom,
is surely coming there 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,
“Any one save her.”

21. 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 sea side,
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 door-bell rang, and the servant
announced, “a lady in the parlor, who asked for Mr. Warner.”

“I told you some one 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 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 offspring 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.

But the olden feeling was gone, and Maggie could now
meet his glance without a blush, while he could talk with her
as calmly as if she had never been aught to him save the
sister of his wife. Thus often changeth the human heart's
first love.

After a time, Rose returned, bearing a silver tray heaped
with the most tempting viands; but Maggie's heart was too
full to eat, and after drinking a cup of the fragrant black
tea, which Rose herself had made, she laid her head upon
the pillow, which Henry brought, and with Rose sitting by,
holding lovingly her hand, she fell into a quiet slumber.
For several hours she slept, and when she awoke at last, the
sun was shining in at the western window, casting over the
floor a glimmering light, and reminding her so forcibly of
the dancing shadows on the grass which grew around the old
stone house, that her eyes filled with tears, and thinking
herself alone, she murmured, “Will it never be my home
again?”

A sudden movement, the rustling of a dress startled her,
and lifting up her head, she saw standing near, a pleasant-looking,
middle aged woman, who, she rightly guessed, was
Mrs. Warner, her own aunt.

“Maggie,” the lady said, laying her hand on the fevered
brow, “I have heard a strange tale to-day. Heretofore I
had supposed Rose to be my only child, but though you take
me by surprise, you are not the less welcome. There is
room in my heart for you, Maggie Miller, room for the
youngest born of my only brother. You are somewhat like
him, too,” she continued, “though more like your mother;”

and with the mention of that name, a flush stole over the
lady's face, for she, too, was very proud, and her brother's
marriage with a servant girl had never been quite forgiven.

Mrs. Warner had seen much of the world, and Maggie
knew her to be a woman of refinement, a woman of whom
even Madam Conway would not be ashamed; and winding
her arms around her neck, she said impulsively, “I am glad
you are my aunt, and you will love me, I am sure, even if I
am poor Hagar's grandchild.”

Mrs. Warner knew nothing of Hagar, save from Henry's
amusing description, the entire truth of which she somewhat
doubted; but she knew that whatever Hagar Warren
might be, the beautiful girl before her was not answerable
for it, and very kindly she tried to soothe her, telling her
how happy they would be together. “Rose will leave me
in the autumn,” she said, “and without you I should be all
alone.” Of Hagar, too, she spoke kindly, considerately,
and Maggie, listening to her, felt somewhat reconciled to
the fate which had made her what she was. Still, there
was much of pride to overcome ere she could calmly think
of herself as other than Madam Conway's grandchild; and
when that afternoon, as Henry and Rose were sitting with
her, the latter spoke of her mother, saying she had a faint
remembrance of a tall, handsome girl, who sang her to sleep
on the night when her own mother died, there came a visible
shadow over Maggie's face, and instantly changing the
conversation, she asked why Henry had never told her anything
definite concerning himself and family.

For a moment Henry seemed embarrassed. Both the
Hamiltons and the Warners were very aristocratic in their
feelings, and by mutual consent, the name of Hester Warren
was by them seldom spoken. Consequently, if there

existed a reason for Henry's silence with regard to his own
and Rose's history, it was that he disliked bringing up a
subject he had been taught to avoid, both by his aunt and
the mother of Mr. Hamilton, who for several years after her
son's death, had lived with her daughter in Leominster,
where she finally died. This, however, he could not say to
Margaret, and after a little hesitancy, he answered laughingly,
“You never asked me for any particulars; and then,
you know, I was more agreeably occupied than I should
have been had I spent my time in enlightening you with
regard to our genealogy;” and the saucy mouth smiled
archly first on Rose, and then on Margaret, both of whom
blushed slightly, the one suspecting he had not told her the
whole truth, and the other knowing he had not.

Very considerate was Rose of Maggie's feelings, and not
again that afternoon did she speak of Hester, though she
talked much of their father; and Margaret, listening to his
praises, felt herself insensibly drawn towards this new
claimant for her filial love. “I wish I could have seen
him,” she said, and starting to her feet Rose answered,
“Strange I did not think of it before. We have his portrait.
Come this way,” and she led the half unwilling Mag
into an adjoining room, where from the wall, a portly, good-humored
looking man, gazed down upon the sisters, his eyes
seeming to rest with mournful tenderness on the face of her
whom in life they had not looked upon. He seemed older
than Mag had supposed, and the hair upon his head was
white, reminding her of Hagar. But she did not, for this,
turn from him away. There was something pleasing in the
mild expression of his face, and she whispered faintly, “'Tis
my father.”

On the right of this portrait was another, the picture of
a woman, in whose curling lip and soft brown eyes, Mag

recognized the mother of Henry. To the left, was another
still, and she gazed upon the angel face, with eyes of violet
blue, and hair of golden brown, on which the fading sunlight
now was falling, encircling it as it were with a halo of
glory.

“You are much like her,” she said to Rose, who made no
answer, for she was thinking of another picture, which years
before had been banished to the garret, by her haughty
grandmother, as unworthy a place beside him who had
petted and caressed the young girl of plebeian birth and
kindred.

“I can make amends for it, though,” thought Rose,
returning with Mag to the parlor: then, seeking out her
husband, she held with him a whispered consultation, the
result of which was that on the morrow, there was a rummaging
in the garret, an absence from home for an hour or
two, and when about noon she returned, there was a pleased
expression on her face, as if she had accomplished her purpose,
whatever it might have been.

All the morning Mag had been restless and uneasy, wandering
listlessly from room to room, looking anxiously down
the street, starting nervously at the sound of every footstep,
while her cheeks alternately flushed and then grew pale as
the day passed on. Dinner being over, she sat alone in the
parlor, her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and her thoughts
away with one who she vaguely hoped would have followed
her ere this. True, she had added no postscript to tell him
of her new discovery; but Hagar knew, and he would go to
her for a confirmation of the letter. She would tell him
where Mag was gone, and he, if his love could survive that
shock, would follow her thither; nay, would be there that
very day, and Maggie's heart grew wearier, fainter, as time
wore on and he did not come. “I might have known it,”

she whispered sadly. “I did know that he would never
more think of me,” and she wept silently over her ruined
love.

“Maggie, sister,” came to her ear, and Rose was at her
side. “I have a surprise for you, darling. Can you bear
it now?”

Oh, how eagerly poor Maggie Miller looked up in Rose's
face. The car whistle had sounded half an hour before.
Could it be that he had come? Was he there? Did he love
her still? No, Maggie, no, the surprise awaiting you is of
a far different nature, and the tears flow afresh when Rose,
in reply to the question, “what is it, darling?” answers “it
is this,” at the same time placing in Maggie's hand an ambrotype
which she bade her examine. With a feeling of
keen disappointment, Maggie opened the casing, involuntarily
shutting her eyes as if to gather strength for what she
was to see.

It was a young face—a handsome face—a face much like
her own, while in the curve of the upper lip, and the expression
of the large black eyes, there was a look like Hagar
Warren. They had met together thus, the one a living
reality, the other a semblance of the dead, and she who held
that picture trembled violently. There was a fierce struggle
within, the wildly beating heart throbbing for one
moment with a new-born love, and then rebelling against
taking that shadow, beautiful though it was, in place of her
whose memory she had so long revered.

“Who is it, Maggie?” Rose asked, leaning over her
shoulder.

Maggie knew full well whose face it was she looked upon,
but not yet could she speak that name so interwoven with
memories of another, and she answered mournfully, “it is
Hester Hamilton.”

“Yes, Margaret, your mother,” said Rose. “I never called
her by that name, but I respect her for your sake. She
was my father's pet, they say, for he was comparatively old
and she his young girl-wife.”

“Where did you get this?” Maggie asked; and, coloring
crimson, Rose replied, “We have always had her portrait,
but grandmother, who was very old and foolishly proud
about some things, was offended at our father's last marriage,
and when after his death the portraits were brought
here, she—forgive her, Maggie—she did not know you, or
she would not have done it”—

“I know,” interrupted Maggie. “She despised this Hester
Warren, and consigned her portrait to some spot from
which you have brought it and had this taken from it.”

“Not despised her,” cried Rose, in great distress, as she
saw a dark expression stealing over the face of Maggie, in
whose heart a chord of sympathy had been struck, when she
thought of her mother banished from her father's side.
“Grandma could not despise her,” continued Rose, “she
was so good, so beautiful.”

“Yes, she was beautiful,” murmured Maggie, gazing
earnestly upon the fair, round face, the soft, black eyes and
raven hair of her who for years had slept beneath the shadow
of the Hillsdale woods. “Oh, I wish I was dead like
her,” she exclaimed at last, closing the ambrotype, and laying
it upon the table. “I wish I was lying in that little
grave in the place of her who should have borne my name,
and been what I once was;” and bowing her face upon her
hands she wept bitterly, while Rose tried in vain to comfort
her. “I am not sorry you are my sister,” sobbed Margaret.
through her tears. “That's the only comfort I have left
me now; but Rose, I love Arthur Carrollton so much—oh
so much, and how can I give him up?”

“If he is the noble, true-hearted man he looks to be, he
will not give you up,” answered Rose, and then for the first
time since this meeting she questioned Margaret concerning
Mr. Carrollton, and the relations existing between them.
“He will not cast you off,” she said, when Margaret had
told her all she had to tell, “He may be proud, but he will
cling to you still. He will follow you, too—not to-day,
perhaps, nor to-morrow, but ere long he will surely come;”
and listening to her sister's cheering words, Maggie herself
grew hopeful, and that evening talked animatedly with Henry
and Rose of a trip to the sea-side they were intending
to make. “You will go, too, Maggie,” said Rose, caressing
her sister's pale cheek, and whispering in her ear, “Aunt
Susan will be here to tell Mr. Carrollton where you are, if
he does not come before we go, which I am sure he will.”

Maggie tried to think so, too, and her sleep that night
was sweeter than it had been before for many weeks—but
the next day came, and the next, and Maggie's eyes grew
dim with watching and with tears, for up and down the
road, as far as she could see, there came no trace of him for
whom she waited.”

“I might have known it; it was foolish for me to think
otherwise,” she sighed, and turning sadly from the window
where all the afternoon she had been sitting, she laid her
head wearily upon the lap of Rose.

“Maggie,” said Henry, “I am going to Worcester to-morrow,
and perhaps George can tell me something of Mr.
Carrollton.”

For a moment Maggie's heart throbbed with delight at the
thought of hearing from him, even though she heard that he
would leave her. But anon her pride rose strong within her.
She had told Hagar twice of her destination, Hagar had told
him, and if he chose he would have followed her ere this; so

somewhat bitterly she said, “Don't speak to George of me.
Don't tell him I am here. Promise me, will you?”

The promise was given, and the next morning, which was
Saturday, Henry started for Worcester on the early train.
The day seemed long to Maggie, and when at nightfall he
came to them again, it was difficult to tell which was the
more pleased at his return, Margaret or Rose.

“Did you see Theo?” asked the former; and Henry replied,
“George told me she had gone to Hillsdale. Madam
Conway is very sick.”

“For me! for me! She's sick with mourning for me,”
cried Maggie. “Darling grandma! she does love me still,
and I will go home to her at once.”

Then the painful thought rushed over her, “If she wished
for me, she would send. It's the humiliation, not the love,
that makes her sick. They have cast me off—grandma,
Theo, all, all,” and sinking upon the lounge, she wept aloud.

“Margaret,” said Henry, coming to her side, “but for
my promise I should have talked to George of you, for
there was a troubled expression on his face when he asked
me if I had heard from Hillsdale.”

“What did you say?” asked Maggie, holding her breath
to catch the answer, which was, “I told him you had not
written to me since my return from Cuba, and then he
looked as if he would say more, but a customer called him
away, and our conversation was not resumed.”

For a moment Maggie was silent. Then she said, “I am
glad you did not intrude me upon him. If Theo has gone
to Hillsdale, she knows that I am here, and does not care to
follow me. It is the disgrace which troubles them, not the
losing me!” and again burying her head in the cushions of
the lounge, she wept bitterly. It was useless for Henry and
Rose to try to comfort her, telling her it was possible that

Hagar had told nothing; “And if so,” said Henry, “you
well know that I am the last one to whom you would be
expected to flee for protection.” Margaret would not listen.
She was resolved upon being unhappy, and during the long
hours of that night she tossed wakefully upon her pillow,
and when the morning came she was too weak to rise; so
she kept her room, listening to the music of the Sabbath
bells, which to her seemed sadly saying, “Home, home.”
“Alas, I have no home,” she said, turning away to weep, for
in the tolling of those bells there came to her no voice,
whispering of the darkness, the desolation, and the sorrow
there was in the home for which she so much mourned.

Thus the day wore on, and ere another week was gone,
Rose insisted upon a speedy removal to the sea-shore, notwithstanding
it was so early in the season, for by this means
she hoped that Maggie's health would be improved. Accordingly,
Henry went once more to Worcester, ostensibly
for money, but really to see if George Douglas now would
speak to him of Margaret. But George was in New York,
they said; and somewhat disappointed, Henry went back to
Leominster, where everything was in readiness for their
journey. Monday was fixed upon for their departure, and
at an early hour, Margaret looked back on what had
been to her a second home, smiling faintly as Rose whispered
to her cheerily, “I have a strong presentiment that
somewhere in our travels we shall meet with Arthur Carrollton.”

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.

Come now over the hills to the westward. Come to the
Hillsdale woods, to the stone house by the mill, where all
the day long there is heard but one name, the servants
breathing it softly and low, as if she who had borne it were
dead, the sister, dim-eyed now, and paler faced, whispering
it oft to herself, while the lady, so haughty and proud, repeats
it again and again, shuddering as naught but the
echoing walls reply to the heart-broken cry of “Margaret,
Margaret, where are you now?”

Yes, there was mourning in that household—mourning
for the lost one, the darling, the pet of them all.

Brightly had the sun arisen on that June morning which
brought to them their sorrow, while the birds in the tall
forest tress carolled as gaily as if no storm cloud were hovering
near. At an early hour Mr. Carrollton had arisen,
thinking, as he looked forth from his window, “She will
tell me all to-day,” and smiling as he thought how easy and
pleasant would be the task of winning her back to her olden
gaiety. Madam Conway, too, was unusually excited and
very anxiously she listened for the first sound of Maggie's
footsteps on the stairs.

“She sleeps late,” she thought, when breakfast was
announced, and taking her accustomed, seat, she bade a
servant “see if Margaret were ill.”

“She is not there,” was the report the girl brought back.

“Not there!” cried Mr. Carrollton.

“Not there!” repeated Madam Conway, a shadowy foreboding
of evil stealing over her. “She seldom walks at
this early hour,” she continued, and rising she went herself
to Margaret's room.

Everything was in perfect order, the bed was undisturbed,
the chamber empty, Margaret was gone, and on the dressing-table
lay the fatal letter, telling why she went. At
first Madam Conway did not see it; but it soon caught her
eye, and tremblingly she opened it, reading but the first line:
“I am going away forever.”

Then a loud shriek rang through the silent room, penetrating
to Arthur Carrollton's listening ear, and bringing
him at once to her side. With the letter still in her hand,
and her face of a deathly hue, and her eyes flashing with fear,
Madam Conway turned to him as he entered, saying, “Margaret
has gone, left us forever, killed herself it may be—
read;” and she handed him the letter, herself bending
eagerly forward, to hear what he might say.

But she listened in vain. With lightning rapidity,
Arthur Carrollton read what Mag had written—read that
she, his idol, the chosen bride of his bosom, was the daughter
of a servant, the grandchild of old Hagar! And for
this she had fled from his presence, fled because she knew of
the mighty pride which now, in the first bitter moment of his
agony, did indeed rise up a barrier between himself and the
beautiful girl he loved so well. Had she lain dead before
him, dead in all her youthful beauty, he could have folded her
in his arms, and then buried her from his sight, with a feeling
of perfect happiness, compared to that which he now felt

“Oh, Maggie, my lost one, can it be?” he whispered to
himself, and pressing his hand upon his chest, which heaved

with strong emotion, he staggered to a seat, while the
perspiration stood in beaded drops upon his forehead, and
around his lips.

“What is it, Mr. Carrollton? 'Tis something dreadful,
sure,” said Mrs. Jeffrey, appearing in the door, but Madam
Conway motioned her away, and tottering to his side, said,
“Read it to me—read.”

The sound of her voice recalled his wandering mind, and
covering his face with his hands, he moaned in anguish;
then, growing suddenly calm, he snatched up the letter,
which had fallen to the floor, and read it aloud; while
Madam Conway, stupefied with horror, sank at his feet, and
clasping her hands above her head, rocked to and fro, but
made no word of comment. Far down the long ago her
thoughts were straying, and gathering up many by-gone
scenes, which told her that what she heard was true.

“Yes, 'tis true,” she groaned; and then, powerless to speak
another word, she laid her head upon a chair, while Mr.
Carrollton, preferring to be alone, sought the solitude of his
own room, where unobserved he could wrestle with his sorrow,
and conquer his inborn pride, which whispered to him
that a Carrollton must not wed a bride so far beneath him.

Only a moment, though, and then the love he bore for
Maggie Miller rolled back upon him with an overwhelming
power, while his better judgment, with that love, came hand
in hand, pleading for the fair young girl, who, now that he
had lost her, seemed a thousand fold dearer than before.
But he had not lost her; he would find her. She was Maggie
Miller still to him, and though old Hagar's blood were in
her veins, he would not give her up. This resolution once
made, it could not be shaken, and when half an hour or
more was passed, he walked with firm, unfaltering footsteps,
back to the apartment where Madam Conway still sat upon

the floor, her head resting upon the chair, and her frame
convulsed with grief.

Her struggle had been a terrible one, and it was not over
yet, for with her it was more than a matter of pride and
love. Her daughter's rights had been set at naught; a
wrong had been done to the dead; the child who slept
beneath the pine had been neglected; nay, in life, had been,
perhaps, despised for an intruder, for one who had no right
to call her grandmother; and shudderingly she cried,
“Why was it suffered thus to be?” Then as she thought
of white-haired Hagar Warren, she raised her hand to
curse her, but the words died on her lips, for Hagar's deed
had brought to her much joy; and now, as she remembered
the bounding step, the merry laugh, the sunny face, and
loving words, which had made her later years so happy, she
involuntarily stretched out her arms in empty air, moaning
sadly, “I want her here. I want her now, just as she used
to be.” Then, over the grave of her buried daughter, over
the grave of the sickly child, whose thin, blue face came up
before her, just as it lay in its humble coffin, over the deception
of eighteen years, her heart bounded with one wild,
yearning throb, for every bleeding fibre clung with a deathlike
grasp to her, who had been so suddenly taken from her.

“I love her still,” she cried, “but can I take her back?”
And then commenced the fiercest struggle of all, the battling
of love and pride, the one rebelling against a child of
Hagar Warren, and the other clamoring loudly, that without
that child the world to her was nothing. It was the
hour of Madam Conway's humiliation, and in bitterness of
spirit, she groaned, “That I should come to this! Theo
first, and Margaret, my bright, my beautiful Margaret next.
Oh, how can I give her up, when I loved her, best of all—
best of all?”

This was true, for all the deeper, stronger love of Madam
Conway's nature had gone forth to the merry, gleeful girl,
whose graceful, independent bearing she had so often likened
to herself, and the haughty race with which she claimed relationship.
How was this illusion dispelled! Margaret was
not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport. A servant girl had
been her mother, and of her father there was nothing known.
Madam Conway was one who seldom wept for grief. She had
stood calmly at the bedside of her dying husband, had buried
her only daughter from her sight, had met with many
reverses, and shed for all no tears, but now they fell like
rain upon her face, burning, blistering as they fell, but
bringing no relief.

“I shall miss her in the morning,” she cried, “miss her
at noon, miss her in the lonesome nights, miss her everywhere—oh,
Margaret, Margaret, 'tis more than I can bear!
Come back to me now, just as you are. I want you here—
here where the pain is hardest,” and she clasped her arms
tightly over her heaving bosom. Then her pride returned
again, and with it came thoughts of Arthur Carrollton.
He would scoff at her as weak and sentimental; he would
never take beyond the sea a bride of Hagarish birth; and
duty demanded that she, too, should be firm, and sanction
his decision. “But when he's gone,” she whispered, “when
he has left America behind, I'll find her, if my life is spared.
I'll find poor Margaret, and see that she does not want,
though I must not take her back.”

This resolution, however, did not bring her comfort, and
the hands pressed so convulsively upon her side could not
case her pain. Sure, never before had so dark an hour
enfolded that haughty woman, and a prayer that she might
die was trembling on her lips, when a footfall echoed along
the hall, and Arthur Carrollton stood before her. His face

was very pale, bearing marks of the storm he had passed
through; but he was calm, and his voice was natural as he
said, “Possibly what we have heard is false. It may be a
vagary of Hagar's half crazed brain.”

For an instant Madam Conway had hoped so, too; but
when she reflected, she knew that it was true. Old Hagar
had been very minute in her explanations to Margaret, who
in turn had written exactly what she had heard, and Madam
Conway, when she recalled the past, could have no doubt
that it was true. She remembered everything, but more
distinctly the change of dress, at the time of the baptism.
There could be no mistake. Margaret was not hers, and so
she said to Arthur Carrollton, turning her head away as if
she, too, were in some way answerable for the disgrace.

“It matters not,” he replied, “whose she has been. She
is mine, now, and if you feel able, we will consult together
as to the surest method of finding her.”

A sudden faintness came over Madam Conway, and while
the expression of her face changed to one of joyful surprise,
she stammered out, “Can it be I hear aright? Do I
understand you? Are you willing to take poor Maggie
back?”

“I certainly have no other intention,” he answered.
“There was a moment the memory of which makes me
ashamed, when my pride rebelled; but it is over now, and
though Maggie cannot in reality be again your child, she
can be my wife, and I must find her.”

“You make me so happy, oh, so happy!” said Madam
Conway. “I feared you would cast her off, and in that
case it would have been my duty to do so too, though
I never loved a human being, as at this moment I love
her.”

Mr. Carrollton looked as if he did not fully comprehend

the woman, who loving Margaret as she said she did, could
yet be so dependent upon his dicision; but he made no comment,
and when next he spoke he announced his intention
of calling upon Hagar, who possibly could tell him where
Margaret had gone. “At all events,” said he, “I may
ascertain why the secret, so long kept, was at this late day
divulged. It may be well,” he continued, “to say nothing
to the servants as yet, save that Maggie has gone. Mrs.
Jeffrey, however, had better be let into the secret at once.
We can trust her, I think.”

Madam Conway bowed, and Mr. Carrollton left the room,
starting immediately for the cottage by the mine. As he
approached the house, he saw the servant who for several
weeks had been staying there, and who now came out to
meet him, telling him that since the night before, Hagar had
been raving crazy, talking continually of Maggie, who, she
said, “had gone where none would ever find her.”

In some anxiety, Mr. Carrollton pressed on, until the cottage
door was reached, where for a moment he stood gazing
silently upon the poor woman before him. Upon the bed,
her white hair falling over her round, bent shoulders, and
her large eyes shining with delirious light, old Hagar sat,
weaving back and forth, and talking of Margaret, of Hester,
and “the little foolish child,” who, with a sneer upon her
lip, she said, “was a fair specimen of the Conway race.”

“Hagar,” said Mr. Carrollton, and at the sound of that
voice Hagar turned toward him her flashing eyes, then
with a scream, buried her head in the bed-clothes, saying,
“Go away, Arthur Carrollton! Why are you here?
Don't you know who I am? Don't you know what Margaret
is, and don't you know how proud you are?”

“Hagar,” he said again, subduing, by a strong effort, the
repugnance he felt at questioning her, “I know all, except

where Margaret has gone, and if on this point you can give
me any information, I shall receive it most thankfully.”

“Gone!” shrieked Hagar, starting up in bed; “then she
has gone. The play is played out, the performance is ended,
and I sinned for nothing!”

“Hagar, will you tell me where Maggie is? I wish to
follow her,” said Mr. Carrollton; and Hagar answered,
“Maggie, Maggie—he said that lovingly enough, but
there's a catch somewhere. He does not wish to follow her
for any good—and though I know where she has gone, I'll
surely never tell. I kept one secret nineteen years. I can
keep another as long;” and folding her arms upon her
chest, she commenced singing, “I know full well, but I'll
never tell.”

Biting his lips with vexation, Mr. Carrollton tried first by
persuasion, then by flattery, and lastly by threats, to obtain
from her the desired information, but in vain. Her only
answer was, “I know full well, but I'll never tell,” save
once, when tossing towards him her long white hair, she
shrieked, “Don't you see a resemblance—only hers is black
—and so was mine nineteen years ago,—and so was Hester's
too—glossy and black as the raven's wing. The child is
like the mother—the mother was like the grandmother, and
the grandmother is like—me, Hagar Warren. Do you understand?”

Mr. Carrollton made no answer, and with a feeling of
disappointment walked away, shuddering as he thought,
“and she is Margaret's grandmother.”

He found Madam Conway in strong hysteries on Margaret's
bed, for she had refused to leave the room, saying, “she
would die there or nowhere.” Gradually the reality of her
loss had burst upon her, and now gasping, choking, and
wringing her hands, she lay upon the pillows, while Mrs.

Jeffrey, worked up to a pitch of great nervous excitement,
fidgeted hither and thither, doing always the wrong thing,
fanning the lady when she did not wish to be fanned, and
ceasing to fan her just when she was “dying for want of air.”

As yet, Mrs. Jeffrey knew nothing definite, except that
something dreadful had happened to Margaret; but very
candidly Mr. Carrollton told her all, bidding her keep silent
on the subject; then, turning to Madam Conway, he repeated
to her the result of his call on old Hagar.

“The wretch!” gasped Madam Conway, while Mrs. Jeffrey,
running in her fright from the window to the door, and
from the door back to the window again, exclaimed, “Margaret
not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport, after all! It is
just what I expected. I always knew she came honestly by
those low-bred ways!”

“Jeffrey,” and the voice of the hysterical woman on the
bed was loud and distinct, as she grasped the arm of
the terrified little governess, who chanced to be within her
reach. “Jeffrey,” either leave my house at once, or speak
more deferentially of Miss Miller. You will call her by that
name, too. It matters not to Mr. Carrollton and myself
whose child she has been. She is ours now, and must be
treated with respect. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” meekly answered Jeffrey, rubbing her
dumpy arm which bore the mark of a thumb and finger, and
as her services were not just then required she glided from
the room to drown, if possible, her grievance in the leather-bound
London edition of Baxter!

Meanwhile, Madam Conway was consulting with Mr. Carrollton
as to their best mode of finding Margaret. “She
took the cars, of course,” said Mr. Carrollton, adding that
“he should go at once to the depot, and ascertain which
way she went. If I do not return to-night you need not be

alarmed,” he said, as he was leaving the room, whereupon
Madam Conway called him back, bidding him “telegraph
for Theo at once, as she must have some one with her besides
that vexatious Jeffrey.”

Mr. Carrollton promised compliance with her request, and
then went immediately to the depot, where he learned that
no one had entered the cars from that place on the previous
night, and that Maggie, if she took the train at all, must
have done so at some other station. This was not unlikely,
and before the day was passed, Mr. Carrollton had visited
several different stations, and had talked with the conductors
of the several trains, but all to no purpose; and very
much disheartened, he returned at nightfall to the old stone
house, where to his great surprise, he found both Theo and
her husband. The telegram had done its mission, and feeling
anxious to know the worst, George had come up with
Theo to spend the night. It was the first time Madam Conway
had seen him since her memorable encounter with his
mother, for though Theo had more than once been home, he
had never before accompanied her, and now when Madam
Conway heard his voice in the hall below, she groaned
afresh. The sight of his good-humored face, however, and
his kind offer to do whatever he could to find the fugitive,
restored her composure in a measure, and she partially forgot
that he was in any way connected with the blue umbrella,
or the blue umbrella connected with him! Never in her
life had Theo felt very deeply upon any subject, and now,
though she seemed bewildered at what she heard, she manifested
no particular emotion, until her grandmother, wringing
her hands, exclaimed, “You have no sister now, my
child, and I no Margaret.” Then, indeed, her tears flowed,
and when her husband whispered to her, “We will love
poor Maggie all the same,” she cried aloud, but not quite

as demoustratively as Madam Conway wished, and in a very
unamiable frame of mind, the old lady accused her of being
selfish and hard-hearted.

In this stage of proceedings Mr. Carrollton returned,
bringing no tidings of Maggie, whereupon another fit of
hysteries ensued, and as Theo behaved much worse than
Mrs. Jeffrey had done, the latter was finally summoned again
to the sick room, where she had last succeeded in quieting
the excited woman. The next morning George Douglas
visited old Hagar, but he too was unsuccessful, and that
afternoon he returned to Worcester, leaving Theo with her
grandmother, who, though finding fault with whatever she
did, refused to let her go until Margaret was found.

During the remainder of the week, Mr. Carrollton rode
through the country, making the most minute inquiries, and
receiving always the same discouraging answer. Once he
thought to advertise, but from making the affair thus public
he instinctively shrank, and resolving to spare neither his
time, his money, nor his health, he pursued his weary way
alone. Once, too, Madam Conway spoke of Henry Warner,
saying it was possible Maggie might have gone to him, as
she had thought so much of Rose; but Mr. Carrollton “knew
better.” “A discarded lover,” he said, “was the last person
in the world to whom a young girl like Margaret would go,
particularly as Theo had said that Henry was now the husband
of another.”

Still the suggestion haunted him, and on the Monday
following Henry Warner's first visit to Worcester, he, too,
went down to talk with Mr. Douglas, asking him, “if it were
possible that Maggie was in Leominster.”

“I know she is not,” said George, repeating the particulars
of his interview with Henry, who, he said, was at the
store on Saturday. “Once I thought of telling him all,”

said he, “and then considering the relations which formerly
existed between them, I concluded to keep silent, especially
as he manifested no desire to speak of her, but appeared, I
fancied, quite uneasy when I casually mentioned Hillsdale.”

Thus was that matter decided, and while not many miles
away, Maggie was watching hopelessly for the coming of
Arthur Carrollton, he, with George Douglas, was devising
the best means for finding her, George generously offering
to assist in the search, and suggesting finally that he should
himself go to New York city, while Mr. Carrollton explored
Boston and its vicinity. It seemed quite probable that
Margaret would seek some of the large cities, as in her letter
she had said she could earn her livelihood by teaching music;
and quite hopeful of success, the young men parted, Mr.
Carrollton going immediately to Boston, while Mr. Douglas,
after a day or two, started for New York, whither, as the
reader will remember, he had gone at the time of Henry's
last visit to Worcester.

Here, for a time we leave them, Hagar raving mad,
Madam Conway in strong hysterics, Theo wishing herself
anywhere but at Hillsdale, Mrs. Jeffrey ditto, George
Douglas threading the crowded streets of the noisy city,
and Mr. Carrollton in Boston, growing paler and sadder as
day after day passed by, bringing him no trace of the lost
one. Here, I say, we leave them, while in another chapter
we follow the footsteps of her for whom this search was made.

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
NIAGARA.

From the seaside to the mountains, from the mountains
to Saratoga, from Saratoga to Montreal, from Montreal to
the Thousand Isles, and thence they scarce knew where, the
travellers wended their way, stopping not long at any place,
for Margaret was ever seeking change. Greatly had she
been admired, her pale, beautiful face attracting attention at
once; but from all flattery she turned away, saying to Henry
and Rose, “Let us go on.”

So, onward still onward they went, pausing longest at
Montreal, for it was there Arthur Carrollton had been, there
a part of his possessions lay, and there Margaret willingly lingered,
even after her companions wished to be gone.

“He may be here again,” she said; and so she waited and
watched, scanning eagerly the passers by, and noticing each
new face as it appeared at the table of the hotel, where they
were staying. But the one she waited for never came, “and
even if he does,” she thought, “he will not come for me.”

So she signified her willingness to depart, and early one
bright July morning, she left, while the singing birds
from the tree tops, the summer air from the Canada hills,
and, more than all, a warning voice within her, bade her,
“Tarry yet a little, stay till the sun was set,” for far out in
the country and many miles away a train was thundering on.

It would reach the city at nightfall, and among its jaded passengers,
was a worn and weary man. Hopeless, almost aimless
now, he would come, and why he came he scarcely
knew. “She would not be there so far from home,” he
was sure of that, but he was coming for the sake of
what he hoped and feared, when last he trod those streets.
Listlessly he entered the same hotel, from whose windows,
for five long days, a fair young face had looked for him.
Listlessly he registered his name, then carelessly turned the
leaves backward—backward—backward still, till only one
remained between his hand and the page bearing date five
days before. He paused and was about to move away,
when a sudden breeze from the open window turned the
remaining leaf, and his eye caught the name, not of Maggie
Miller, but of “Henry Warner, lady, and sister.”

“Thus it stood, and thus he repeated it to himself, dwelling
upon the last words sister, as if to him it had another
meaning. He had heard from Madam Conway, that neither
Henry Warner nor Rose had a sister, but she might be
mistaken; probably she was, and dismissing the subject
from his mind, he walked away. Still the names haunted
him, and thinking at last, that if Mr. Warner were now in
Montreal, he would like to see him, he returned to the
office, asking the clerk if the occupants of Nos. — were
there still.

“Left this morning for the Falls,” was the laconic answer,
and without knowing why he should particularly wish to do
so, Mr. Carrollton resolved to follow them.

He would as soon be at the Falls as at Montreal, he
thought. Accordingly he left the next morning for Niagara,
taking the shortest route by river and lake, and arriving
there on the evening of the second day after his departure
from the city. But nowhere could a trace be found of Henry

Warner, and determining now to wait until he came,
Mr. Carrollton took rooms at the International, where after
a day or two, worn out with travel, excitement and hope
deferred, he became severely indisposed, and took his bed,
forgetting entirely both Henry Warner and the sister,
whose name he had seen upon the hotel register. Thoughts
of Maggie Miller, however, were constantly in his mind, and
whether waking or asleep, he saw always her face, sometimes
radiant with healthful beauty, as when he first beheld
her, and again, pale, troubled, and sad, as when he saw her
last.

“Oh, shall I ever find her?” he would sometimes say, as
in the dim twilight he lay listening to the noisy hum which
came up from the public room below.

And once, as he lay there thus, he dreamed, and in his
dreams there came through the open window a clear, silvery
voice, breathing the loved name of Maggie. Again he
heard it on the stairs, then little tripping feet went past his
door, followed by a slow, languid tread, and with a nervous
start, the sick man awoke. The day had been cloudy and
dark, but the rain was over now, and the room was full of
sunshine—sunshine dancing on the walls, sunshine glimmering
on the floor, sunshine everywhere. Insensibly, too, there
stole over Mr. Carrollton's senses a feeling of quiet, of rest,
and he slept ere long again, dreaming this time that Margaret
was there.

Yes, Margaret was there—there, beneath the same roof
which sheltered him, and the same sunshine which filled his
room with light had bathed her white brow, as leaning from
her window, she listened for the roar of the falling water.
They had lingered on their way, stopping at the Thousand
Isles, for Margaret would have it so; but they had come at
last, and the tripping footsteps in the hall, the silvery voice

upon the stairs, was that of the golden haired Rose, who
watched over Margaret with all a sister's love and a mother's
care. The frequent jokes of the fun-loving Henry, too,
were not without their good effects, and Margaret was better
now than she had been for many weeks.

“I can rest here,” she said, and a faint color came to her
cheeks, making her look more like herself than she had done
before since that night of sorrow in the woods.

And so three days went by, and Mr. Carrollton, on his
weary bed, dreamed not that the slender form, which sometimes
through his half closed door, cast a shadow in his
room, was that of her for whom he sought. The tripping
footsteps, too, went often by, and a merry, childish voice,
which reminded him of Maggie, rang through the spacious
halls, until at last the sick man came to listen for that party
as they passed. They were a merry party, he thought, a
very merry party, and he pictured to himself her of the
ringing voice; she was dark eyed, he said, with braids of
shining hair, and when, as they were passing once, he asked
of his attendant if it were not as he had fancied, he felt a
pang of disappointment at the answer which was, “The
girl the young gentleman hears so much, has yellow curls
and dark blue eyes.”

“She is not like Maggie, then,” he sighed, and when
again he heard that voice, a part of its music was gone.
Still it cheered his solitude, and he listened for it again, just
as he had done before.

Once, when he knew they were going out, he went to the
window to see them, but the large straw flats and close
carriage revealed no secret, and disappointed he turned
away.

“It is useless to stay here longer,” he said; “I must be
about my work. I am able to leave, and I will go to-morrow.

But first I will visit the Falls once more. I may
never see them again.”

Accordingly, next morning, after Margaret and Rose had
left the house, he came down the stairs, sprang into an open
carriage, and was driven to Goat Island, which, until his
illness, had been his favorite resort.

Beneath the tall forest trees which grow upon the island
there is a rustic seat. Just on the brink of the river it
stands, and the carriage road winds by. It is a comparatively
retired spot, looking out upon the foaming water rushing
so madly on. Here the weary often rest; here lovers
sometimes come to be alone; and here Maggie Miller sat
on that summer morning, living over again the past, which
to her had been so bright, and musing sadly of the future,
which would bring her she knew not what.

She had struggled to overcome her pride, nor deemed it
longer a disgrace that she was not a Conway. Of Hagar,
too, she often thought, pitying the poor old half-crazed
woman who for her sake had borne so much. But not of her
was she thinking now. Hagar was shrivelled and bent,
and old, while the image present in Margaret's mind was
handsome, erect and young, like the gentleman riding by—
the man whose carriage wheels, grinding into the gravelly
road, attracted no attention. Too intent was she upon a
shadow to heed aught else around, and she leaned against a
tree, nor turned her head aside, as Arthur Carrollton went
by!

A little further on, and out of Maggie's sight, a fairy figure
was seated upon the grass; the flat was thrown aside,
and her curls fell back from her upturned face, as she spoke
to Henry Warner. But the sentence was unfinished, for
the carriage appeared in view, and with woman's quick

perception, Rose exclaims, “'Tis surely Arthur Carrollton!”

Starting to her feet, she sprang involuntarily forward to
meet him, casting a rapid glance around for Margaret. He
observed the movement, and knew that somewhere in the
world he had seen that face before—those golden curls—
those deep blue eyes—that childish form—they were not
wholly unfamiliar. Who was she, and why did she advance
towards him?

“Rose,” said Henry, who would call her back, “Rose!”
and looking towards the speaker, Mr. Carrollton knew at
once that Henry Warner and his bride were standing
there before him.

In a moment he had joined them, and though he knew
that Henry Warner had once loved Maggie Miller, he spoke
of her without reserve, saying to Rose, when she asked if
he were there for pleasure, “I am looking for Maggie Miller.
A strange discovery has been made of late, and Margaret
has left us.”

“She is here—here with us,” cried Rose; and in the
exuberance of her joy, she was darting away, when Henry
held her back until further explanations were made.

This did not occupy them long, for sitting down again upon
the bank, Rose briefly told him all she knew; and when
with eager joy he asked “where is she now?” she pointed
towards the spot, and then with Henry walked away, for she
knew that it was not for her to witness that glad meeting.

The river rolls on with its heaving swell, and the white
foam is tossed towards the shore, while the soft summer air
still bears on its wing the sound of the cataract's roar.
But Margaret sees it not, hears it not. There is a spell
upon her now—a halo of joy, and she only knows that a
strong arm is around her, and a voice is in her ear, whispering

that the bosom on which her weary head is pillowed
shall be her resting-place forever.

It had come to her suddenly, sitting there thus—the footfall
upon the sand had not been heard—the shadow upon
the grass had not been seen, and his presence had not been
felt, till bending low, Mr. Carrollton said aloud, “My Maggie!”

Then indeed she started up, and turned to see who it was
that thus so much like him had called her name. She saw
who it was, and looking in his face, she knew she was not
hated, and with a moaning cry went forward to the arms
extended to receive her.

Four guests, instead of one, went forth that afternoon
from the International—four guests homeward bound, and
eager to be there. No more journeying now for happiness;
no more searching for the lost; for both are found; both
are there—happiness and Maggie Miller.

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
HOME.

Impatient, restless and cross, Madam Conway lay in Margaret's
room, scolding Theo, and chiding Mrs. Jeffrey; both
of whom, though trying their utmost to suit her, managed
unfortunately to do always just what she wished them not
to do. Mrs. Jeffrey's hands were usually too cold, while
Theo's were too hot. Mrs. Jeffrey made the head of the
bed too high. Theo altogether too low. In short, neither
of them ever did what Margaret would have done had she
been there, and so day after day the lady complained, growing
more and more unamiable, until at last Theo began to
talk seriously of following Margaret's example, and running
away herself, at least as far as Worcester; but the distressed
Mrs. Jeffrey, terrified at the thoughts of being left
there alone, begged of her to stay a little longer, offering
the comforting assurance that “it could not be so bad
always, for Madam Conway would either get better—or
something.”

So Theo staid, enduring with a martyr's patience the caprices
of her grandmother, who kept the whole household in
a constant state of excitement, and who at last began to
blame George Douglas entirely as being the only one in
fault. “He didn't half look,” she said, “and she doubted
whether he knew enough to keep from losing himself in New

York. It was the most foolish thing Arthur Carrollton had
ever done, hiring George Douglas to search!”

“Hiring him, grandma!” cried Theo, “George offered his
services for nothing,” and the tears came to her eyes at this
injustice done to her husband.

But Madam Conway persisted in being unreasonable, and
matters grew gradually worse until the day when Margaret
was found at the Falls On that morning Madam Conway
determined upon riding—“fresh air would do her good,”
she said, “and they had kept her in a hot chamber long
enough.”

Accordingly, the carriage was brought out, and Madam
Conway carefully lifted in; but ere fifty rods were passed,
the coachman was ordered to drive back, as “she could not
endure the jolt—she told them she couldn't all the time,”
and her eyes turned reprovingly upon poor Theo, sitting silently
in the opposite corner.

“The Lord help me, if she isn't coming back, so soon,”
sighed Mrs. Jeffrey, as she saw the carriage returning, and
went to meet the invalid who had “taken her death cold,”
just as she knew she should, when they insisted upon her
going out.

That day was far worse than any which had preceded
it. It was probably her last, Madam Conway said, and
numerous were the charges she gave to Theo concerning
Margaret, should she ever be found. The house, the
farm, the furniture and plate, were all to be hers, while
to Theo was given the lady's wardrobe, saving such articles
as Margaret might choose for herself, and if she never were
found, the house and farm were to be Mr. Carrollton's. This
was too much for Theo, who resolved to go home on the
morrow at all hazards, and she had commenced making preparations
for leaving, when to her great joy her husband

came, and in recounting to him her trials, she forgot in a
measure how unhappy she had been. George Douglas was
vastly amused at what he heard and resolved to experiment
a little with the lady, who was so weak as to notice him
only with a slight nod when he first entered the room. He
saw at a glance that nothing in particular was the matter,
and when towards night she lay panting for breath, with
her eyes half closed, he approached her and said: “Madam,
in case you die”—

“In case I die,” she whispered indignantly. “It doesn't
admit of a doubt. My feet are as cold as icicles now.”

“Certainly,” said he. “I beg your pardon; of course
you'll die.”

The lady turned away rather defiantly for a dying woman,
and George continued: “What I mean to say is this—if
Margaret is never found, you wish the house to be Mr.
Carrollton's?”

“Yes, everything, my wardrobe and all,” came from beneath
the bedclothes, and George proceeded: “Mr. Carrollton
cannot of course take the house to England, and as
he will need a trusty tenant, would you object greatly, if
my father and mother should come here to live? They'd
like it, I”—

The sentence was unfinished—the bunches in the throat,
which for hours had prevented the sick woman from speaking
aloud, and were eventually to choke her to death, disappeared;
Madam Conway found her voice, and starting up,
screamed out, “That abominable woman and heathenish
girl in this house, in my house; I'll live forever, first!” and
her round bright eyes flashed forth their indignation.

“I thought the mention of mother would revive her,” said
George, aside to Theo, who, convulsed with laughter, had
hidden herself behind the window curtain.

Mr. Douglas was right, for not again that afternoon did
Madam Conway speak of dying, though she kept her bed
until night-fall, when an incident occurred which brought
her at once to her feet, making her forget that she had ever
been otherwise than well.

In her cottage by the mine, old Hagar had raved, and
sung, and wept, talking much of Margaret, but never telling
whither she had gone. Latterly, however, she had
grown more calm, talking far less than heretofore, and
sleeping a great portion of the day, so that the servant
who attended her became neglectful, leaving her many
hours alone, while she, at the stone house, passed her time
more agreeably than at the lonesome hut. On the afternoon
of which we write, she was as usual at the house, and
though the sun went down, she did not hasten back, for her
patient, she said, was sure to sleep, and even if she woke
she did not need much care.

Meantime old Hagar slumbered on. It was a deep,
refreshing sleep, and when at last she did awake, her reason
was in a measure restored, and she remembered everything
distinctly, up to the time of Margaret's last visit, when she
said she was going away. And Margaret had gone away,
she was sure of that, for she remembered Arthur Carrollton
stood once within that room, and besought of her to tell if
she knew aught of Maggie's destination. She did know,
but she had not told, and perhaps they had not found her
yet. Raising herself in bed, she called aloud to the servant,
but there came no answer; and for an hour or more, she
waited impatiently, growing each moment more and more
excited. If Margaret were found she wished to know it,
and if she were not found, it was surely her duty to go at
once, and tell them where she was. But could she walk?
She stepped upon the floor and tried. Her limbs trembled

beneath her weight, and sinking into a chair, she cried, “I
can't, I can't.”

Half an hour later, she heard the sound of wheels. A
neighboring farmer was returning home from Richland, and
had taken the cross road as his shortest route. “Perhaps
he will let me ride,” she thought, and hobbling to the door,
she called after him, making known her request. Wondering
what “new freak” had entered her mind, the man consented,
and just as it was growing dark, he set her down at
Madam Conway's gate, where, half fearfully, the bewildered
woman gazed around. The windows of Margaret's room were
open, a figure moved before them, Margaret might be there,
and entering the hall door unobserved, she began to ascend
the stairs, crawling upon her hands and knees, and pausing
several times to rest.

It was nearly dark in the sick-room, and as Mrs. Jeffrey
had just gone out, and Theo, in the parlor below, was enjoying
a quiet talk with her husband, Madam Conway was
quite alone. For a time she lay thinking of Margaret, then
her thoughts turned upon George and his “amazing proposition.”
“Such unheard of insolence!” she exclaimed, and
she was proceeding farther with her soliloquy, when a peculiar
noise upon the stairs without caught her ear, and raising
herself upon her elbow, she listened intently to the sound
which came nearer and nearer, and seemed like some one
creeping slowly, painfully, for she could hear at intervals a
long drawn breath, or groan, and with a vague feeling of uneasiness,
she awaited anxiously the appearance of her visitor;
nor waited long, for the half closed door swung slowly back,
and through the gathering darkness the shape came crawling
on, over the threshold, into the room, towards the corner,
its limbs distorted and bent, its white hair sweeping the
floor. With a smothered cry, Madam Conway hid beneath

the bedclothes, looking cautiously out at the singular object
which came creeping on until the bed was reached. It
touched the counterpane, it was struggling to regain its feet,
and with a scream of horror the terrified woman cried out,
“Fiend, why are you here?” while a faint voice replied, “I
am looking for Margaret. I thought she was in bed;” and
rising up from her crouching posture, Hagar Warren stood
face to face with the woman she had so long deceived.

“Wretch!” exclaimed the latter, her pride returning as
she recognized old Hagar, and thought, “She is Maggie's
grandmother. Wretch, how dare you come into my presence?
Leave this room at once,” and a shrill cry of “Theo,
Theo,” rang through the house, bringing Theo at once to
the chamber, where she started involuntarily at the sight
which met her view.

“Who is it? Who is it?” she exclaimed.

“It's Hagar Warren. Take her away!” screamed Madam
Conway; while Hagar, raising her withered hand deprecatingly,
said: “Hear me first. Do you know where Margaret
is? Has she been found?”

“No, no,” answered Theo, bounding to her side, while
Madam Conway forgot to scream, and bent eagerly forward
to listen, her symptoms of dissolution disappearing one by
one, as the strange narrative proceeded, and ere its close,
she was nearly dressed, standing erect as ever, her face glowing,
and her eyes lighted up with joy.

“Gone to Leominster! Henry Warner's half-sister!” she
exclaimed. “Why didn't she add a postscript to that letter,
and tell us so? though the poor child couldn't think of
everything;” and then, unmindful of George Douglas, who
at that moment entered the room, she continued: “I should
suppose Douglas might have found it out ere this. But the
moment I put my eyes upon that woman, I knew no child of

hers would ever know enough to find Margaret. The Warners
are a tolerably good family, I presume. I'll go after her
at once. Theo, bring my broché shawl, and wouldn't you
wear my satin hood? 'Twill be warmer than my leghorn.”

“Grandma,” said Theo, in utter astonishment, “what do
you mean? You surely are not going to Leominster to-night,
as sick as you are?”

“Yes, I am going to Leominster to-night,” answered the
decided woman, “and this gentleman,” waving her hand
majestically towards George, “will oblige me much by seeing
that the carriage is brought out.”

Theo was about to remonstrate, when George whispered,
“Let her go; Henry and Rose are probably not at home,
but Margaret may be there. At all events a little airing
will do the old lady good;” and rather pleased than otherwise
with the expedition, he went after John, who pronounced
his mistress “crazier than Hagar.”

But it wasn't for him to dictate, and grumbling at the
prospect before him, he harnessed his horses and drove them
to the door, where Madam Conway was already in waiting.

“See that everything is in order for our return,” she said
to Theo, who promised compliance, and then, herself bewildered,
listened to the carriage as it rolled away; it seemed
so like a dream that the woman, who three hours before
could scarcely speak aloud, had now started for a ride of
many miles in the damp night-air! But love can accomplish
miracles, and it made the eccentric lady strong, buoying
up her spirits, and prompting her to cheer on the coachman,
until just as the dawn grew rosy in the east, Leominster
appeared in view. The house was found, the carriage
steps let down, and then with a slight trembling in her

limbs, Madam Conway alighted and walked up the gravelled
path, casting eager, searching glances around and commenting
as follows:

“Everything is in good taste; they must be somebody,
these Warners. I'm glad it is no worse.” And with each
now indication of refinement in Margaret's relatives, the
disgrace seemed less and less in the mind of the proud
Englishwoman.

The ringing of the bell brought down Janet, who with an
inquisitive look at the satin hood and bundle of shawls,
ushered the stranger into the parlor, and then went for her
mistress. Taking the card her servant brought, Mrs. Warner
read with some little trepidation, the name, “Madam Conway,
Hillsdale.” From what she had heard, she was not
prepossessed in the lady's favor; but, curious to know why
she was there at this early hour, she hastened the making of
her toilet, and went down to the parlor, where Madam Conway
sat, coiled in one corner of the sofa, which she had
satisfied herself was covered with real brocatelle, as were
also the chairs within the room. The tables of rosewood
and marble, and the expensive curtains had none of them
escaped her notice, and in a mood which more common furniture
would never have produced, Madam Conway arose
to meet Mrs. Warner, who received her politely, and then
waited to hear her errand.

It was told in a few words. She had come for Margaret
—Margaret, whom she had loved for eighteen years, and
could not now cast off, even though she were not of the Conway
and Davenport extraction.

“I can easily understand how painful must have been the
knowledge that Maggie was not your own,” returned Mrs.
Warner, for she is a girl of whom any one might be proud; but
you are laboring under a mistake—Henry is not her brother,”

and then, very briefly she explained the matter to Madam
Conway, who having heard so much, was now surprised at
nothing, and who felt, it may be, a little gratified in knowing
that Henry was, after all, nothing to Margaret, save the
husband of her sister. But a terrible disappointment awaited
her. “Margaret was not there,” and so loud were her
lamentations, that some time elasped ere Mrs. Warner could
make her listen, while she explained, that “Mr. Carrollton
had found Maggie the day previous, at the Falls, that they
were probably in Albany now, and would reach Hillsdale
that very day;” such at least was the import of the telegram
which Mrs. Warner had received the evening before. “They
wish to surprise you undoubtedly,” she said, “and consequently
have not telegraphed to you.”

This seemed probable, and forgetting her weariness, Madam
Conway resolved upon leaving John to drive home at his
leisure, while she took the Leominster cars, which reached
Worcester in time for the upward train. This matter adjusted,
she tried to be quiet; but her excitement increased
each moment, and when at last breakfast was served, she
did but little justice to the tempting viands which her
hostess set before her. Margaret's chamber was visited
next, and very lovingly she patted and smoothed the downy
pillows, for the sake of the bright head which had rested
there, while to herself she whispered abstractedly, “Yes,
yes,” though to what she was giving her assent, she could
not tell. She only knew that she was very happy, and very
impatient to be gone, and when at last she did go, it seemed
to her an age ere Worcester was reached.

Resolutely turning her head away, lest she should see the
scene of her disaster, when last she was in that city, she
walked up and down the ladies' room, her satin hood and
heavy broché shawl, on that warm July morning, attracting

much attention. But little did she care. “Margaret” was
the burden of her thoughts, and the appearance of Mrs.
Douglas herself, would scarcely have disturbed her. Much
less, then, did the presence of a queerly dressed young girl,
who, entering the car with her, occupied from necessity the
same seat, feeling herself a little annoyed at being thus
obliged to sit so near one whom she mentally pronounced
“mighty unsociable,” for not once did Madam Conway turn
her face that way, so intent was she upon watching their
apparent speed, and counting the number of miles they had
come.

When Charlton was reached, however, she did observe
the woman in a shaker, who, with a pail of huckleberries on
her arm, was evidently waiting for some one.

An audible groan from the depths of the satin hood, as
Betsey Jane passed out and the cars passed on, showed plainly
that the mother and sister of George Douglas were recognized,
particularly as the former wore the red and yellow
calico, which, having been used as a “dress up” the summer
before, now did its owner service as a garment of every-day
wear. But not long did Madam Conway suffer her mind to
dwell upon matter so trivial. Hillsdale was not far away,
and she came each moment nearer. Two more stations
were reached—the haunted swamp was passed—Chicopee
River was in sight—the bridge appeared in view—the
whistle sounded, and she was there.

Half an hour later, and Theo, looking from her window,
started in surprise as she saw the village omnibus drive
up to their door.

“'Tis grandmother!” she cried, and running to meet her,
she asked why she had returned so soon.

“They are coming at noon,” answered the excited woman
—then, hurrying into the house, and throwing off her hood,

she continued, “He's found her at the Falls; they are between
here and Albany now; tell everybody to hurry as fast
as they can; tell Hannah to make a chicken pie—Maggie
was fond of that; and turkey—tell her to kill a turkey—it's
Maggie's favorite dish—and ice cream, too! I wish I had
some this minute,” and she wiped the perspiration from her
burning face.

No more hysterics now; no more lonesome nights; no
more thoughts of death—for Margaret was coming home—
the best-loved of them all. Joyfully the servants told to
each other the glad news, disbelieving entirely the report fast
gaining circulation, that the queenly Maggie was lowly born
—a grandchild of old Hagar. Up and down the stairs
Madam Conway ran, flitting from room to room, and tarrying
longest in that of Margaret, where the sunlight came in
softly through the half closed blinds and the fair summer
blossoms smiled a welcome for the expected one.

Suddenly the noontide stillness was broken by a sound,
deafening and shrill on ordinary occasions, but falling now
like music on Madam Conway's ear, for by that sound she
knew that Margaret was near. Wearily went the half hour
by, and then, from the head of the tower stairs, Theo cried
out, “She is coming!” while the grandmother buried her
face in the pillows of the lounge, and asked to be alone
when she took back to her bosom the child which was not
hers.

Earnestly, as if to read the inmost soul, each looked into
the other's eyes—Margaret and Theo—and while the voice
of the latter was choked with tears, she wound her arms
around the graceful neck, which bent to the caress, and
whispered low, “You are my sister still.”

Against the vine-wreathed balustrade a fairy form was
leaning, holding back her breath lest she should break the

deep silence of that meeting. In her bosom there was no
pang of fear lest Theo should be loved the best; and even
had there been, it could not surely have remained, for
stretching out her arm, Margaret drew her to her side, and
placing her hand in that of Theo said, “You are both my
sisters now,” while Arthur Carrollton, bending down, kissed
the lips of the three, saying as he did so, “Thus do I
acknowledge your relationship to me.”

“Why don't she come?” the waiting Madam Conway
sighed, just as Theo pointing to the open door, bade Margaret
“go in.”

There was a blur before the lady's eyes—a buzzing in her
ears—and the footfall she had listened for so long, was now
unheard as it came slowly to her side. But the light touch
upon her arm—the well remembered voice within her ear,
calling her “Madam Conway,” sent through her an electric
thrill, and starting up she caught the wanderer in her arms,
crying imploringly, “Not that name, Maggie darling; call
me grandma, as you used to do—call me grandma still,”
and smoothing back the long black tresses, she looked to
see if grief had left its impress upon her fair young face. It
was paler now, and thinner, too, than it was wont to be,
and while her tears fell fast upon it, Madam Conway whispered,
“You have suffered much, my child, and so have I.
Why did you go away? Say, Margaret, why did you leave
me all alone?”

“To learn how much you loved me,” answered Margaret,
to whom this moment brought happiness second only to that
which she had felt when on the river bank she sat with Arthur
Carrollton, and heard him tell how much she had been
mourned—how lonesome was the house without her—and
how sad where all their hearts.

But that was over now; no more sadness—no more

tears; the lost one had returned; Margaret was home
again—home in the hearts of all, and nothing could dislodge
her—not even the story of her birth, which Arthur Carrollton,
spurning at further deception, told to the listening servants,
who, having always respected old Hagar for her position
in the household as well as for her education, so superior
to their own, sent up a deafening shout, first for “Hagar's
grandchild,” and next for “Miss Margaret forever”

25. CHAPTER XXV.
HAGAR.

By Theo's request, old Hagar had been taken home the
day before, yielding submissively, for her frenzied mood was
over—her strength was gone—her life was nearly spent—
and Hagar did not wish to live. That for which she had
sinned had been accomplished, and though it had cost her
days and nights of anguish, she was satisfied at last. Margaret
was coming home again—would be a lady still—the bride
of Arthur Carrollton, for George Douglas had told her so,
and she was willing now to die, but not until she had seen
her once again—had looked into the beautiful face of which
she had been so proud.

Not to-day, however, does she expect her; and just as
the sun was setting, the sun which shines on Margaret at
home, she falls away to sleep. It was at this hour, that
Margaret was wont to visit her, and now, as the tree-tops
grew red in the day's departing glory, a graceful form came
down the woodland path, where for many weeks the grass
has not been crushed beneath her feet. They saw her as
she left the house, Madam Conway, Theo, all, but none
asked whither she was going. They knew, and one, who
loved her best of all, followed slowly after, waiting in the
woods until that interview should end.

Hagar lay calmly sleeping. The servant was as usual

away, and there was no eye watching Margaret as with
burning cheeks, and beating heart, she crossed the threshold
of the door, pausing not, faltering not, until the bed was
reached—the bed where Hagar lay, her crippled hands folded
meekly upon her breast, her white hair shading a whither
face, and a look about her half shut mouth, as if the thin
pale lips had been much used of late to breathe the word
“forgive.” Maggie had never seen her thus before, and the
worn-out, aged face, had something touching in its sad expression,
and something startling, too, bidding her hasten, if
to that woman she would speak.

“Hagar,” she essayed to say, but the word died on her
lips, for standing there alone, with the daylight fading from
the earth, and the lifelight fading from the form before
her, it seemed not meet that she should thus address the
sleeper. There was a name however by which she called
another—a name of love, and it would make the withered
heart of Hagar Warren bound, and beat, and throb with
untold joy. And Margaret said that name at last, whispering
it first softly to herself; then bending down so that her
breath stirred the snow-white hair, she repeated it aloud,
starting involuntarily as the rude walls echoed back the
name “Grandmother!”

“Grandmother!” Through the senses locked in sleep it
penetrated, and the dim eyes, once so fiery and black; grew
large and bright again, as Hagar Warren woke.

Was it a delusion, that beauteous form which met her
view, that soft hand on her brow, or was it Maggie Miller?

“Grandmother,” the low voice said again, “I am Maggie,
Hester's child. Can you see me? Do you know that I am
here?”

Yes, through the films of age, through the films of coming
death, and through the gathering darkness, old Hagar

saw and knew, and with a scream of joy, her shrunken arms
wound themselves convulsively around the maiden's neck,
drawing her near, and nearer still, until the shrivelled lips
touched the cheek of her who did not turn away, but returned
that kiss of love.

“Say it again, say that word once more,” and the arms
closed tighter round the form of Margaret, who breathed
it yet again, while the childish woman sobbed aloud: “It
is sweeter than the angels' song, to hear you call me so.”

She did not ask her when she came—she did not ask her
where she had been; but Maggie told her all, sitting by her
side with the poor hands clasped in her own; then, as the
twilight shadows deepened in the room, she struck a light,
and coming near to Hagar, said, “Am I much like my
mother?”

“Yes, yes, only more winsome,” was the answer, and the
half blind eyes looked proudly at the beautiful girl bending
over the humble pillow.

“Do you know that?” Maggie asked, holding to view the
ambrotype of Hester Hamilton.

For an instant Hagar wavered, then hugging the picture
to her bosom, she laughed and cried together, whispering as
she did so, “My little girl, my Hester, my baby that I used
to sing to sleep, in our home away over the sea.”

Hagar's mind was wandering amid the scenes of bygone
years, but it soon came back again to the present time, and
she asked of Margaret whence that picture came. In a few
words, Maggie told her, and then for a time there was silence,
which was broken at last by Hagar's voice, weaker now
than when she spoke before.

“Maggie,” she said, “what of this Arthur Carrollton?
Will he make you his bride?”

“He has so promised,” answered Mag; and Hagar continued:

“He will take you to England, and you will be a
lady, sure. Margaret, listen to me. 'Tis the last time we
shall ever talk together, you and I, and I am glad that it is
so. I have greatly sinned, but I have been forgiven, and I
am willing now to die. Everything I wished for has come
to pass, even the hearing you call me by that blessed name;
but Maggie, when to-morrow they say that I am dead—
when you come down to look upon me lying here asleep, you
needn't call me `Grandmother,' you may say `poor Hagar'
with the rest—and Maggie, is it too much to ask that your
own hands will arrange my hair, fix my cap, and straighten
my poor old crooked limbs for the coffin? And if I should
look decent, will you, when nobody sees you do it—Madam
Conway, Arthur Carrollton, nobody who is proud—will you,
Maggie, kiss me once for the sake of what I've suffered that
you might be what you are?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” was Maggie's answer, her tears falling
fast, and a fear creeping into her heart, as by the dim candle
light, she saw a nameless shadow settling down on
Hagar's face.

The servant entered at this moment, and glancing at old
Hagar, sunk into a chair, for she knew that shadow was
death.

“Maggie,” and the voice was now a whisper, “I wish I
could once more see this Mr. Carrollton. 'Tis the nature
of his kin to be sometimes overbearing, and though I am
only old Hagar Warren, he might heed my dying words,
and be more thoughtful of your happiness. Do you think
that he would come?”

Ere Maggie had time to answer, there was a step upon
the floor, and Arthur Carrollton stood at her side. He had
waited for her long, and growing at last impatient, had
stolen to the open door, and when the dying woman asked

for him, he had trampled down his pride, and entered the
humble room. Winding his arm round Margaret, who
trembled violently, he said, “Hagar, I am here. Have you
aught to say to me?”

Quickly the glazed eyes turned towards him, and the
clammy hand was timidly extended. He took it unhesitatingly,
while the pale lips murmured faintly: “Maggie's too.”
Then holding both between her own, old Hagar said solemnly:
“Young man, as you hope for heaven, deal kindly
with my child,” and Arthur Carrollton answered her aloud:
“As I hope for heaven, I will,” while Margaret fell upon
her knees and wept. Raising herself in bed, Hagar laid her
hands upon the head of the kneeling girl, breathing over
her a whispered blessing; then the hands pressed heavily,
the fingers clung with a loving grasp, as it were, to the
bands of shining hair—the thin lips ceased to move—the
head fell back upon the pillow, motionless and still, and
Arthur Carrollton, leading Margaret away, told to her gently,
that Hagar was dead.

Carefully, tenderly, as if she had been a wounded dove,
did the whole household demean themselves towards Margaret,
seeing that everything needful was done, but mentioning
never in her presence the name of the dead. And
Margaret's position was a trying one, for though Hagar had
been her grandmother, she had never regarded her as such,
and she could not now affect a grief she did not feel. Still,
from her earliest childhood she had loved the strange old
woman, and she mourned for her now, as friend mourneth
for friend, when there is no tie of blood between them.

Her promise, too, was kept, and with her own hands she
smoothed the snow-white hair, tied on the muslin cap, folded
the stiffened arms, and then, unmindful who was looking on,

kissed twice the placid face, which seemed to smile on her in
death.

By the side of Hester Hamilton they made another grave,
and with Arthur Carrollton and Rose standing at either
side, Margaret looked on while the weary and worn was laid
to rest; then slowly she retraced her steps, walking now
with Madam Conway, for Arthur Carrollton and Rose had
lingered at the grave, talking together of a plan, which had
presented itself to the minds of both as they stood by the
humble stone, which told where Margaret's mother slept.
To Margaret, however, they said not a word, nor yet to
Madam Conway, though they both united in urging the two
ladies to accompany Theo to Worcester for a few days.

“Mrs. Warner will help me keep house,” Mr. Carrollton
said, advancing the while so many good reasons why Margaret
at least should go, that she finally consented, and
went down to Worcester, together with Madam Conway,
George Douglas, Theo and Henry, the latter of whom
seemed quite as forlorn as did she herself, for Rose was left
behind, and without her he was nothing.

Madam Conway had been very gracious to him; his family
were good, and when, as they passed the Charlton depot,
thoughts of the leghorn bonnet and blue umbrella intruded
themselves upon her, she half wished that Henry had broken
his leg in Theo's behalf, and so saved her from bearing the
name of Douglas.

The week went by, passing rapidly as all weeks will, and
Margaret was again at home. Rose was there still, and
just as the sun was setting, she took her sister's hand, and
led her out into the open air, toward the resting-place of
the dead, where a change had been wrought, and Margaret,

leaning over the iron gate, comprehended at once the feeling
which had prompted Mr. Carrollton and Rose to desire
her absence for a time. The humble stone was gone, and
in its place there stood a handsome monument, less imposing,
and less expensive than that of Mrs. Miller, it is true;
but still chaste and elegant, bearing upon it simply the
names of “Hester Hamilton,” and her mother “Hagar
Warren,” with the years of their death. The little grave,
too, where for many years Maggie herself had been supposed
to sleep, was not beneath the pine tree now; that
mound was levelled down, and another had been made, just
where the grass was growing rank and green beneath the
shadow of the taller stone, and there side by side they lay
at last together, the mother and her infant child.

“It was kind in you to do this,” Margaret said, and then,
with her arm round Rose's waist, she spoke of the coming
time when the sun of another hemisphere would be shining
down upon her, saying she should think often of that hour,
that spot, and that sister, who answered: “Every year when
the spring rains fall, I shall come to see that the grave has
been well kept, for you know that she was my mother, too,”
and she pointed to the name of “Hester,” deep cut in the
polished marble.

“Not yours Rose, but mine,” said Maggie. “My mother,
she was, and as such, I will cherish her memory;” then, with
her arm still around her sister's waist, she walked slowly
back to the house.

A little later, and while Arthur Carrollton, with Maggie
at his side, was talking to her of something which made the
blushes burn on her still pale cheeks, Madam Conway herself
walked out to witness the improvements, lingering
longest at the little grave, and saying to herself, “it was
very thoughtful in Arthur, very, to do what I should have

done myself ere this, had I not been afraid of Margaret's
feelings.”

Then turning to the new monument, she admired its
chaste beauty, but hardly knew whether she was pleased to
have it there or not.

“It's very handsome,” she said, leaving the yard; and
walking backward to observe the effect. “And it adds much
to the looks of the place. There is no question about that. It
is perfectly proper, too, or Mr. Carrollton would never have
put it here, for he knows what is right, of course,” and the
still doubtful lady turned away, saying as she did so, “on
the whole I think I am glad that Hester has a handsome
monument, and I know I am glad that Mrs. Miller's is a
little the taller of the two!”

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858.

Years hence, if the cable coil, resting far down in the
mermaids' home, shall prove a bond of perfect peace between
the mother and her child, thousands will recall the bright
summer morning, when through the caverns of the mighty
deep, the first electric message came, thrilling the nation's
heart, quickening the nation's pulse, and with the music of
the deep toned bell, and noise of the cannon's roar, proclaiming
to the listening multitude, that the isle beyond the
sea, and the lands which to the westward lie, were bound
together, shore to shore, by a strange, mysterious tie. And
two there are who, in their happy home, will oft look back
upon that day, that 18th day of August, which gave to one
of Britain's sons as fair and beautiful a bride as e'er went
forth from the New England hills to dwell beneath a foreign
sky.

They had not intended to be married so soon, for Margaret
would wait a little longer; but an unexpected and
urgent summons home made it necessary for Mr. Carrollton
to go, and so by chance, the bridal day was fixed for the
18th. None save the family were present, and Madam Conway's
tears fell fast, as the words were spoken which made
them one, for by those words she knew that she and Margaret
must part. But not forever; for when the next year's

autumn leaves shall fall, the old house by the mill will again
be without a mistress, while in a handsome country seat
beyond the sea, Madam Conway will demean herself right
proudly as becometh the grandmother of Mrs. Arthur Carrollton.
Theo, too, and Rose will both be there, for their
husbands have so promised, and when the Christmas fires
are kindled on the hearth, and the ancient pictures on the
wall take a richer tinge from the ruddy light, there will be a
happy group assembled within the Carrollton halls; and
Margaret, the happiest of them all, will then almost forget
that ever in the Hillsdale woods, sitting at Hagar's feet, she
listened with a breaking heart to the story of her birth.

But not the thoughts of a joyous future could dissipate
entirely the sadness of that bridal, for Margaret was well
beloved, and the billow which would roll ere long between
her and her childhood's home, stretched many, many miles
away. Still they tried to be cheerful, and Henry Warner's
merry jokes had called forth more than one gay laugh, when
the peal of bells and the roll of drums arrested their attention;
while the servants, who had learned the cause of the
rejoicing, struck up “God save the Queen,” and from an
adjoining field a rival choir sent back the stirring note of
“Hail Columbia Happy Land.” Mrs. Jeffrey, too, was busy.
In secret she had labored at the rent made by her foot in
the flag of bygone days, and now, perspiring at every pore,
she dragged it up the tower stairs, planting it herself upon
the house-top, where side by side with the royal banner, it
waved in the summer breeze. And this she did, not because
she cared aught for the cable, in which she “didn't believe”
and declared “would never work,” but because she would
celebrate Margaret's wedding day, and so made some amends
for her interference when once before the stars and stripes
had floated above the old stone house.

And thus it was, amid smiles and tears, amid bells and
drums, and waving flags and merry song, amid noisy shout
and booming guns, that double bridal day was kept; and
when the sun went down, it left a glory on the western
clouds as if they, too, had donned their best attire in honor
of the union.

It is moonlight on the land, glorious, beautiful moonlight.
On Hagar's peaceful grave it falls, and glancing off from
the polished stone, shines across the fields upon the old
stone house, where all is cheerless now and still. No life—
no sound—no bounding step—no gleeful song. All is silent;
all is sad. The light of the household has departed; it
went with the hour when first to each other the lonesome
servants said, “Margaret is gone.”

Yes, she is gone, and all through the darkened rooms
there is found no trace of her, but away to the eastward
the moonlight falls upon the sea, where a noble vessel rides.
With sails unfurled to the evening breeze, it speeds away—
away from the loved hearts on the shore which after that
bark, and its precious freight, have sent many a throb of
love. Upon the deck of that gallant ship there stands a
beautiful bride, looking across the water with straining eye,
and smiling through her tears on him who wipes those tears
away, and whispers in her ear, “I will be more to you,
my wife, than they have ever been.”

So, with the love-light shining on her heart, and the moonlight
shining on the wave, we bid adieu to one who bears
no more the name of “Maggie Miller.”