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Maggie Miller: The Story of Old Hagar's Secret

by Mary Jane Holmes · English · Gutenberg #11280 · 472,992 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Maggie Miller: The Story of Old Hagar's Secret

Author: Mary Jane Holmes


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11280]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAGGIE MILLER: THE STORY OF OLD HAGAR'S SECRET ***

MAGGIE MILLER.

THE STORY OF OLD HAGAR'S SECRET.


By MARY J. HOLMES,

Author of "Lena Rivers," "Tempest and Sunshine," "English Orphans,"
"Dora Deane," etc., etc.

"Lead us not into temptation."




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

I.     THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL

II.    HAGAR'S SECRET

III.   HESTER AND MAGGIE

IV.    GIRLHOOD

V.     TRIFLES

VI.    THE JUNIOR PARTNER

VII.   THE SENIOR PARTNER

VIII.  STARS AND STRIPES

IX.    ROSE WARNER

X.     EXPECTED GUESTS

XI.    UNEXPECTED GUESTS

XII.   THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED

XIII.  SOCIETY

XIV.   MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS

XV.    ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE

XVI.   PERPLEXITY

XVII.  BROTHER AND SISTER

XVIII. THE PEDDLER

XIX.   THE TELLING OF THE SECRET

XX.    THE RESULT

XXI.   THE SISTERS

XXII.  THE HOUSE OF MOURNING

XXIII. NIAGARA

XXIV.  HOME

XXV.   HAGAR

XXVI.  AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858




MAGGIE MILLER.




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 sawmill 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 gayly 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 gray 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
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 granddaughter 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 gray while they were yet but children, and the
younger portion of the community hoped for a renewal of the gayeties
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,
unsociable 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 me out," she said, "from the prying eyes of the vulgar, and
I 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 noonday 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 anyone else shared her mistress'
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 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 daughter of old Hagar, a
handsome, intelligent-looking girl, who, after two or three years
of comparative idleness at Mill Farm, went to Meriden, Conn., 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 gray-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
imbittered 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 some time 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 stepchild 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 heartbroken, 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 reluctantly in the "north rooms," as Madam Conway
termed a comparatively pleasant, airy suite of apartments, with a
balcony above, which looked out upon the old mill-dam and the 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 their stations they had loved each other dearly; and
when at last the weary traveler 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 mistress' 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 temptation'; 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' words, which seemed to her so much like the spirit of
prophecy.

"Why do I need that prayer more than anyone 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!




CHAPTER II

HAGAR'S SECRET.


The wintry winds were blowing cold and chill around the old stone
house, and the deep untrodden snow lay highly piled upon the ground.
For many days the gray, 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 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 stair, 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 newborn
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 sickroom, 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 pallor 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 over her grief, and
looking oft at the plain pine cradle where lay the little motherless
child, her granddaughter. 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 antechamber 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
deceive 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 thick 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 flannels would look upon a grandchild of Hagar
Warren! "I can easily change them again--it is 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 meet 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 gnawing 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 grandchild, 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 too late; the aristocratic lips had touched the cheek of Hagar
Warren's grandchild, 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' 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 sickroom; 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' 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.




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, 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. "Everything 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 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 anyone, 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. "Aint 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 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
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 granddaughter
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 birthright 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 gray, 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 it was 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 the
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.




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 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 practiced in the Old World. She
has taught them how to sit and how to stand, how to eat and how to
drink, as becomes 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 birth and blood alike, 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, "it is 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 traveling 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 shall never mount that
animal," she said; but Margaret had ruled for sixteen years, and now,
at a sign from John, she sprang gayly 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 someone 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 madcap" in the world. "There is 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 granddaughter 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 Madam Conway likens to her own, has bleached
as white as snow, and her tall form is shriveled 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 a
longing, intense desire to clasp the young girl to her bosom and claim
her as her own. But this she dare not do, for Madam 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 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 pleaded 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 someone 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 clew 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 Maggie, 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 shriveled 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 were 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 meditated harm to you."

For a moment Maggie sat wrapped 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, Maggie told what she had seen and heard,
adding it 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 Maggie, beginning 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 Maggie. "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 Maggie,
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 snowflake 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 Maggie 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 set 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, Maggie 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-defense, 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 mutter 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!




CHAPTER V.

TRIFLES.


Very rapidly the winter passed away, and one morning early in March
Maggie 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."

"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 Maggie; "but I'm not going to tease you
for a while. 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 young savages. Why, as
true as you live, Hagar, I have never been anywhere in my life, except
to church Sundays, once to Douglas' 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 Maggie. "It
will be time enough two years hence, when I am eighteen and Theo
twenty. Then I believe she intends taking us to London, where we can
show off our accomplishments, and practice that wonderful courtesy
which Mrs. Jeffrey has taught us. I dare say 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,
Maggie 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 schoolroom, she
decided to leave them under the supervision of Mrs. Jeffrey, whose
niece she promised to bring with her on her return to America. Upon
her departure she bade Theo and Maggie 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 almost 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 thought 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 come near our house. 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' 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 schoolroom 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 schoolroom 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.




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 plains, and through the grassy valley,
until she stopped at last within a hundred yards of the deep, narrow
gorge through which the mill-stream 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 schoolgirl,"
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 resting 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 pretty 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 yearning 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 madcap she was. Then, thinking that 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' 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' 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 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, and I'll send old Hagar to keep you company."
So saying, Maggie climbed the bank, and, mounting Gritty, who stood
quietly awaiting her, 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.

"Aint 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 anyone 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
camphor, old Hagar had come, but when she offered the latter for the
young man's acceptance he pushed it from him, saying that 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 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, anyway, 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. 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 anyone 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 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 acquaintance she 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
very much like to be at ease upon the 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 sickroom, speaking to the stranger for the first time; but keeping
still at a respectable 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 rosewood 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 clearly
visible to him.

The letter was as follows:

"MY DARLING LITTLE ROSE: Do you fancy some direful calamity has
befallen me, because I have not written to you for more than a week?
Away with your fears, then, for nothing worse has come upon me than a
badly broken limb, which will probably keep me a prisoner here for two
months or more. Now don't be frightened, Rosa. I am not crippled for
life, and even if I were I could love you just the same, while you,
I'm sure, would love me more.

"As you probably know, I left Worcester on Tuesday morning for the
purpose of collecting some bills in this neighborhood. Arrived at
Hillsdale I procured a horse, and was sauntering leisurely through
the woods, when I came suddenly upon a flying witch in the shape of a
beautiful young girl. She was the finest rider I ever saw; and such a
chase as she led me, until at last, to my dismay, she leaped across a
chasm down which a nervous little creature like you would be afraid to
look. Not wishing to be outdone, I followed her, and as a matter of
course broke my bones.

"Were it not that the accident will somewhat incommode Douglas, and
greatly fidget you, I should not much regret it, for to me there is a
peculiar charm about this old stone house and its quaint surroundings.
But the greatest charm of all, perhaps, lies in my fair nurse, Maggie
Miller, for whom I risked my neck. You two would be fast friends in a
moment, and yet you are totally dissimilar, save that your voices are
much alike.

"Write to me soon, dear Rose, and believe me ever

"Your affectionate brother,

"HENRY."

"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 wouldn't for
the world deceive you; Rose is my step-sister. We are in no way
connected save by 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 on the
beautiful face of her whom Henry 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;
it was 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, anyway," 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.




CHAPTER VII.

THE SENIOR PARTNER.


The establishment of Douglas & Co. was closed for the night. The
clerks had gone each to his own home; 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:

"They say 'tis a mighty bad wind which blows no one any good, and so,
though I verily believe I suffer all a man can suffer with a broken
bone, yet when I look at the fair face of Maggie Miller I feel that
I would not exchange this high old bed, to enter which needs a short
ladder, even for a seat by you on that three-legged stool behind the
old writing-desk. I never saw anything like her in my life. Everything
she thinks, she says, and as to flattering her, it can't be done. I've
told her a dozen times at least that she was beautiful, and she didn't
mind it any more than Rose does when I flatter her. Still, I fancy if
I were to talk to her of love it might make a difference, and perhaps
I shall ere I leave the place.

"You know, George, I have always insisted there was but one female in
the world fit to be a wife, and as that one was my sister I should
probably never have the pleasure of paying any bills for Mrs. Henry
Warner; but I've half changed my mind, and I'm terribly afraid this
Maggie Miller, not content with breaking my bones, has made sad work
with another portion of the body, called by physiologists the heart.
I don't know how a man feels when he is in love; but when this Maggie
Miller looks me straight in the face with her sunshiny eyes, while her
little soft white hand pushes back my hair (which, by the way, I slyly
disarrange on purpose), I feel the blood tingle to the ends of my
toes, and still I dare not hint such a thing to her. 'Twould frighten
her off in a moment, and she'll send in her place either an old hag of
a woman called Hagar, or her proud sister Theo, whom I cannot endure.

"By the way, George, this Theo will just suit you, who are fond of
aristocracy. She's proud as Lucifer; thinks because she was born
in England, and sprang from a high family, that there is no one in
America worthy of her ladyship's notice, unless indeed they chance to
have money. You ought to have seen how her eyes lighted up when I told
her you were said to be worth two hundred thousand dollars! She told
me directly to invite you out here, and this, I assure you, was a
good deal for her to do. So don your best attire, not forgetting the
diamond cross, and come for a day or two. Old Safford will attend to
the store. It's what he was made for, and he likes it. But as I am a
Warner, so shall I do my duty and warn you not to meddle with Maggie.
She is my own exclusive property, and altogether too good for a
worldly fellow like you. Theo will suit you better. She's just
aristocratic enough in her nature. I don't see how the two girls come
to be so wholly unlike as they are. Why, I'd sooner take Maggie for
Rose's sister than for Theo's!

"Bless me, I had almost forgotten to ask if you remember that stiff
old English woman with the snuff-colored satin who came to our store
some five years ago, and found so much fault with Yankee goods, as she
called them? If you have forgotten her, you surely remember the
two girls in flats, one of whom seemed so much distressed at her
grandmother's remarks. She, the distressed one, was Maggie; the other
was Theo; and the old lady was Madam Conway, who, luckily for me,
chances at this time to be in England, buying up goods, I presume.
Maggie says that this trip to Worcester, together with a camp-meeting
held in the Hillsdale woods last year, is the extent of her travels,
and one would think so to see her. A perfect child of nature, full
of fun, beautiful as a Hebe, and possessing the kindest heart in the
world. If you wish to know more of her come and see for yourself; but
again I warn you, hands off; nobody is to flirt with her but myself,
and it is very doubtful whether even I can do it peaceably, for
that old Hagar, who, by the way, is a curious specimen, gave me to
understand when I lay on the rock, with her sitting by, as a sort of
ogress, that so long as she lived no city chap with strapped pants (do
pray, bring me a pair, George, without straps!) and sneering mouth was
going to fool with Margaret Miller.

"So you see my mouth is at fault again. Hang it all, I can't imagine
what ails it, that everybody should think I'm making fun of them.
Even old Safford mutters about my making mouths at him when I haven't
thought of him in a month! Present my compliments to the old gentleman
and tell him one of 'the boys' thinks seriously of following his
advice, which you know is 'to sow our wild oats and get a wife.' Do,
pray, come, for I am only half myself without you.

"Yours in the brotherhood,

"HENRY WARNER."

For a time after reading the above George Douglas sat wrapped 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
among 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 anyone 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 Fourth. To find the old house
was an easy matter, for almost everyone 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 that
were Madam Conway's residence, and if a young man by the name of
Warner were staying there.

"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 undertone, 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 Maggie, 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' peculiar temperament than had the dashing,
brilliant Maggie. 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 Maggie 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 Maggie 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
mill-stream 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 that 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 thoughts. 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 birthright, and who, in the misty
vagaries of dreamland, seemed to stand between her and the beautiful
Rose Warner!




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 shriveled 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 Maggie 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, Maggie
was sure of that, and it was to talk on this very subject that she had
come to Hagar's cottage.

"Just the way I s'posed it would end," said Hagar, when Maggie, 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 Maggie 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
firecrackers on the Fourth 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, anyway. Do you think she will oppose me, when she
sees how determined I am?"

"Of course she will," answered Hagar. "I know those 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 Maggie, 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 Maggie 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 sanction this one, too, for
there's money there, and gold can purify any blood."

Ere Maggie could reply Theo called out, "You here, Maggie, 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 sunburned 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 Maggie, 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 hat 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 light-heartedness 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 aint. He's too wild--too full of what
Hagar Warren calls bedevilment. And Maggie 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' 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 Maggie,
utterly fearless of what her grandmother might say, brought from the
cellar below. But when, on the morning of the Fourth, 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 Maggie
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
housetop!" 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 material for the emblem
of American freedom!

No such thought as this, however, obtruded itself upon Maggie 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
groundwork of the stars?"

Maggie 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 doll'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
Englishwoman 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, Maggie 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 Maggie, she
stood aloof, making occasionally a suggestion, and seeming as pleased
as anyone when at last the flag was done. A quilting-frame served as
a flagstaff, and Maggie 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 Maggie bore the flag, assisted by one of the servant
girls, whose birthplace 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; "the '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
everything 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
Maggie 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
duchess, talking to young Arthur Carrollton of her beautiful
granddaughter, 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 "Saints' Rest," her favorite volume when at all
flurried or excited. Occasionally, too, she would stop her ears with
jeweler'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 halfway down the
stairs, when the mischievous Maggie 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, and she was yet restless and wakeful,
notwithstanding the near approach of dawn.

"Maybe the 'Saints' 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 someone 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 stayed 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 Rose 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!




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
untrammeled 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 lashes, 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 Warner 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.

"I grant your request [she said] and take you for a sister well
beloved. I had a half-sister once, they say, but she died when a
little babe. I never looked upon her face, and connected with her
birth there was too much of sorrow and humiliation for me to think
much of her, save as of one who, under other circumstances, might have
been dear to me. And yet as I grow older I often find myself wishing
she had lived, for my father's blood was in her veins. But I do not
even know where her grave was made, for we only heard one winter
morning, years ago, that she was dead with the mother who bore her.
Forgive me, Maggie dear, for saying so much about that little child.
Thoughts of you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who,
had she lived, would have been a young lady now nearly your own age.
So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I would have loved, I adopt
you, sweet Maggie Miller, my sister and my friend. May Heaven's
choicest blessings rest on you forever, and no shadow come between you
and the one you have chosen for your husband! To my partial eyes he is
worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly in form though you
be, and that you may be happy with him will be the daily prayer of

"ROSE."

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!




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 threshhold, Maggie having at the last moment run 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 outdoor 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 revels. The day previous
to the one set for their departure chanced to be Henry Warner's
twenty-seventh birthday, 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, she
exclaimed: "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 conceivable 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 a while, 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 wont 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 robe, 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 stayed 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 sideboard.




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 traveling-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 gray stone
house she had left some months before; and again pressing boldly
forward, she took the lamp from the sideboard and commenced to
reconnoiter. "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 smallclothes of her sire.

"The entire contents of the oaken chest," she continued, in a tone far
from 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 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 keyhole, 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 defense 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-turvy 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 and 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!" gasped Mrs.
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 Fourth 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 am 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 gray 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 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 two hundred thousand 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, coward-like, Theo
charged him with having suggested everything, even to the cutting up
of the ancestral red coat for Freedom's 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
downstairs, 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 had 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 anyone; 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 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 two hundred thousand 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 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 granddaughter 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 two hundred thousand 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.




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 guests.

"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 Carrollton!" 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 workbox 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. "I am persecuted, dreadfully
persecuted! Nobody before ever had so much trouble as I. Grandma
has burned a letter from Henry Warner, and would not give it to me.
Grandma said, too, I should never marry him, should never write to
him, nor see anything he might send to me. 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' 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 anyone 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 grieves me sorely," she said, "thus to cross my favorite child,
whom I love better than my life; but it is for her good, and must be
done."

So she wrote a cold and rather insulting letter to Henry Warner,
bidding him, as she had done before, "let her granddaughter 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 Margaret, 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 nor 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,
enjoining 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 practicing, 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
is," she said, "without exception, the most elegant and aristocratic
young man I have 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 Carrolton 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. Anyway, 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 to 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
marveled 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 equaled
by anyone 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, and that his father
always stayed 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 husbands' 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 in 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 intended 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-by; 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.




CHAPTER XIII.

SOCIETY.


During the remainder of the spring matters at the old stone house
proceeded about as usual, Maggie writing regularly to Henry, who as
regularly answered, while old Hagar managed it so adroitly that no one
suspected the secret correspondence, and Madam Conway began to hope
her granddaughter 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 rivaled 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, Maggie 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
some time 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 Maggie, "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 Maggie; 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 incoherent sounds.

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 Maggie, who, in her
simple robe of white, was far more beautiful than the bride.

And still Theo, in her handsome traveling 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 Maggie 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 elite of Worcester were invited, together with many Bostonians.
Madam Conway and Maggie 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 Maggie. 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 Maggie, 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," Maggie 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 timeworn face, whispered, "Hester's
child--my granddaughter--Heaven be praised!"

"Do I look pretty?" Margaret asked; and Hagar answered: "More
beautiful than anyone 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 deputized 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 the
young bride how long before Mrs. Douglas, senior, 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 Maggie that "someone
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 Maggie, 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 Maggie 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 Maggie 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 Maggie; "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 is necessary," he said, "for either myself or Mr. Douglas to go
to Cuba; and as Rose's health makes a change of climate advisable for
her, George has proposed to me to go and take my 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," Maggie 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

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