THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. 
 
 I. TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. 
 II. ENGLISH ORPHANS. 
 III. HOMESTEAD ON TI1E HILLSIDE. 
 IV. LENA H1VEK8. 
 V. MEADOW BROOK. 
 VI. DORA 0EANE. 
 VII. COCSIN MAUDK. 
 VIII. MARIAS GRAY. 
 
 IX. DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. 
 X. HUGH WOBTIHNGTON. 
 XI. CAMERON PRIDE. 
 XII. ROSE MATHER. 
 XIII. ETHELYN'S MISTAKE. 
 XIV. MILLBANK. 
 
 XV. EDNA BROWNING. (New.) 
 
 olmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. 
 Her books are always entertaining, and she has 
 the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy 
 and affections of her readers, and of 
 holding their attention to her 
 pages with deep and 
 absorbing inter 
 est. 
 
 All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.60 each, 
 and sent free by mail, on receipt of price by 
 
 . W. CAKL.ETON & CO., 
 New York.
 
 DOKA DEANE, 
 
 THE EAST INDIA UNCLE; 
 
 AND 
 
 MAGGIE MILLER, 
 
 OLD HAGAR'S SECRET. 
 
 BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, 
 
 or "LHSA RIVERS," "TFTR HOMKSTBAD ON THB HILL-SIDE," " 
 
 BEOOK, OB BOSA LKK," "TEMPEST AND Sl'NSlIISE," ETC., ETC 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 Carleion, Publisher, Madison Square, 
 
 LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO 
 M DCCC LXXII.
 
 Itn lmc ueentinf to Act of C-ingnm, In UM jw KM, tor 
 DANIEL HOLMES, 
 
 > itei Ghrk'i iXBw ol tu* Dutrirt Court of UM United Statw tov tk Nort> 
 I*w T<afi.
 
 ?s 
 
 CONTENTS OF DOKA DEANE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 P10I 
 DORA AND HER MOTHER 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST NEW TEAR'S CALL 14 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DOHA'S RELATIVES . lit 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 DORA'S NEW HOME 80 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BOSK HILL 87 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MR. AND MRS. BASTINGS . . 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE VISIT . W 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 fHK PARTY 56 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DOKA AT P.OSF HILL 61 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EJ.LA. . ..... 70 
 
 1282308
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 not 
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS 289 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED .. ....... 802 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SOCIETY 813 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS 828 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE 852 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 rtRPLEXITY 872 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 389 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THl PEDDLER , 894 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THK TELLING OF THE SECRET 401 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 TBB RESULT 412 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 TUB SISTERS ' 420 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 fHK HOUSE OF MOURNING 432 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 IAOARA _ 444
 
 DORA DEANE; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE EAST INDIA UNCLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DORA AND HER MOTHER. 
 
 POOR little Dora Deane ! How utterly wretched mtd 
 desolate she was, as she crouched before the scanty fire, 
 and tried to warm the little bit of worn-out flannel, with 
 which to wrap her mother's feet ; and how hard she tried to 
 force back the tears which would burst forth afresh when 
 ever she looked upon that pale, sick mother, and thought 
 how soon she would be gone ! 
 
 It was a small, low, scantily furnished room, high up iu 
 the third story of a crazy old building, which Dora called 
 her home, and its one small window looked out on naught 
 save the roofs and spires of the great city whose dull, mo 
 notonous roar was almost the only sound to which she had 
 ever listened. Of the country, with its bright green grass, 
 its sweet wild flowers, its running brooks, and its shady 
 trees, she knew but little, for only once had she looked 
 on all these things, and then her heart was very sad, for th 
 1*
 
 t )UKA DEANE 
 
 right green grass was broken, and the sweet wild flowen 
 /rere trampled down, that a grave might be made in the 
 3ark, moist earth for her father, who had died in early man 
 hood, leaving his wife and only child to battle with the sel 
 fish world as best they could. Since that time, life had been 
 long and dreary to the poor widow, whose hours were well- 
 nigh ended, for ere to-morrow's sun was risen, she would, 
 "tiave a better home than that dreary, cheerless room, while 
 Dora, at the early age of twelve, would be an orphan. 
 
 It was a cold December night, the last one of the year, 
 and the wintry wind, which swept howling past the curtain- 
 less window, seemed to take a sadder tone, as if in pity for 
 the little girl who knelt upon the hearthstone, and with the 
 dim firelight flickering over her tear-stained face, prayed 
 that she, too, might die, and not be left alone. 
 
 " It will be so lonely so cold without my mother !" she 
 murmured. " Oh, let me go with her; I cannot live alone." 
 
 " Dora, my darling," came faintly from the rude couch, 
 and in an instant the child was at her mother's side. 
 
 Winding her arms fondly about the neck of her daughter, 
 and pushing the soft auburn hair from off her fair, open 
 brow, Mrs. Deane gazed long and earnestly upon her face. 
 
 " Yes, you are like me," she said at last, " and I am glad 
 that it is so, for it may be Sarah will love you better when 
 she sees in you a look like one who once called her sister, 
 And should he ever return " 
 
 She paused, while her mind went back to the years long 
 ago to the old yellow farm-house among the New England 
 bills to the grey-haired man, who had adopted her as his 
 own when she was written fatherless to the dark-eyed girl, 
 sometimes kind, and sometimes overbearing, whom she had 
 called her sister, though there was no tie of blood between 
 Miein. Then she thought of the red house just across tho
 
 DORA AND HER MOTHER. U 
 
 way, and of the three brothers, Nathaniel, Richard, and 
 John, Very softly she repeated the name of the latter, 
 ieeining to see him again as he was on the day when, with 
 the wreath of white apple blossoms upon her brow, she sat 
 on the mossy bank and listened to his low spoken words of 
 love. Again she was out in the pale starlight, and heard 
 the autumn wind go moaning through the locust trees as 
 Nathanid, the strange, eccentric, woman-hating Nathaniel, 
 but just returned from the seas, told her how madly he had 
 loved her, and how the knowledge that she belonged to 
 another would drive him from his fatherland forever that 
 in the burning clime of India he would make gold his idol, 
 forgetting, if it were possible, the mother who had borne 
 him ! Then she recalled the angry scorn with which her 
 adopted sister had received the news of her engagement 
 with John, and how the conviction was at last forced upoij 
 her that Sarah herself had loved him in secrev and that in 
 a fit of desperation she had given her hand U the rathei 
 inefficient Richard, ever after treating her rival with a cool 
 reserve, which now came back to her with painful distinct, 
 ness. 
 
 " But she will love rny little Dora for John's sake, if not 
 for mine," she thought, at last : and then, as if she had alj 
 the time been speaking to her daughter, she continued, 
 " And you must be very dutiful to your aunt, and kind to 
 your cousins, fulfilling their slightest wishes." 
 
 Looking up quickly, Dora asked, " Have you written to 
 Aunt Sarah ? Does she say I can come ?" 
 
 " The letter is written, and Mrs. Gannis will send it ag 
 soon as I am dead," answered Mrs. Deane. " I am sure shf 
 will give you a home. I told her there was no alternative 
 but the almshouse ;" then, after a pause, she added : " 
 wrote to your ancle Nathaniel seme months ago, when
 
 I DOHA DEANE. 
 
 knew that I must die. It is time for his reply, but I bada 
 him direct to Sarah, as I did not then think to see the 
 winter snow." 
 
 " Did you tell him of m* ?" eagerly asked Dora, on whom 
 the name of Uncle Nathaniel, or " Uncle Nat," as he was 
 more familiarly called, produced a more pleasant impression 
 than did that of her aunt Sarah. 
 
 " Yes," answered the mother, " it was of you that I 
 wrote, commending you to his care, should he return tf 
 America. And if you ever meet him, Dora, tell him tha, 
 on my dying bed I thought of him with affection that my 
 mind wandered back to the years of long ago, when I waa 
 young, and ask him, for the sake of one he called his bro 
 ther, and for her who grieves that ever she caused him a 
 moment's pain, to care for you, their orphan child." 
 
 Then followed many words of love, which were very 
 precious to Dora in the weary years which followed that sad 
 night ; and then, for a time, there was silence in that little 
 room, broken only by the sound of the wailing tempest. 
 The old year was going out on the wings of a fearful storm, 
 und as the driving sleet beat against the casement, while 
 the drifting snow found entrance through more than one 
 ^vide crevice and fell upon her pillow, the dying woman 
 murmured, " Lie up closer to me, Dora, I am growing very 
 cold." 
 
 Alas ! 'twas the chill of death ; but Dora did not know 
 it, and again on the hearthstone before the fast dying coals 
 she knelt, tryiLg to warm the bit of flannel, on which her 
 burning tears fell like rain, when through the empty wood- 
 box she sought in vain for chip or bark with which to 
 increase the scanty fire. 
 
 " But I will not tell her," she softly whispered, when satis 
 fied that her search was vain, and wrapping the flannel
 
 DORA AND HER MOTHER. 18 
 
 around the icy feet, she untied the long-sleeved apron which 
 covered her own naked arms, and laying it over her 
 mother's shoulders, tucked in the thin bedclothes; and then, 
 herself all shivering and benumbed, she sat down to wait 
 and watch, singing softly a familiar hymn, which had some 
 times lulled her mother into a quiet sleep. 
 
 At last, as her little round white arms grew purple 
 with the cold, she moved nearer to the bedside, and winding 
 them lovingly around her mother's neck, laid her head upon 
 the pillow and fell asleep. And to the angels, who were 
 hovering near, waiting to bear their sister spirit home, there 
 was given charge concerning the little girl, so that she did 
 not freeze, though she sat there the live-long night, calmly 
 sleeping the sweet sleep of childhood, while the mother at 
 her side slept the long, eternal sleep of death 1
 
 14 DORA DEANE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAB's CALL. 
 
 IT was New Year's morning, and over the great city lay 
 the deep, untrodden snow, so soon to be trampled down by 
 thousands of busy feet. Cheerful fires were kindled in 
 many a luxurious home of the rich, and " Happy New Year " 
 was echoed from lip to lip, as if on that day there were no 
 aching hearts no garrets where the biting cold looked iu 
 on pinching poverty and suffering old age no low, dark 
 room where Dora and her pale, dead mother lay, while over 
 them the angels kept their tireless watch till human aid 
 should come. But one there was who did not forget one 
 about whose house was gathered every elegance which 
 fashion could dictate or money procure ; and now, as she 
 sat at her bountifully-furnished breakfast table sipping her 
 fragrant chocolate, she thought of the poor widow, Dora'a 
 mother, for whom her charity had been solicited the day 
 before, by a woman who lived in the same block of buildings 
 with Mrs. Deane. 
 
 " Brother," she said, glancing towards a young man who, 
 before the glowing grate, was reading the morning paper, 
 1 suppose you make your first call with me ?" 
 
 "Certainly," he answered; "and it will probably be iu 
 Borne dreary attic or dark, damp basement ; but it is well, 
 J suppose, to begin the New Year by remembering the poor."
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAR'S tALL. Id 
 
 Half au hour later, and the crazy stairs which led to the 
 chamber of death were creaking to the tread of the lady 
 and her brother, the latter of whom knocked loudly for 
 admission. Receiving no answer from within, they at last 
 raised the latch and entered. The fire had long since gone 
 out, and the night wind, as it poured down the chimney, 
 had scattered the cold ashes over the hearth and out upon 
 the floor. Piles of snow lay on the window sill, and a 
 tumbler in which some water had been left standing, waa 
 broken in pieces. All this the young man saw at a glance, 
 but when his eye fell upon the bed, he started back, for 
 there was no mistaking the rigid, stony expression of the 
 upturned face, which lay there so white and motionless. 
 
 " But the child the child," he exclaimed, advancing 
 forward " can she, too, be dead ?" and he laid his warm 
 hand gently on Dora's brow. 
 
 The touch aroused her, and starting up,, she looked 
 around for a moment bewildered ; but when at last she 
 turned towards her mother, the dread reality was forced 
 upon her, arid in bitter tones she cried, " Mother's dead, 
 mother's dead, and I am all alone 1 Oh ! mother, mother, 
 come back again to me 1" 
 
 The young man's heart was touched, and taking the 
 child's little red hands in his, he rubbed them gently, trying 
 to soothe her grief ; while his sister, summoning the 
 inmates from the adjoining room, gave orders that the 
 body should receive the necessary attention ; then, learning 
 as much as was possible of Dora's history, and assuring her 
 that she should be provided for until her aunt came, she 
 weat away, promising to return next morning and bo 
 present at the humble funeral. 
 
 That evening, as Dora sat weeping by the coffin in whkh 
 tier mother lay, a beautiful young girl, with eyes of deepest
 
 1C DORA DEAN'E. 
 
 blue, and locks of golden hair, smiled a joyous welcome to 
 him whoso first New Year's call had been in the chamber of 
 death, and whose last was to her, the petted child of fashion. 
 
 " I had almost given you up, and was just going to cry," 
 <ehe said, laying her little snow-flake of a hand upon the one 
 which that morning had chafed the small, stiff fingers of 
 Dora Deane, and which now tenderly pressed those of Ella 
 Grey as the young man answered, " I have not felt like going 
 out to-day, for my first call saddened me ;" and then, with 
 his arm around the fairy form of Ella, his affianced bride, 
 he told her of the cold, dreary room, of the mother colder 
 still, and of the noble little girl, who had divested herself 
 of her own clothing, that her mother might be warm. 
 
 Ella Grey had heard of such scenes before had cried 
 over them in books ; but the idea that site could do any 
 thing to relieve the poor, had never entered her mind. It 
 is true, she had once given a party dress to a starving wo 
 man, and a pound of candy to a ragged boy who had asked 
 for aid, but here her charity ended ; so, though she seemed 
 to listen with interest to the sad story, her mind was wan 
 dering elsewhere, and when her companion ceased, she 
 merely said, "Romantic, wasn't it." 
 
 There was a look of disappointment on the young man's 
 face, which was quickly observed by Ella, who attributed it 
 to its right source, and hastened to ask numberless ques 
 tions about Dora " How old was she ? Did he think her 
 pretty, and hadn't she better go to the funeral the next 
 day and bring her home for a waiting-maid ? she wanted 
 one sadly, and from the description, the orphan girl would 
 just suit." 
 
 " No, Ella," answered her lover ; " the child is going to 
 live in the country with some relatives, and will be mucb 
 better off there.''
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAR'S CALL. 11 
 
 " The country," repeated Ella. " / would rather freeze 
 In New York than to live in the dismal country." 
 
 Again the shadow came over the gentleman's brow, as ha 
 said, "Do you indeed object so much to a home in the 
 country ?" 
 
 Ella knew just what he wanted her to say ; so she 
 answered, " Oh, no, I can be happy anywhere with you, 
 but do please let me spend just one winter in the city 
 after" 
 
 Here she paused, while the bright blushes broke over her 
 childish face. She could not say, even to him, "after wa 
 are married," so he said it for her, drawing her closer to 
 his side, and forgetting Dora Deane, as he painted the 
 joyous future when Ella would be all his own. Eleven 
 o'clock sounded from more than one high tower, and at 
 each stroke poor Dora Deane moaned in anguish, thinking 
 to herself, " Last night at this time she was here." Eleven 
 o'clock, said Ella Grey's diamond set watch, and pushing 
 back her wavy hair, the young man kissed her rosy cheek, 
 and bade her a fond good-night. As he reached the door, 
 she called him back, while she asked him the name of the 
 little girl who had so excited his sympathy. 
 
 " I do not know," he answered. " Strange that I forgot 
 to inquire. But no matter. We shall never meet again ;" 
 and feeling sure that what he said was true, he walked 
 away.
 
 DORA DBAN1. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 DORA'S RELATIVES. 
 
 THREE hundred miles to the westward, and the" storm, 
 hich, on New Year's eve, swept so furiously over all parts 
 rf the State, was perceptible only in the dull, grey clouds 
 Krhich obscured the wintry sky, shutting out the glimmering 
 starlight, and apparently making still brighter the many 
 heerful lights which shone forth from the handsome dwell 
 ings in the village of Dunwood. Still the night was in 
 tensely cold, and, as Mrs. Sarah Deane, in accordance with 
 her daughter Eugenia's request, added a fresh bit of coal 
 to the already well-filled stove, she sighed involuntarily, 
 wishing the weather would abate, for the winter's store of 
 fuel was already half gone, and the contents of her purse 
 irere far too scanty to meet the necessity of her household, 
 *nd at the same time minister to the wants of her extrava 
 gant daughters. 
 
 " But I can economize in one way," she said, half f>Ioud, 
 and crossing the room she turned down the astral lamp 
 which was burning brightly upon the table. 
 
 "Don't, pray mother, make it darker than a, dungeon !" 
 petulantly exclaimed Eugenia, herself turning back the 
 lamp. " I do like to have rooms light enough to see one's 
 self;" and glancing complacently at the reflection of her 
 handsome face, in the mirror opposite, she resumed hei 
 former lounging attitude upon the sofa.
 
 HER RELATIVES. 1 
 
 Mw. Deane sighed again, but she had long since ceased 
 VJ oppose the imperious Eugenia, who was to all intents 
 tnd purposes the mistress of the house, and who oftentimes 
 fed her mother and weaker-minded sister into the commis 
 sion of acts from which they would otherwise have shrunk. 
 Possessed of a large share of romance, Eugenia had given 
 to their place the name of " Locust Grove ;" and as Mrs. 
 Deane managed to keep up a kind of outside show by 
 practising the most pinching economy in everything per 
 taining to the actual comfort of her family, they were 
 looked upon as being quite wealthy and aristocratic by 
 those who saw nothing of their inner life who knew 
 nothing of the many shifts and turns in the kitchen to save 
 money for the decoration of the parlors, or of the frequent 
 meagre meals eaten from the pantry shelf, in order to make 
 amends for the numerous dinner and evening parties which 
 Eugenia and Alice insisted upon giving, and which their 
 frequent visits to their friends rendered necessary. Ex 
 tensive servant-hire was of course too expensive, and, as 
 both Eugenia and Alice affected the utmost contempt for 
 anything like work, their mother toiled in the kitchen from 
 morning until night, assisted only by a young girl, whose 
 mother constantly threatened to take her away, unless her 
 *ages were increased, a thing which seemed impossible. 
 
 It was just after this woman's weekly visit, and in the 
 nidst of preparations for a large dinner party, that Mrs. 
 Deane received her sister's letter, to which there was added 
 a postscript, in a strange handwriting, saying she was 
 dead. There was a moisture in Mrs. Dcane's eyes as she 
 read the touching lines ; and leaning her heated forehead 
 against the cool window pane, she, too, thought of the 
 years gone by of the gentle girl, the companion of hef 
 childhood, who had never given her an unkind word- of
 
 80 DORA DEAXE. 
 
 him the only man she had ever loved and Dora was theif 
 child Fanny's child and John's. 
 
 "Yes," she said, half aloud, "I will give her a home," 
 but anon there came stealing over her the old bitterness of 
 feeling, which she had cherished since she knew that Fannj 
 was preferred to herself, and then the evil of her natur< 
 whispered, "No, I will not receive their child. We can 
 hardly manage to live now, and it is not my duty to incur 
 an additional expense. Dora must stay where she is, and 
 if I do not answer the letter, she will naturally suppose I 
 never received it." 
 
 Thus deciding the matter, she crashed the letter into her 
 pocket and went back to her work ; but there was an added 
 weight upon her spirits, while continually ringing in her 
 ears were the words, " Care for John's child and mine." 
 " If I could only make her of any use to me," she said W; 
 last, and then as her eye fell upon Bridget, whose st> 7 with 
 her was so uncertain, the dark thought entered her mind, 
 " Why could not Dora fill her place ? It would be a great 
 saving, and of course the child must expect to work." 
 
 Still, reason as she would, Mrs. Deane could not at once 
 bring herself to the point of making a menial of one who 
 was every way her equal ; neither could she decide to pass 
 the letter by unnoticed ; so for the present she strove to 
 dismiss the subject, which was not broached to her daugh 
 ters until the evening on which we first introduced them to 
 our readers. Then taking her seat by the brightly burning 
 lamp, she drew the letter from her pocket and read it aloud, 
 *Mle Alice drummed an occasional note upon the piano and 
 Eugenie beat a tattoo upon the carpet with her delicate 
 French slipper. 
 
 " Of course she won't come," said Alice, as her mothe* 
 duished reading. " It was preposterous in Aunt Fanny to
 
 HER RELATIVES. fl 
 
 propose such a thing I" aud she glanced towards Eugenia 
 for approbation of what she had said. 
 
 Eugenia's quick, active mind had already looked at the 
 subject in all its bearings, and iu like manner with her 
 mother she saw how Dora's presence there would be a bene 
 fit ; so to Alice's remark she replied : " It will sound well 
 for us to have a cousin in the poorhouse, won't it ? For my 
 part, I propose that she comes, and then be made to earn 
 her own living. We can dismiss Bridget, who is only two 
 years older than Dora, and we shall thus avda quarrelling 
 regularly with her vixenish mother, besides saving a dollar 
 every week" 
 
 " So make a drudge of Dora," interrupted Alice. " Better 
 leave her in the poorhouse at once." 
 
 " Nobody intends to make a drudge of her," retorted Eu 
 genia. " Mother works in the kitchen, and I wonder if it 
 will hurt Dora to help her. Every girl ought to learn to 
 work !" 
 
 " Except Eugenia Deane," suggested Alice, laughing, to 
 think how little her sister's practice accorded with her 
 theory. 
 
 At this point in the conversation, Bridget entered, bring 
 ing a letter which bore the India post-mark, together with 
 the unmistakable handwriting of Nathaniel Deane I 
 
 " A letter from Uncle Nat, as I live 1" exclaimed Eugenia. 
 " What is going to happen ? He hasn't written before iu 
 years. I do wish I knew when he expected to quir this 
 mundane sphere, and how much of his money he intenda 
 leaving me 1" 
 
 - By this time Mrs. Deane had broken the seal, uttering an 
 exclamation of surprise as a check for $500 fell into her lap* 
 
 " Five hundred dollars I" screamed Eugenia, catching up 
 the check aud examining it closely, to see that there wag
 
 S* . DORA DEANi,. 
 
 no mistake. " The old miser has really opened his heart 
 Now we'll have some genuine silver forks for our best com* 
 pany, so we shan't be in constant terror lest some one should 
 discover that they are only plated. I'll buy that set of 
 pearls at Mercer's, too, and, Alice, you and I will have some 
 new furs. I'd go to Rochester to-morrow, if it were not 
 Sunday. What shall we gel for you, mother ? A web of 
 cloth, or an ounce of sewing silk ?" and the heartless girl 
 turned towards her mother, whose face was white as ashes, 
 as she said faintly : " The money is not ours. It is Dora's 
 to be used for her benefit." 
 
 " Not ours ! What do you mean ? It can't be true !" 
 cried Eugenia, snatching the letter, and reading therein a 
 confirmation of her mother's words. 
 
 After a slight apology for his long silence, Uncle Nat had 
 spoken of Fanny's letter, saying he supposed she must be 
 dead ere this, and that Dora was probably living with her 
 aunt, as it was quite natural she should do. Then he 
 expressed his willingness to defray all the expense which she 
 might be, adding that though he should never see her, as he 
 was resolved to spend his days in India, he still wished to 
 think of her as an educated and accomplished woman. 
 
 " Accompanying this letter," he wrote, " is a check for 
 $500, to be used for Dora's benefit. Next "year I will make 
 another remittance, increasing the allowance as she grows 
 older. I have more money than I need, and I know of no 
 one on whom I would sooner expend it than the child of 
 Fanny Moore." 
 
 " Spiteful old fool I" muttered Eugenia, " I could relieve 
 him of any superfluous dimes he may possess." 
 
 But even Eugenia, heartless as she was, felt humbled and 
 subdued for a moment, as she read the latter part of her 
 ancle's letter, from which we give the follow ug extract :
 
 HER RELATIVES. 21 
 
 " 1 am thinking, to-day, of the past, Sarah, and I grow a 
 very child again as I recall the dreary years which have 
 gone over my head, since last I trod the shores of my 
 father-land. You, Sarah, know much of my history. You 
 StEOw that I was awkward, eccentric, uncouth, and many 
 years older than my handsomer, more highly gifted brother; 
 and yet with all this fearful odds against me, you know 
 that I ventured to love the gentle, fair-haired Fanny, your 
 adopted sister. You know this, I say, but you do not know 
 how madly, how passionately such as I can love did love ; 
 nor how the memory of Fanny's ringing laugh, and the 
 thought of the sunny smile, with which I knew she would 
 welcome me home again, cheered me on my homeward voy 
 age, when in the long night-watches I paced the vessel's 
 deck, while the stars looked coldly down upon me, and there 
 was no sound to break the deep stillness, save the heavy 
 swell of the sea. At the village inn where I stopped for a 
 moment ere going to my father's house, I first heard that 
 her hand was plighted to another, and in my wild frenzy, I 
 swore that my rival, whoever it might be, should die ! 
 
 " It was my youngest brother he, who, on the sad night 
 when our mother died, had laid his baby head upon my 
 bosom, and wept himself to sleep he whose infant steps I 
 had guided, bearing him often in my arms, lest he should 
 ' clash his foot against a stone.' And his life I had sworn to 
 take, for had he not come between me and the only object 
 I had ever loved ? There was no one stirring about the 
 house, for it was night, and the family had retired. But the 
 door was unfastened, and I knew the way up-stairs. I 
 tbund him, as I had expected, in our old room, and all 
 alone ; for Richard was away. Had he been there, it 
 should make no difference, I said, but he was absent, aud 
 Joha was calmly sleeping with his face upturned to the soft
 
 *, DORA DEANE 
 
 moonlight which came in through the open window. 1 had 
 not seen him for two long years, and now there was about 
 him a look so much like that of my dead mother when she 
 lay in her coffin bed, that the demon in my heart was soft 
 ened, and I seemed to hear her dying words again, ' I can 
 trust you, Nathaniel ; and to your protection, as to a second 
 mother, I commit my little boy.' 
 
 " The little boy, whose curls were golden then, was now 
 a brown-haired man my brother the son of my angel 
 mother, whose spirit, in that dark hour of my temptation, 
 glided into the silent room, and stood between me and hef 
 youngest born, so that he, was not harmed, and / was saved 
 from the curse of a brother's blood. 
 
 " ' Lead us not into temptation,' came back to me, just as 
 I had said it kneeling at my mother's side ; and covering my 
 face with my hands, I thanked God, who had kept me from 
 BO great a sin. Bending low, I whispered in his ear his 
 name, and in a moment his arms were around my neck, 
 while he welcomed me back to the home, which, he said, 
 was not home without me. And then, when the moon had 
 gone down, and the stars shone too faintly to reveal his 
 blushes, he told me the story of his happiness, to which I 
 listened, while the great drops of sweat rolled down my facu 
 and moistened the pillow on which my head was resting. 
 
 " But why linger over those days of anguish, which made 
 me an old man before my time ? I knew I could not stand 
 by and see her wedded to another neithsr could I look 
 upon her after she was another's wife ; so, one night, wheu 
 the autumn days were come, I asked her to go with me out 
 beneath the locust trees, which skirted my father's yard. 
 It was there I had seen her for the first time, and it was 
 there I would take my final leave. Of the particulars of 
 that interview I remember but little, for I was terribly ez
 
 HER RELATIVES. 25 
 
 cited. We never met again, for ere the morrow's daylight 
 dawned, I hid left my home forever" 
 
 Then followed a few more words concerning Dora, with a 
 request that she should write to him, as he would thus be 
 able to judge something of her character ; and there the 
 letter ended. 
 
 For a time there was silence, which was broken at last by 
 Eugenia, whose active mind had already come to a decision. 
 Dora would live with them, of course it was best that she 
 should, and there was no longer need for dismissing Bridget. 
 The five hundred dollars obviated that necessity, and it was 
 theirs, too theirs by way of remuneration for giving Dora a 
 home theirs to spend as they pleased. And she still in 
 tended to have the furs, the pearls, and the silver forks, just 
 the same as though the money had been a special gift to 
 her 1 
 
 " Suppose Uncle Nat should happen to come home, and 
 Dora should tell him ?" suggested Alice, who did no* so 
 readily fall in with her sister's views. 
 
 " He'll never do that in the world," returned Eugenia. 
 " And even if he should, Dora will havo nothing to tell, for 
 she is not supposed to know of the money. If we feed, 
 clothe, and educate her, it is all we are required to do." 
 
 " But would that be exactly just ?" faintly interposed 
 Mrs. Deane, whose perceptions of right and wrong were not 
 quite so blunted as those of her daughter, who, in answer to 
 her question, proceeded to advance many good reasons why 
 Dora, for a time at least, should be kept in ignorance of the 
 fact that her uncle supported her, and not her aunt. 
 
 " We can manage her better if she thinks she is depend- 
 81 1 upon us And then, as she grows older, she will not bo 
 continually asking what has become of the money, which, a? 
 I understand the matter, is really ours, and not hers" 
 
 2
 
 26 DORA DEAXE. 
 
 Still, Mrs. Deane was not quite convinced, but she knew 
 how useless it would be to argue the point ; so she said 
 nothing, except to ask how Dora was to get there, as she 
 coald not come alone. 
 
 " I have it," answered Eugenia. " I have long wished to 
 spend a few days in New York, but that bane of my life, 
 poverty, has always prevented. Now, however, as old 
 Uncle Nat has kindly furnished us with the means, I pro 
 pose that Alice and I start day after to-morrow, and return 
 on Saturday. That will give us ample time to see the lions 
 and get the city fashions." 
 
 " It will cost a great deal for you both to stay at those 
 large hotels," said Mrs. Deane ; and Eugenie replied 
 
 " One hundred dollars will cover all the expense, and pay 
 Dora's fare besides. What is the use of money, if we can't 
 use it ? I shall get my furs, and jewelry, and forks whilii 
 I'm there, so Pi better take along three hundred and fifty 
 dollars, for fear of any accident. We are not obliged to 
 spend it all, of course ;" she added, as she saw the look of 
 dismay on her mother's face. " And we can bring back 
 whatever there is left." 
 
 For nineteen years Eugenia Deane had been suffered to 
 have her way, and her mother did not like to thwart her 
 now, for her temper was violent, and she dreaded an out 
 break; so she merely sighed in reply, and when, on Monday 
 morning, Eugenia started for New York, her purse con 
 tained the desired $350, which, after her arrival in the city, 
 was spent as freely as if it really belonged to her, and not 
 to the orphan Dora, who was now staying with Mrs. Gran- 
 nis, a kind-hearted woman in the same block where hei 
 mother had died. The furs were bought, the pearls ex> 
 amined, the forks priced, and then Alice ventured to asi 
 when they were going to find Dora.
 
 HER RELATIVES. 21 
 
 41 1 shall leave that for the last thing," answered Eugenia 
 " She can't ran away, and nobody wants to be bothered 
 with a child to look after." 
 
 So for three more days little Dora looked out of the 
 'Jingy window upon the dirty court below, wishing her aunt 
 would come, and wondering if sho should like her. At la&t, 
 towards the close of Friday afternoon, there was a knock 
 at the door, and a haughty-looking, elegantly dressed young 
 lady inquired if a little orphan girl lived there. 
 
 " That's her Aunt Sarah," exclaimed Dora, springing 
 joyfully forward; but she paused and started back, as she 
 met the cold, scrutinizing glance of Eugenia's large black 
 eyes. 
 
 " Are you the child I am looking for ?" asked Eugenia, 
 without deigning to notice Mrs. Grannis's request that she 
 would walk in. 
 
 " I am Dora Dcane," was the simple answer; and then, aa 
 briefly as possible, Eugenia explained that she had been 
 sent for her, and that early the next morning she would call 
 to take her to the depot. 
 
 " Did you know mother ? Are you any relation ?' 1 
 asked Dora, trembling with eager expectation; and Alice, 
 who, without her sister's influence, would have been a com 
 paratively kind-hearted girl, answered softly, " We are your 
 cousins." 
 
 There was much native politeness, and natural refinement 
 of manner about Dora, and instinctively her little chubby 
 hand was extended towards her newly found relative, who 
 pressed it gently, glancing the while at her sister, who, 
 without one word of sympathy for the orphan girl, walked 
 away through the winding passage, and down the narrow 
 stairs, out into the sunlight, where, breathing more freely, 
 she exclaimed, " What a horrid p'aee ! I hope I haven'l
 
 28 DORA DEA^E. 
 
 caught anything. Didn't Dora look like a Dutch dofl in 
 that long dress, and high-neck apron ?" 
 
 " Her face is pretty, though," returned Alice, " and her 
 eyes are beautiful neither blue nor black, but a mixture of 
 both. How I pitied her as they filled with tears when you 
 were talking I Why didn't you speak to her ?" 
 
 " Because I'd nothing to say," answered Eugenia, step 
 ping into the carriage which had brougdt them there, and 
 ordering the driver to go next to Stuart's, where she wished 
 to look again at a velvet cloak. " It is so cheap, and s( 
 becoming, too, that I am half tempted to get it," she ex 
 claimed. 
 
 " Mother won't like it, I know," said Alice, who hersell 
 began to have some fears for the $350. 
 
 " Fudge I" returned Eugenia, adding the next moment, 
 " I wonder if she'll have to buy clothes for Dora the first 
 thing. I hope not," and she drew around her the costlj 
 fur, for which she had paid fifty dollars. 
 
 Of course the cloak was bought, together with several 
 other articles equally cheap and becoming, and by the time 
 the hotel bills were paid, there were found in the purse just 
 twenty-five dollars, with which to pay their expenses back 
 to Dunwood. 
 
 There were bitter tears shed at the parting next morning 
 in Mrs. Grannis's humble room, for Dora felt that the frienda 
 to whom she was going, were not like those she left behind; 
 and very lovingly her arms wound themselves around tha 
 poo- widow's neck as she wept her last adieu, begging Mrs. 
 Gianni? not to forget her, but to write sometimes, and teU 
 her of the lady who had so kindly befriended her. 
 
 " We can't wait any longer," tried Eugenia, aad will
 
 HER RELATIVES. 
 
 oie more farewell kiss, Dora went out of the bouse where 
 sh bad experienced much of happiness, and where had come 
 to aer her deepest grief. 
 
 " Forlorn 1 What is that old thing going for 1 Leave 
 it," said Eugenia, touching with her foot a square, greeu 
 trunk or chest, which stood by the side of the long, sack 
 like carpet-bag containing Dora's wardrobe. 
 
 " It was father's and mother's clothes are iu it," an 
 swered Dora, with quivering lips. 
 
 There was something in the words and manner of the lit 
 tle girl, as she laid her hand reverently on the offending 
 trunk, that touched even Eugenia ; and she said no more. 
 An hour later, and the attention of more than one passenger 
 in the Hudson River cars was attracted towards the two 
 stylish-looking ladies who came in, laden with bundles, and 
 followed by a little girl in black, for whom no seat was 
 found save the one by the door where the wind crept in, and 
 the unmelted frost still covered the window pane. 
 
 " Won't you be cold here ?" asked Alice, stopping a mo 
 ment, ere passing on to her own warm seat near the stove. 
 
 " No matter ; I am used to it," was Dora's meek reply ; 
 and wrapping her thin, half-worn shawl closer about her, 
 and drawing her feet up beneath her, she soon fell asleep, 
 dreaming sweet dreams of the home to which she was going, 
 and of the Aunt Sarah who would be to her a second 
 mother I 
 
 God Mp thee,, Pori Deant!
 
 DORA DEANS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 DORA'S NEW HOME. 
 
 ONE year has passed away since the night when, cold, 
 weary and forlorn, Dora followed her cousins up the gra 
 velled walk which led to her new home. One whole year, 
 and in that time she has somewhat changed. The merry 
 hearted girl, who, until a few weeks before her mother's 
 death, was happier far than many a favored child of wealth, 
 has become a sober, quiet, self-reliant child, performing with 
 out a word of complaint the many duties which have gra 
 dually been imposed upon her. 
 
 From her aunt she had received a comparatively welcome 
 greeting, and when Eugenia displayed her purchases, which 
 had swallowed up the entire three hundred and fifty dollars, 
 Mrs. Deane had laid her hand on the little girl's soft, au 
 burn hair, as if to ask forgiveness for the injustice done her 
 by the selfish Eugenia, whose only excuse for her extrava 
 gance was, that " no one in her right mind need to think 
 of bringing back any money from New York." 
 
 And Dora, from her seat on a little stool behind the stove, 
 ouderstood nothing, thought of nothing, except that Euge 
 nia looked beautifully in her velvet cloak and furs, and that 
 her aunt must be very rich, to afford so many handsome 
 articles of furniture as the parlor contained. 
 
 " And I am glad that she is," she thought, " fcr she wil] 
 not be so likely to think me in the way."
 
 DORA'S NEW HOMii!. 81 
 
 As time passed on, however, Dora, who was a close ob 
 server, began to see things in their true light, and her life 
 was far from being happy. By her cousin Alice she was 
 i:eatcd with a tolerable degree of kindness, while Eugenia, 
 \vithout any really evil intention, perhaps, seemed to take 
 delight in annoying her sensitive cousin, constantly taunting 
 her with her dependence upon them, and asking her some 
 times how she expected to repay the debt of gratitude she 
 owed them. Many and many a night had the orphan wept 
 herself to sleep, in the low, scantily furnished chamber 
 which had been assigned her ; and she was glad when at 
 last an opportunity was presented for her to be in a mea 
 sure out of Eugenia's way, and at the same time feel that 
 she was doing something towards earning her living. 
 
 The oft-repeated threat of Bridget's mother that her 
 daughter should be removed, unless her wages were- in 
 creased, was finally carried into effect ; and one Saturday 
 night, Mrs. Deane was startled by the announcement that 
 Bridget was going to leave, In a moment, Dora's resolu 
 tion was taken, and coming to her aunt's side, she 
 said : 
 
 " Don't hire another girl, Aunt Sarah. Let me help you. 
 I can do almost as much as Bridget, and you won't have to 
 pay me either. I shall only be paying you." 
 
 Unclasping the handsome bracelet which had been pur 
 chased with a portion of the remaining one hundred and 
 fifty dollars, Eugenia, ere her mother had time to reply, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " That is a capital idea 1 I wonder how you happened 
 tc be so thoughtful." 
 
 And so it was decided that Dora should take Bridget's 
 place, she thinking how much she would do, and how hard 
 ehe would try to please her aunt, who quieted her owu coil-
 
 M DORA DEANE. 
 
 by saying "it was only a -temporary arrangement 
 until she could find another servant." 
 
 But as the days went by, the temporary arrangement fcJd 
 fair to become permanent, for Mrs. Dcane could not bo 
 insensible to the vast difference which Bridget's absence 
 made in her weekly expenses. Then, too, Dora was so will* 
 ing to work, and so uncomplaining, never seeking a word of 
 commendation, except once, indeed, when she timidly ven/ 
 tared to ask Eugenia if " what she did was enough to pay 
 for her board ?" 
 
 "Just about," was Eugenia's answer, which, indifferent aa 
 it was, cheered the heart of Dora, as, day after day, she 
 toiled on in the comfortless kitchen, until her hands, which, 
 when she came to Locust Grove, were soft and white as 
 those of an infant, became rough and brown, and her face 
 gradually assumed the same dark hue, for she could not 
 always stop to tie on her sun-bonnet, when sent for wood or 
 water. 
 
 With the coming of summer, arrangements had been 
 made for sending her to school, though Mrs. Deane felt at 
 first as if she could not be deprived of her services. Still 
 for appearance's sake, if for nothing more, she must go ; 
 and with the earliest dawn the busy creature was up, work 
 ing like a bee, that her aunt and cousins might not have so 
 much to do in her absence. At first she went regularly, 
 but after a time it became very convenient to detain her at 
 home, for at least two days in every week, and this wrung 
 from her almost the only tears she had shed since the morn 
 ing, when, of her own accord, she had gone into the kitclicu 
 to perform a servant's duties. 
 
 Possessing naturally a fondness for books, and feeling 
 ambitious to keep up with her class, she at last conceived 
 the idea of studying at home ; and many a night, long aftej
 
 DORA'S NEW HOME. 8> 
 
 her aunt and cousins were asleep, she sat up alone, poring 
 over her books, sometimes by the dim light of a lamp, 
 and again by the light of the full moc:, whose rays seemed 
 to fall around her more brightly than elsewhere. It was on 
 one of these occasions, when tracing upon her map the 
 boundary lines of India, that her thoughts reverted to her 
 uncle Nathaniel, whose name she seldom heard, and of whom 
 she had never but once spoken. Then in the presence of 
 her aunt and cousins she had wondered why he did not 
 answer her mother's letter. 
 
 " Because he has nothing to write, I presume," said 
 Eugenia, who would not trust her mother to reply. 
 
 And Dora, wholly unsuspecting, never dreamed of the 
 five hundred dollars sent over for her benefit, and which 
 was spent long ago though not for her never dreamed of 
 the letter which Eugenia had written iii reply, thanking her 
 uncle again and again for his generous gift, which she said 
 " was very acceptable, for ma was rather poor, and it would 
 aid her materially in providing for the wants of Dora," who 
 was represented as being " a queer, old-fashioned child, pos 
 sessing but little affection for any one, and who never spoke 
 of her uncle Nathaniel, or manifested the least gratitude 
 for what he was doing 1" 
 
 In short, the impression left upon the mind of Uncle 
 Nat was that Dora, aside from being cold-hearted, was 
 uncommonly dull, and would never make much of a woman, 
 do what they might for her ! With a sigh, and a feeling 
 of keen disappointment, he read the letter, saying to him 
 self, as he laid it away, " Can this be true of Fanny's 
 child r 
 
 But this, we say, Fanny's child.did not know ; and as Ler 
 ve wandered over the painted map of Indix, she resolved 
 o write and to tell him of her mother's dying words teU
 
 f,l DORA DEANE. 
 
 him how much she loved him, because he was her father's 
 brother, and how she wished he would come home, that 
 sue might know him better. 
 
 " If I only had some keepsake to send him something 
 he would prize," she thought, when her letter was finished. 
 And then, as she enumerated her small store of treasures, 
 she remembered her mother's beautiful hair, which had been 
 cut from her head, as she lay in her coffin, and which now 
 held a place in the large square trunk. " I will send him a 
 lock of that," she said ; and kneeling reverently by the 
 old green trunk, the shrine where she nightly said her 
 prayers, she separated from the mass of rich, brown hair, 
 one long, shining tress, which she inclosed within her letter, 
 adding, in a postscript, " It is mother's hair, and Dora's 
 tears have often fallen upon it. 'Tis all I have to give." 
 
 Poor little Dora ! Nathaniel Deane would have prized 
 that simple gift far more than all the wealth which he called 
 his, but it was destined never to reach him. The wily 
 Eugenia, to whom Dora applied for an envelope, unhesitat 
 ingly showing what she had written, knew better than to 
 eend that note across the sea, and feigning the utmost 
 astonishment, she said : " I am surprised, Dora, that after 
 your mother's ill-success, you should think of writing to 
 Uncle Nat. He is a suspicious, miserly old fellow, and will 
 undoubtedly think you are after his money 1" 
 
 " I wouldn't send it for the world, if I supposed he'd fancy 
 such a thing as that," answered Dora, her eyes filling with 
 tears 
 
 " Of course you wouldn't," c\, ^ued Eugenia, perceiving 
 hoi advantage and following it uj " You can do as you 
 IIKC, but my advice is that you do not send it ; let him 
 write to you ' rst, if he wishes to open a correspot 
 deuce 1"
 
 DOEA'S NEW HOME. U 
 
 This decided the matter, and turning sadly away, Dora 
 went back to her chamber, hiding the letter and the lock 
 af hair in the old green trunk. 
 
 " How can you be so utterly yoid of principle ?" asked 
 Alice, as Dora quitted the room; and Eugenia replied : " It 
 Isn't a lack of principle, it's only my good management. I 
 have my plans, and I do not intend they shall be frustrated 
 by that foolish letter, which would, of course, be followed 
 by others of the same kind. Now I am perfectly willing 
 that Uncle Nat should divide his fortune between us and 
 Dora, but unfortunately he is a one idta man, and should 1^ 
 conceive a fancy for our cousin, our hopes are blasted tor 
 ever ; so I don't propose letting him do any such thin~ 
 Mother has given up the correspondence to me, and I intend 
 raaking the old gentleman think I am a most perfect speci 
 men' of what a young lady should be, saying, of course, an 
 occasional good word for you ! I believe I understand him 
 tolerably well, and if in the end I win, I pledge you my 
 word that Dora shall not be forgotten. Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 Alice could not say yes, but she knew it was useless to 
 reason with her sister, so she remained silent; while a curious 
 train of thoughts passed through her mind, resulting at last 
 in an increased kindness of manner on her part towards her 
 young cousin, who was frequently relieved of duties whict. 
 would otherwise have detained her from school. Ana 
 Dora's step grew lighter, and her heart happier, as she 
 thought that Alice at least cared for her welfare. 
 
 On New Year's Day there came a letter from Uncle Nat, 
 containing the promised check, which Eugenia held up to 
 view, while she read the following brief lines : 
 
 " Many thanks to Eugenia for her kind and welcome 
 letter, which I may answer at some future time, when I have 
 anything interesting to say." 
 
 '' Have you written to Uncle Nat, and did you tell him
 
 U DORA DEAtffc. 
 
 yf me, or of mother's letter ?" exclaimed Dora, who had beei 
 fitting unobserved behind the stove, and who now sprang 
 eagerly forward, while her cheeks glowed with excitement. 
 
 Soon recovering her composure, Eugenia answered, " Yes. 
 I wrote to him, and, of course, mentioned you with the rest 
 of us. His answer you have heard." 
 
 " But the other paper," persisted Dora. " Doesn't that 
 say anything ?" 
 
 For a moment Eugenia hesitated, and then, deciding that 
 BO harm could come of Dora's knowing of the money, pro 
 vided she was kept in ignorance of the object for which it 
 was sent, she replied, carelessly, " Oh, that's nothing but a 
 Jieck. The old gentleman was generous enough to send us 
 a little money, which we need badly enough." 
 
 There was not one particle of selfishness in Dora's dispo 
 sition, and without a thought or wish that any of the money 
 should be expended for herself, she replied, " Oh, I am so 
 glad, for now Aunt Sarah can have that shawl she has 
 wanted so long, and Alice the new merino." 
 
 Dear little Dora ! she did not know why Eugenia's eyes 
 so quickly sought the floor, nor understand why her aunt's 
 hand was laid upon her head so caressingly. Neither did 
 she know that Alice's sudden movement towards the window 
 was to hide the expression of her face ; but when, a few 
 days afterwards, she was herself presented with a handsome 
 .merino, which both Eugenia and Alice volunteered to make, 
 she thought there was not in Dunwood a happier child than 
 herself. In the little orphan's pathway there were a few 
 Euuny spots, and that night when, by the old green trunk, 
 she knelt her down to pray, she asked of God that he would 
 reward her aunt and cousins according to their kindnesses 
 done to her ! 
 
 Need -we say that childish prayer was answered to th 
 letter !
 
 ROSE HILL. < 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ROSE HILL. 
 
 A LITTLE \vay out of the village of Dumfood, and situ 
 ated upon a slight eminence, was a large, handsome build 
 ing, which had formerly been owned by a Frenchman, who, 
 from the great profusion of roses growing upon his grounds, 
 had given to the place the name of " Rose Hill." Two 
 years before our story opens, the Frenchman died, and 
 since that time Rose Hill had been unoccupied, but now it 
 had another proprietor, and early in the summer Mr. 
 Howard Hastings and lady would take possession, of their 
 new home. 
 
 Of Mr. Hastings nothing definite was known, except 
 that he was a man of unbounded wealth and influence 
 " and a little peculiar withal," so said Mrs. Leah, the ma 
 tron, who had come up from New York to superintend the 
 arrangement of the house, which was fitted up in a style of 
 elegance far surpassing what most of Dunwood's inhabit 
 ants had seen before, and was for two or three weeks 
 thrown open to the public. Mrs. Leah, who was a servant 
 in Mr, Hastings's family and had known her young mistress's 
 husband from childhood, was inclined to be rather com 
 municative, and when asked to explain what she meant by 
 Mr. Hastings's peculiarities, replied, " Oh, he's queer every 
 way and no wonder, with his kind of a mother. Why, 
 she is rich as a Jew, and for all that, she made her oul.j
 
 M DORA DEANE. 
 
 daughter learn how to do all kinds of work. It would 
 make her a better wife, she said, and so, because Ella had 
 rather lie on the sofa and read a nice novel than to be 
 pokin' round in the kitchen and tending to things, as he 
 calls it, Mr. Hastings looks blue and talks about woman's 
 duties, and all that nonsense. Recently he has taken it 
 into his head that late hours are killing her that it isn't 
 healthy for her to go every night to parties, concerts, 
 operas, and the like o' that, so he's going to bury her in the 
 stupid country, where she'll be moped to death, for of course 
 there's nobody here that she'll associate with." 
 
 " The wretch I" exclaimed Eugenia, who formed one of 
 the group of listeners to this precious Lit of gossip ; but 
 whether she intended this cognomen for the cruel husband, 
 or Mrs. Leah, we do not know, as she continued to question 
 the old lady of Mrs. Hastings herself, asking if her health 
 were delicate and if she were pretty. 
 
 "Delicate! I guess she is," returned Mrs. Leah. "If 
 she hasn't got the consumption now, she will have it. 
 Why, her face is as white as some of them lilies that used 
 to grow on the ponds in old Connecticut ; and then to 
 think her husband won't let her take all the comfort she 
 can, the little time she has to live ! It's too bad," and the 
 corner of Dame Leah's silk apron went up to her eyes, as 
 she thought how her lady was aggrieved. Soon recovering 
 her composure, she reverted to Eugenia's last question, and 
 hastened to reply, " Pretty, don't begin to express it. Just 
 iuagine the least little bit of a thing, with the whitest face, 
 the bluest eyes and the yellowest curls, dressed in a light 
 blue silk wrapper, all lined with white satin, and tied with a 
 tassel as big as my fist ; wouldn't such a creature look weii 
 in the kitchen, telling Hannah it was time to get dinner, 
 &nd seeing if Tom was cleaning the vegetables 1"
 
 ROSE HILL. 83 
 
 And Mrs. Leah's nose went up at the very idea of a blue 
 eilk wrapper being found outside of the parlor, even if the 
 husband of said wrapper did have to wait daily at least two 
 hours for his badly cooked dinner 1 
 
 " Oh, but you ought to see her dressed for a party," con 
 tinued Mrs. Leah, " she looks like a queen, all sparkling 
 with diamonds and pearls ; but she'll never go to many 
 more, poor critter 1" 
 
 And as the good lady's services were just then needed iu 
 another part of the building, she bade good morning to her 
 audience, who commented upon what they had heard, each 
 according to their own ideas some warmly commending 
 Mr. Hastings for removing his delicate young wife from the 
 unwholesome atmosphere of the city, while others, and 
 among them Eugenia, thought he ought to let her remain 
 in New York, if she chose. Still, while commiserating Mrs. 
 Hastings for being obliged to live in " that stupid village," 
 Eugenia expressed her pleasure that she was coming, and 
 on her way home imparted to Alice her intention of being 
 quite intimate with the New York lady, notwithstanding what 
 " the spiteful old Mrs. Leah " had said about there being no 
 one in Dunvvood fit for her to associate with. In almost 
 perfect ecstasy Dora listened to her cousin's animated de 
 scription of Rose Hill, its handsome rooms and elegant fur 
 niture, and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, she 
 exclaimed, " Oh, how I wish I could really live in such a 
 house !" 
 
 " And I shouldn't wonder if you did. Your present 
 prospects look very much like it," was Eugenia's scornful 
 reply, which Dora scarcely heard, for her thoughts wero 
 busy elsewhere. 
 
 She had an eye for the beautiful, and, strange to say, 
 would at any time have preferred remaining in her aunt's
 
 40 DORA DKANE. 
 
 pleasant parlor, to washing dishes from off the long kitchen 
 table ; bat as this last seemed to be her destiny, she sub 
 mitted without a murmur, contenting herself the while by 
 building ca,stles. just as many a child has done before her, 
 and will do again. Somehow, too, Dora's castles, particu 
 larly the one of which she was mistress, were always large 
 and beautiful, just like Eugenia's description of Rose Hill, 
 to which she had listened with wonder, it seemed so natu 
 ral, so familiar, so like the realization of what she had 
 many a time dreamed, while her hands were busy with the 
 dish-towel or the broom. 
 
 Dora was a strange child so her mother and her aunt 
 Sarah ooth had told her so her teachers thought, and so 
 her companions said, when she stole away by herself to 
 think, preferring her own thoughts to the pastime of her 
 schoolmates. This thinking was almost the only recreation 
 which Dora had, and as it seldom interfered with the prac 
 tical duties of her life, no one was harmed if she did some 
 times imagine the most improbable things ; and if for a few 
 days succeeding her cousin's visit to Rose Hill, she did seem 
 a little inattentive, and somewhat abstracted, it was merely 
 because she had for a time changed places with the fashion 
 able Mrs. Hastings, whose blue silk morning-gown, while 
 discussed in the parlor, was worn in fancy in the kitchen. 
 
 Dream on, Dora Deane, dream on but guard this, your 
 last imagining, most carefully from the proud Eugenia, who 
 would scarce deem you worthy to take upon your lips the 
 name of Mrs. Hastings, much less to be eren in fancy the 
 adstress of Rose Hill.
 
 MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS. 
 
 IN blissful ignorance of the gossip which his movements 
 were exciting in Dunwood, Mr. Hastings in the city went 
 quietly on with the preparations for his removal, purchasing 
 and storing away in divers baskets, boxes and bags, many 
 luxuries which he knew he could not readily procure in the 
 country, and which would be sadly missed by his young 
 girl-wife, who sat all day in her mother's parlor, bemoaning 
 her fate in being thus doomed to a life in the " horribly 
 vulgar country." She had forgotten that she could live 
 anywhere with him," for the Ella Hastings of to-day is the 
 Ella Grey of little more than a year ago, the same who had 
 listened to the sad story of Dora Deane, without ever think 
 ing that some day in the future she should meet the little 
 girl who made such an impression upon her husband. 
 
 Howard Hastings was not the only man who, with a 
 grand theory as to what a wife ought to be, had married 
 from pure laivy ; finding too late that she whom he took 
 cor a companion was a mere plaything a doll to be 
 dressed up and Je'nt out into the fashionable world, where 
 Alone her happiness could be found. Still the disappoint 
 ment to such is not the less bitter, because others, too, aro 
 suffering from the effect of a like hallucination, and Howard 
 Hastings feH it most keenly. He loved, or fancied IM
 
 DORA DEANS. 
 
 ioved, Ella Grey devotedly, and when in her soft flowing 
 robes of richly embroidered lace, with the orange blossoms 
 resting upon her golden carls, and her long eye-lashes veil 
 ing her eyes of blue, she had stood at the altar as his bride, 
 there was not in all New York a prouder or a happier man. 
 Alas, that in the intimate relations of married life, there 
 should ever be brought to light faults whose existence was 
 never suspected 1 Yet so it is, and the honey-moon had 
 scarcely waned, ere Mr. Hastings began to feel a very little 
 disappointed, as, one after another, the peculiarities of his 
 wife were unfolded to his view. 
 
 In all his pictures of domestic bliss, there had ever been 
 a home of his own, a cheerful fireside, to which he could 
 repair, when the day's toil was done, but Ella would not 
 hear of housekeeping. To be sure, it would be very pleasant 
 to keep up a grand establishment and give splendid dinner 
 parties, but she knew that Howard, with his peculiar 
 notions, would expect her to do just as his " dear, fussy old 
 mother did," and that, she wouldn't for a moment think of, 
 for she really " did not know the names of one half the queer 
 looking things in the kitchen." 
 
 " She will improve as she grows older she is very young 
 yet, but little more than eighteen," thought Mr. Hastings; 
 and his heart softened toward her, as he remembered the 
 kind of training she had received from her mother, who was 
 a pure slave of fashion, and would have deemed her daugh 
 ters degraded had they possessed any knowledge of work 
 
 And still, when the aristocratic Howard Hastings had 
 ue<l for Ella's hand, she felt honored, notwithstanding that 
 ooth his mother and sister were known to be well skilled in 
 everything pertaining to what she called "drudgery." To 
 remove his wife from her mother's influence, and at the 
 <ame time prolong her life, for she was really very delicate,
 
 MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS. Y. 
 
 was Mr. Hastings's aim ; and as be had always fancied a 
 home in the country, he at last purchased Rose Hill farm in 
 spite of Ella's tears, and the frowns of her mother, who 
 declared it impossible for her daughter to live without 
 society, and pronounced all country people "rough, ignorant 
 and vulgar." 
 
 All this Ella believed, and though she was far too 
 amiable and sweet-tempered to be really angry, she came 
 very near sulking all the way from New York to Dunwood 
 But when at the depot, she met the new carriage and horses 
 which had been purchased- expressly for herself, she waa 
 somewhat mollified, and telling her husband " he was the 
 best man in the world," she took the reins in her own little 
 soft, white hands, and laughed aloud as she saw how the 
 spirited creatures obeyed her slightest wish. From the par 
 lor windows of Locust Grove, Eugenia and her sister looked 
 out upon the strangers, pronouncing Mr. Hastings the most 
 elegant-looking man they had ever seen, while his wife, the 
 girlish Ella, was thought far too pale to be very beautiful. 
 
 Near the gate at the entrance to Rose Hill, was a clear 
 limpid stream, where the school-children often played, and 
 where they were now assembled. A little apart from the 
 rest, seated upon a mossy bank, with her bare feet in the 
 running water, and her rich auburn hair shading her brown 
 cheeks, was Dora Deane, not dreaming this time, but watch 
 ing so intently a race between two of her companions, that 
 she did not see the carriage until it was directly opposite. 
 Then, guessing who its occupants were, she started up, 
 coloring crimson as she saw the lady's eyes fixed upon her, 
 and felt sure she was the subject of remark. 
 
 " Look, Howard," said Ella. " I suppose that is what 
 you call a rural sight a bare-foot girl, with a burnt face 
 and huge sun-bonnet ?"
 
 44 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Ere Mr. Hastings could reply, Dora, wishing to redeem 
 her character, which she was sure she had lost by having 
 been caught with her feet in the brook, darted forward and 
 opening the gate, held it for them to pass. 
 
 " Shall I give her some money ?" softly whispered Ella, 
 feeling for her purse. 
 
 " Hush-sh 1" answered Mr. Hastings, for he knew that 
 money would be an insult to Dora, wh' felt more than 
 repaid by the pleasant smile he gave her as _ie said, " Thank 
 you, miss." 
 
 " I have seen a face like his before," thought Dora, as 
 Bhe walked slowly down the road, while the carriage kept 
 ou its way, and soon carried Ella to her new home. 
 
 Not to be pleased with Hose Hill was impossible, and as 
 the young wife's eye fell upon the handsome building, with 
 its cool, vine-wreathed piazza upon the shaded walks, the 
 sparkling fountains and the thousands of roses which were 
 now in full bloom, she almost cried with delight, even for 
 getting, for a time, that she was in the " horrid country." 
 But she was ere long reminded of the fact by Mrs. Leah, 
 who told of the " crowds of gaping people," who had been 
 up to see the house. With a deprecating glance at the vil 
 lage where the " gaping people " were supposed to live, Ella 
 drew nearer to her husband, expressing a wish that the good 
 folks of Dunwood would confine their calls to the house and 
 grounds, and not be troubling her. But in this she was des 
 tined to be disappointed, for the inhabitants of Dunwood 
 were friendly, social people, who knew no good reason why 
 they should not be on terms of equality with the little Hdy 
 of Rose Hill ; and one afternoon, about a week after her 
 arrival at Dunwood, she was told that some ladies were 
 waiting for her in the parlor. 
 
 " Dear me I Sophy," said she, while a ft own for an
 
 MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS. 43 
 
 instant clouded her pretty face, " tell them I'm not at 
 home." 
 
 " But I just told them you were," answered Sophy, add 
 ing that " the ladies were well-dressed and fine looking," 
 and suggesting that her young mistress should wear down 
 something more appropriate than the soiled white muslin 
 wrapper in which she had lounged all day, because " it was 
 not worth her while to dress, when there was no one but her 
 husband to see her." 
 
 This, however, Ella refused to do. " It was good enough 
 for country folks," she said, as she rather reluctantly 
 descended to the parlor, where her first glance at her visi 
 tors made her half regret that she had not followed Sophy's 
 advice. Mrs. Judge Howell and her daughter-in-law were 
 refined, cultivated women, and ere Ella had conversed with 
 them five minutes, she felt that if there was between them 
 any point of inferiority, it rested with herself, and not with 
 them. They had travelled much, both in the Old and New 
 World ; and though their home was in Boston, they spent 
 almost every summer in Dunwood, which Mrs. Howell pro 
 nounced a most delightful village, assuring Ella that she 
 could not well avoid being happy and contented. Very 
 wondcringly the large childish blue eyes went up to the face 
 of Mrs. Howell, who, interpreting aright their expression, 
 casually remarked that when she was young, she fell into the 
 foolish error of thinking there could be nobody outside the 
 walls of a city. " But the experience of sixty years has 
 changed my mind materially," said she, " for I have met 
 quite as many refined and cultivated people in the country 
 as in the city." 
 
 This was a new idea to Ella, and the next visitors, who 
 came in just after Mrs. Howell left, were obliged to wait 
 while she mado quite an elaborate toilet.
 
 46 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " Oh, Ella, how much better you are looking than JOH 
 were "aii hour or two since," exclaimed Mr. Hastings, who 
 entered the chamber just as his wife was leaving it. 
 
 " There's company in the parlor," answered Ella, trip 
 ping lightly away, while her husband walked on into the 
 dressing-room, where he stepped first over a pair of slippers, 
 then over a muslin wrapper, and next over a towel, which 
 Ella in her haste had left upon the floor, her usual place foi 
 everything. 
 
 This time the visitors proved to be Eugenia and Alice, 
 with the first of whom the impulsive Ella was perfectly 
 delighted, she was so refined, so genteel, so richly dressed, 
 and assumed withal such a patronizing air, that the short 
 sighted Ella felt rather overawed, particularly when she 
 spoke of her " Uncle in India," with whom she was " such a 
 favorite." During their stay, servants were introduced as a 
 topic of conversation, and on that subject Eugenia was 
 quite as much at home as Mrs. Hastings, descanting at 
 large upon the many annoyances one was compelled to 
 endure, both from the " ignorance and impertinence of hired 
 help." Once or twice, too, the words " my waiting-maid " 
 escaped her lips, and when at last she took her leave, she 
 had the satisfaction of knowing that Mrs. Hastings was duly 
 impi'essed with a sense of her importance. 
 
 " Such charming people I never expected to find in the 
 country, and so elegantly dressed too," thought Ella, as 
 r rom her window she watched them walking slowly down 
 the long avenue. " That silk of Miss Eugenia's could net 
 have cost less than two dollars a yard, and her hands, too, 
 were as soft and white as mine. They must be wealthy . 
 those Deanes : I wonder if they ever give any parties." 
 
 And then, as she remembered sundry gossamer fabrici 
 which were dignified by the title of party dresses, and
 
 MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS. 41 
 
 which, with many tears she had folded away as something 
 she should never need in the country, she exclaimed aloud, 
 " Why, can't I have a party here as well as at home ? 
 The houss is a great deal larger than the long narrow thing 
 on which mamma prides herself so much. And then it will 
 be such fun to show off before the country people, who, 
 of course, are not all as refined as the Deanes. I'll speak to 
 Howard about it immediately." 
 
 " Speak to me about what ?" asked Mr, Hastings, who had 
 entered the parlor in time to hear the last words of his wife. 
 
 Very briefly Ella stated to him her plan of giving a large 
 party as soon as a sufficient number of the village people 
 had called. 
 
 " You know you wish me to be sociable with them," she 
 continued, as she saw the slightly comical expression of her 
 husband's face ; " and how can I do it better than by 
 inviting them to my house ?" 
 
 " I am perfectly willing for the party," answered Mr. 
 Hastings, " but I do rather wonder what has so soon 
 changed your mind." 
 
 " Oh, nothing much," returned Ella, " only the people 
 don't seem half as vulgar as mamma said they would. I 
 wish you could see Eugenia Deane. She's perfectly mag 
 nificent wears a diamond ring, Valenciennes lace,, and all 
 ihat. Her mother is very wealthy, isn't she ?" 
 
 "I have never supposed so if you mean the widow 
 Deaue, who lives at the place called ' Locust Grove,' " 
 answered Mr. Hastings ; and Ella continued, " Yes, she 
 is, I am sure, from the way Eugenia talked. They keep 
 servants, I know, for she spoke of a waiting-maid. Then, 
 too, they have an old bachelor uncle in India, with a mil 
 lion or more, and these two young ladies will undoubtedly 
 inherit it all at his death."
 
 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " Miss Deane mast have been very communicative," said 
 Mr. Hastings, who understood the world much better than 
 bis wife, and who readily guessed that Miss Eugenia had 
 passed herself off for quite as much as she was. 
 
 41 It was perfectly natural for her to tell me what she 
 did," answered Ella, " and I like her so much ! I mean 
 to drive over there soon, and take her out riding." 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by the ringing 
 of the door-bell, and it was not again resumed until the 
 Monday morning following, when, at the breakfast-table 
 Ella asked for the carriage to be sent round, as " she was 
 going to call at Mrs. Deane's, and take the young ladies to 
 ride." 
 
 " But it is washing-day," suggested Mr. Hastings, wish 
 ing to tease his wife. " And nothing," I am told, " morti 
 fies a woman more than to be caught with her hair in 
 papers, and her arms in the suds. So, if you value your 
 friend Eugenia's feelings, you had better wait until to-mor 
 row." 
 
 " Suds, Howard ! What do you mean ?" asked the 
 indignant Ella. " Eugenia Deane's hands never saw a 
 wash-tub ! Why, they are almost as white as mine." And 
 the little lady glanced rather admiringly at the small snowy 
 fingers, which handled so gracefully the heavy knife and 
 fork of silver. 
 
 " You have my permission to go," said Mr. Hastings, 
 " but I am inclined to think you'll have to wait a long time 
 for your friends to make their appearance." 
 
 Mentally resolving not to tell him if she did, Ella ran up 
 to h'jr room, where, leaving her morning dress in the middle 
 of the floor, and donning a handsome plaid silk, she de 
 scended again to the parlor, and suggested to her husband 
 the propriety of bringing the young ladies home with her
 
 MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS. 4 
 
 to dinner, alleging, as one reason, that " there was no use 
 of having a silver dining set and nice things, unless there 
 was somebody to see them." 
 
 " And am not / somebody ?" asked Mr. Hastings, playfully 
 vindiug his arm around the little creature, who answered, 
 " Why, yes but mamma never thought it worth her while 
 always to have the best things and fix up when there was no 
 one to dinner but us and father ; and I don't think I need to 
 be so particular as wl*en I was Ella Grey and you were 
 Mr. Hastings, for now I am your wife, and you arc " 
 
 Here she paused, while she stooped down to caress a huge 
 Newfoundland dog, which came bounding in. Then, re 
 membering she had not finished her sentence, she added, 
 after a moment, "And you are only Hcncard!" 
 
 Silenced, if not convinced, Mr. Hastings walked away, 
 wondering if every husband, at the expiration of fifteen 
 months, reached the enviable position of being " only How 
 ard I" Half an hour later, and Ella Hastings, having left 
 orders with Mrs. Leah for a " company dinner," was riding 
 down the shaded avenue into the highway, where she bade 
 the coachman drive in the direction of Locust Grove
 
 10 DORA DKAN1. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE VISIT. 
 
 THE plain though comfortable breakfast of dry toast, 
 baked potatoes and black tea was over. This morning it 
 had been eaten from the kitchen table ; for, as Mr. Hastings 
 had surmised, it was washing day, and on such occasions, 
 wishing to save work, Mrs. Deane would not suffer the 
 dining-room to be occupied. To this arrangement the proud 
 Eugenia submitted the more readily, as she knew that at 
 this hour they were not liable to calls ; so, she who had 
 talked of her waiting-maid and wealthy uncle to Mrs. Hast 
 ings, sat down to breakfast with her waiting-maid, eating 
 her potatoes with a knife and cooling her tea in her saucer ; 
 two points which in the parlor she loudly denounced as posi 
 tive marks of ill breeding, but which in the kitchen, where 
 there was no one to see her, she found vastly convenient ! 
 Piles of soiled clothes were scattered over the floor, and 
 from a tub standing near, a volume of steam was rising, 
 almost hiding from view the form of Dora Deane, whose 
 round red arms were diving into the suds, while she to her 
 self was softly repeating the lesson in History, that day to 
 be recited by her class, and which she had learned the 
 Saturday night previous, well knowing that Monday's duties 
 would keep her from school the entire day. 
 
 In the chamber above her long, straight hair plaited up 
 in braids, so as to give it the wavy appearance she had so
 
 THE VISIT, 61 
 
 much admired in Mrs. Hastings her head enveloped in a 
 black silk apron and her hands incased in buckskin gloves, 
 was Eugenia, setting her room to rights, and complaining 
 with every breath of her hard lot, in being thus obliged to 
 exert herself on hot summer mornings. 
 
 " Don't you wish you were rich as Mrs. Hastings," asked 
 Alice, who chanced to come in. 
 
 " That I do," returned Eugenia. " I have been uncom 
 fortable and discontented ever since I called upon her, for I 
 can't see why there should be such a difference. She has 
 all the money, servants and dresses which she wants, besidea 
 the handsomest and most elegant man for a husband ; while 
 I, Eugenia Deane, who am ten times smarter than she, and 
 could appreciate these things so much better, am obliged to 
 make all sorts of shifts, just to keep up appearances. But 
 didn't I impress her with a sense of my greatness !" she added, 
 after a pause, and Alice rejoined, " Particularly when you 
 talked of your waiting-maid ! I don't see, Eugenia, how you 
 dare do such things, for of course Mrs. Hastings will event 
 ually know that you mean Dora." 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that," returned Eugenia ; " and even 
 if she does, I fancy I have tact enough to smooth it over 
 with her, for she is not very deep." 
 
 For a moment Alice regarded her sister intently, and 
 then said, " I wonder from whom you take your character 
 for deception." 
 
 " I've dwelt upon that subject many a time myself," au- 
 swcred Eugenia, " and I have at last come to the conclusion 
 that as father was not famous for sense of any kind, 1 must 
 be a second and revised edition of mother but hark, clotrt 
 you hear the roll of wheels ?" And springing up, she reached 
 the window just as Mrs. Hastings alighted from her carriage, 
 which stood before the gate.
 
 62 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " Great goodness !" she exclaimed, " there's M s. Hastings 
 coming here to call and / in this predicament. What shall 
 I do ?" 
 
 " Let her wait, of course, until we change our dresses," 
 answered Alice, and rushing down the stairs, Eugenia bado 
 Dora " show the lady into the parlor," addi.ig, "and if she 
 asks for me, say I am suffering from a severe headache, but 
 you presume I will see her." 
 
 Perfectly delighted at the idea of standing face to face 
 with a person of whom she had heard so much, Dora re 
 moved her high-necked apron, and throwing it across the 
 tub so that the sleeves trailed upon the floor, was hurrying 
 away, when her foot becoming accidentally entangled in the 
 apron, she fell headlong to the floor, bringing with her tub, 
 suds, clothes and all ! To present herself in this drenched 
 condition was impossible, and in a perfect tremor lest Mrs. 
 Hastings should go away, Eugenia vibrated, brush in hand, 
 between her own chamber and the head of the kitchen 
 stairs, scolding Dora unmercifully in the one place, and pull 
 ing at the long braids of her hair in the other. 
 
 At last, just as Mrs. Hastings was about despairing of 
 being heard, and was beginning to think that possibly her 
 husband might be right and Eugenia in the suds after all, a 
 chubby, brown-faced girl appeared, and after giving her a 
 searching, curious glance, showed her into the parlor. 
 
 " Are the young ladies at home ?" asked Mrs. Hastings ; 
 and Dora, who had never told a falsehood in her life, and 
 had no intention of doing so now, replied that they were, 
 and would soon be down ; after which, with a low courtesy 
 she went back to the scene of her late disaster, while Mr%. 
 Hastings busied herself awhile by looking around the room, 
 which, though small, was very handsomely furnished. 
 
 At last, beginning to grow sleepy, she took up a book,
 
 THE VISIT. 63 
 
 and succeeded in interesting herself so far as to nod quite 
 approvingly, when the rustle of female garments aroused 
 her, and in a moment Eugenia and Alice swept into the 
 room. Both were tastefully dressed, while about Eugenia 
 there was an air of languor befitting the severe lieadache, of 
 which Mrs. Hastings was surprised to hear. 
 
 " Then that girl didn't tell you as I bade her to do.'' said 
 Eugenia; adding, that " Mrs. Hastings must have thought 
 her very rude to keep her so long waiting." 
 
 But Mrs. Hastings was too good-natured lo think any- 
 tiling, and, after a few common-place remarks, she told the 
 object of her call, saying, that " the fre&h air would, un 
 doubtedly, do Eugenia good." In this opinion the young 
 lady fully concurred, and, half an hour later, she was slowly 
 riding through the principal streets of Dunwood, wondering 
 if her acquaintances did not envy her for being on such 
 terms of intimacy with the fashionable Mrs. Hastings. Very 
 politely were the young ladies received by Mr. Hastings, on 
 their arrival at Rose Hill, and throughout the entire day 
 their admiration, both for the place and its owner, increased, 
 though Eugenia could not conceal from herself the fact, that 
 she stood very much in fear of the latter, whose keen black 
 eyes seemed to read her very thoughts. How such a man 
 came to marry Ella Grey, was to her a puzzle; and if occa 
 sionally she harbored the thought that Eugenia Deane was 
 far better suited to be the mistress of Howard Hastings's 
 home than the childish creature he had chosen, she was only 
 guilty of what had, in a similar manner, been done by more 
 than one New York belle. Dinner being over, Ella led the 
 way to an upper balcony, which opened from her chamber, 
 und which was a cool, shaded spot. Scarcely were thej 
 seated, when remembering something she had left in the 
 parlor, she went back for it, and in returning, she ran up
 
 64 DORA DEANE. 
 
 the stairs so swiftly that a sudden dizziness came over her, 
 and with a low cry she fell half fainting into the arms ol 
 her husband, who bent tenderly over her, while Eugenia 
 made many anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, 
 and if she were often thus affected. 
 
 " Yes, often," answered Ella, who began to revive; then, 
 as the perspiration gathered thickly about the white lips, 
 she pressed her blue-veined hand upon her side, and cried, 
 " The pain the pain 1 It has come again. Country air 
 won't do me any good. I shall die of consumption, just as 
 mother said." And as if she saw indeed the little grave, 
 on which the next summer's sun would shine, she hid her 
 face in her husband's bosom, and sobbed aloud. Instantly 
 a dark thought flashed upon Eugenia a thought which 
 even she would not harbor, and casting it aside, she drew 
 nearer to the weeping Ella, striving by an increased tender 
 ness of manner to atone for having dared to think of a time 
 when the little willow chair on the balcony would be empty, 
 and Howard Hastings free. Soon rallying, Ella feigned to 
 smile at her discomposure, saying that " consumption had 
 been preached to her so much that she always felt frightened 
 at the slightest pain in her side," thoughtlessly adding, as 
 she glanced at her husband, " I wonder if Howard would 
 miss me any, were I really to die." 
 
 A dark shadow settled upon Mr. Hastings's face, but he 
 made no reply; and Eugenia, who was watching him, fan 
 cied she could read his thoughts; but when they at last 
 started for home, and she saw how tenderly he wrapped a 
 warm shawl around his delicate young wife, who insisted 
 upon going with them, she felt that however frivolous and 
 uncompanionable Ella might be, she was Howard Hastings'a 
 wife, and as such, he would love and cherish her to th* 
 last.
 
 THE VISIT. n 
 
 By her window in the attic sat Dora Deane, poring over 
 to-morrow's lessons; but as the silvery voice of Ella fell upon 
 her ear, she arose, and going to her cousin's chamber, looked 
 out upon the party as they drew near the gate. 
 
 " How beautiful she is 1" she whispered to herself, as, 
 dropping her shawl, and flinging back her golden curls, Ella 
 sprang up to reach a branch of locust blossoms, which grew 
 above her head. 
 
 Then, as she saw how carefully Mr. Hastings replaced 
 the shawl, drawing his wife's arm within his own, she stolo 
 back to her room, and, resuming her seat by the window, 
 dreamed, as maidens of thirteen will, of a time away in the 
 future, when she, too, might perhaps be loved even as wai 
 the gentle Ella Hastings.
 
 DORA DEANE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PARTV. 
 
 ONE pleasant July morning, the people of Duuwood were 
 electrified by the news that on Thursday evening, Mrs 
 Howard Hastings would be at home to between one and 
 two hundred of her friends. Among the first invited was 
 Eugenia, who had been Mrs. Hastings's chief adviser, kindly 
 enlightening her as to the somebodies and nobodies of the town, 
 and rendering herself so generally useful, that, in a fit of 
 gratitude, Mrs. Hastings had promised her her brother Ste 
 phen, a fast young man, who was expected to be present at 
 the party. To appear well in his eyes was, therefore, Euge 
 nia's ambition ; and the time which was not spent in giving 
 directions at Rose Hill, was occupied at home in scolding, 
 because her mother would not devise a way by which she 
 could obtain a new pink satin dress, with lace overskirt, and 
 flowers to match. 
 
 It was in vain that Mrs. Deaue sought to convince her 
 daughter how impossible it was to raise the necessary funds. 
 Eugenia was determined ; and at last, by dint of secretly 
 selling a half-worn dress to one Irish girl, a last year's bon 
 net to another, and a brochd shawl to another, she succeeded 
 in obtaining enough for the desired purchase, lacking five 
 dollars, and this last it seemed impossible to procure. But 
 Eugenia never despaired; and a paragraph read one evening 
 .'n a city paper, suggested to her a plan which she resolved 
 to execute immediately.
 
 THE PARTY. 61 
 
 It was nearly dark ; her mother and sisters were in the 
 village ; Dora was gone on an errand, and she was alone. 
 Half reluctantly, she opened the stair door which led to 
 Dora's room, the low room in the attic. Up the steep stair 
 case, and through the narrow hall she went, treading softly, 
 and holding her breath, as if she feared lest the dead, from 
 her far-off grave in the great city, should hear her noiseless 
 footfall, and come forth to prevent the wrong she meditated. 
 But no, Fanny Deane slept calmly in her coffin, and Eugenia 
 kept on her way unmolested, until the chamber was reached. 
 Then, indeed, she hesitated, for there was, to her, something 
 terrifying in the darkness which had gathered in the cor 
 ners of the room, and settled like a pall upon the old green 
 trunk. To reach that and secure the treasure, it contained, 
 woold have been the work of a moment ; but, wholly pow 
 erless to advance, Eugenia stood still, while the cold perspi 
 ration started from every pore. 
 
 " I can do anything but that" she said, at last, and, as if 
 the words had given her strength to move, she turned back, 
 gliding again through the narrow hall, and down the steep 
 stairway, out into the open air ; and when, that night, as 
 she often did, Dora looked for her mother's beautiful hair, 
 it lay in its accustomed place, unruffled and unharmed ; and 
 the orphan child, as she pressed it to her lips, dreamed not 
 of the danger which had threatened it, or of the snare about 
 to be laid for herself by Eugenia, who could not yet give up 
 the coveted dress. 
 
 Next morning, as Dora stood before the mirror, arrang 
 ing her long, luxuriant hair, which she usually wore in 
 braids, hanging down her back, Eugenia came up, and with 
 mi unusual degree of kindness in her manner, offered to fix 
 it for her, commenting the while on the exceeding beauty of 
 the rich auburu tresses, and saying, that if she were iu 
 
 s*
 
 68 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Dora's place she would have it cut off, as by the means she 
 would, when grown up, have much haudsoiner hair than it 
 it were suffered to remain long. Dora remembered having 
 heard her mother say the same; but she had a pride in her 
 hair, which was longer and thicker than any of her compa 
 nions' ; so she said nothing until Eugenia, who, to serve her 
 own purpose, would not hesitate to tell a falsehood, and who 
 knew how much Dora admired Mrs. Hastings, spoke of that 
 lady's beautiful curls, saying they were all the result of her 
 having worn her hair quite short until she was sixteen years 
 of age. Then, indeed, Dora wavered. She had recently 
 suffered much from the headache, too, and it might relieve 
 that ; so that when Eugenia offered her a coral bracelet in 
 exchange for her hair, she consented, and Alice entered the 
 room just as the last shining braid dropped upon the floor. 
 
 11 What upon earth 1" she exclaimed, stopping short, and 
 then bursting into a loud laugh at the comical appear 
 ance which Dora presented ; for Eugenia had cut close to 
 the head, leaving the hair so uneven that shingling seemed 
 the only alternative, and to this poor Dora finally submitted. 
 When at last the performance was ended, and she glanced 
 at herself in the mirror, she burst into a paroxysm of tears, 
 while Alice tried to soothe her by saying that it really would 
 eventually benefit her hair, and that she would not always 
 look so strangely. 
 
 But Dora, who began to suspect that it was pure self 
 ishness on Eugenia's part, which had prompted the act, 
 felt keenly the injustice done her, and refused to be com 
 forted, keeping her room the entire day, and weeping until 
 her eyelids were nearly blistered. Meantime, Eugenia had 
 hurried off to the city with her ill-gotten treasure, on which 
 the miserly old Jew, to whom it was offered, looked with 
 eager, longing eyes, taking care, however, to depreciate it*
 
 THE PARTY. 59 
 
 tralue, lest his customer should expect too much. But Euge 
 nia was fully his equal in management, and when at night 
 she returned home, she was in possession of the satin, the 
 lace, and the flowers, together with several other articles of 
 finery. 
 
 The next day was the party, and as Dora, besides being 
 exceedingly tasteful, was also neat, and handy with her 
 needle, she was kept from school, stitching the livelong day 
 upon the dainty fabric, a portion of which had been pur 
 ;hased with her hair ! Occasionally, as Eugenia glanced at 
 the swollen eyelids and shorn head, bending so uncomplain 
 ingly over the cloud of lace, her conscience smote her for 
 what she had done ; but one thought of Stephen Grey, and 
 the impression she should make on him, dissipated all such 
 regrets ; and when at length the hour for making her toilet 
 arrived, her jaded cousin was literally made to perform all 
 the offices of a waiting-maid. Three times was the tired 
 little girl sent down to the village in quest of something 
 which the capricious Eugenia must have, and which, when 
 brought, was not " the thing at all," and must be exchanged. 
 Up the stairs and down the stairs she went, bringing pins to 
 Alice and powder to Eugenia, enacting, in short, the part of 
 a second Cinderella, except that in her case no kind old 
 godmother with her potent wand appeared to her relief ! 
 
 They were dressed at last, and very beautifully Eugenia 
 looked in the pink satin and flowing lace, which harmonized 
 BO well with her complexion, and which had been bought 
 with the united proceeds of a velvet bonnet, a delaine dress, 
 a brochd shawl, and Bora's hair 1 
 
 " Why don't you compliment me ?" she said to the weary 
 child, who, sick with yesterday's weeping, and the close con 
 finement of to-day, had laid her aching head upon the arm 
 f the lounge.
 
 30 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Slowly unclosing her eyes, and fixing them upon he* 
 cousin, Dora answered 
 
 " You do look beautifully. No one will excel yon, I ana 
 sure, unless it be Mrs. Hastings. I wish I could see how 
 she will dress." 
 
 " You might go up and look in at the window ; or, if I'd 
 thought of it, I could have secured you the office of ioor- 
 waiter," said the thoughtless Eugenia, adding, as she held 
 out her shawl for Dora to throw around her, " Don't you 
 wish you could attend a party at Rose Hill ?" 
 
 There was a sneer accompanying this question, which 
 Dora felt keenly. Her little swelling heart was already full, 
 and, with quivering lips and gushing tears, she answered, 
 somewhat bitterly 
 
 " I never expect to be anybody, or go anywhere ;" then, 
 as her services were no longer needed, she ran away to her 
 humble room, where from her window she watched the many 
 brilliant lights which shone from Eose Hill, and caught 
 occasional glimpses of the airy forms winch flitted before 
 the open doors and windows. Once she was sure she saw 
 Eugenia upon the balcony, and then, as a sense of the dif 
 ference between herself and her cousins came over her, she 
 laid her down upon the old green trunk, and covering her 
 face with her hands, cried out, " Nobody cares for me, or 
 loves me either. I wish I had died that winter night. Oh 
 mother ! come to me, I am so lonely and so sad." 
 
 Softly, as if it were indeed the rustle of an angel's wings, 
 came the evening air, through the open casement, cooling 
 the feverish brow and drying the tears of the orphan girl, 
 who grew strangely calm ; and when at last the moon 
 looked in upon her, she was sleeping quietly, with a placid 
 smile upon her lips. Years after, and Dora Deane remem 
 bored that summer night, when, on the hard green trunk,
 
 THE TARTY. 6} 
 
 she slept so soundly as not to hear the angry voi.e of Euge 
 nia, who came home sadly out of humor with herself and 
 the world at large. 
 
 At breakfast, next morning, she was hardly on speaking 
 terms with her sister, while Stephen Grey was pronounced " a 
 perfect bore a baboon, with more hair than brains." 
 
 "And to that I should not suppose you would object," 
 said Alice, mischievously. " You might find it useful in case 
 of an emergency." 
 
 To this there was no reply, save an angry flash of the 
 black eyes, which, it seems, had failed to interest Stephen 
 Grey, who was far better pleased with the unassuming 
 Alice, and who had paid the haughty Eugenia no attention 
 whatever, except, indeed, to plant his patent leather boot 
 upon one of her lace flounces, tearing it half off, and leaving 
 a sad rent, which could not well be mended. This, then, 
 was the cause of her wrath, which continued for some time; 
 when really wishing to talk over the events of the evening, 
 she became a little more gracious, and asked Alice how she 
 liked Mrs. Elliott, who had unexpectedly arrived from New 
 York. 
 
 " I was delighted with her," returned Alice; " she was 
 such a perfect lady. And hadn't she magnificent hair ! 
 Just the color of Dora's," she added, glancing at the little 
 cropped head, which had -been so suddenly divested of its 
 beauty. 
 
 " It wasn't all hers, though," answered Eugenia, who in 
 variably saw and spoke of every defect. " I heard her tell 
 *ng Ella that she bought a braid in Rochester as she came 
 np. But what ails you ?" she continued, speaking now to 
 Dora, whose eyes sparkled with some unustal excitement, 
 and who replied 
 
 " You said Mrs. Elliott, from New York. A.nd that was
 
 61 DORA DEANE. 
 
 thb name of the lady who was so kind to me. Oh, if I onlj 
 thought it were she, I'd " 
 
 " Make yourself ridiculous, I dare say," interrupted Eu 
 genia, adding, that " there was more than one Mrs. Elliott 
 in the world, and she'd no idea that so elegant a lady as 
 Mr. Hastings's sister ever troubled herself to look after 
 folks in such a miserable old hovel as the one where Dora 
 had lived." 
 
 This, however, did not satisfy the child, who, during the 
 week that Mrs. Elliott remained in the neighborhood, cast 
 many longing glances in the direction of Rose Hill, gazing 
 oft with tearful eyes upon a female figure which sometimes 
 walked upon the balcony, and which, perhaps, was her 
 benefactress. One night it was told at Locust Grove that 
 Mrs. Elliott had gone, and then, with a feeling of desolation 
 for which she could not account, Dora again laid her face 
 on the old green trunk and wept. 
 
 Poor Dora Deane ! The path she trod was dark, indeed, 
 but there was light ahead, and eveu now it was 1 reakiug 
 upon her, though she knew it not
 
 IKHiA AT ilOBE HILL. 
 
 DORA AT ROSE HILL 
 
 was over. The glorious September days were 
 gone. The hazy October had passed away, and the autumn 
 winds had swept the withered leaves from the tall trees 
 which grew around Rose Hill; when one cold, rainy Novem 
 ber morning, a messenger was sent to Mrs. Deane, saying 
 that Mrs. Hastings was* sick, and wished to see her. 
 
 " Mrs. Hastings sent for mother I How funny 1 There 
 must be some mistake," said Eugenia, putting her head in 
 at the door. " Are you sure it was mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, quite sure," answered the man. " Mrs. Hastings 
 thought she would know what to do for the baby, which 
 was born yesterday, and is a puny little thing." 
 
 This silenced Eugenia, who waited impatiently until 
 nightfall, when her mother returned with a sad account of 
 affairs at Rose Hill. Mrs. Hastings was sick and nervous, 
 Mrs. Leah was lazy and cross, the servants ignorant aud 
 impertinent, the house was in disorder; while Mr. Hastings, 
 with a cloud on his face, ill befitting a newly-made father, 
 stalked up aud down the sick-room, looking in vain for an 
 empty chair, so filled were they with blankets, towels, 
 baby's dresses, and the various kinds of work which Ella 
 Was always beginning and never finishing. 
 
 "Such an ignorant, helpless creature T never saw," said
 
 fti DORA DEANE. 
 
 Mrs. Deanc. " Why, she don't know anything and such 
 looking rooms ! I don't wonder her servants give her so 
 much trouble; but my heart ached for him, poor man, wheu 
 I saw him putting away the things, and trying to make the 
 room a little more comfortable." 
 
 It was even as Mrs. Deaue had said. Ella, whose favor 
 ite theory was, " a big house, a lot of things, and chairs 
 enough to put them in," was wholly unprepared for sickness, 
 which found her in a sad condition. To be sure there were 
 quantities of French embroidery, thread lace and fine linen, 
 while the bed, on which she lay, cost a hundred dollars, and 
 the rosewood crib was perfect of its kind, but there was a 
 great lack of neatness and order; and as day after day Mr. 
 Hastings stood with folded arms, looking first from one win 
 dow and then from the other, his thoughts were far from 
 being agreeable, save when he bent over the cradle of his 
 first-born, and then there broke over his face a look of un 
 utterable tenderness, which was succeeded by a shade of 
 deep anxiety as his eye rested upon his frail young wife, 
 whose face seemed whiter even than the pillow on which it 
 lay. 
 
 After a few weeks, during which time Ella had gained a 
 little strength and was able to see her friends, Eugenia 
 came regularly to Hose Hill, sitting all day by the bedside 
 of the invalid, to whom she sometimes brought a glass of 
 water, or some such trivial thing. Occasionally, too, she 
 would look to see if the baby were asleep, pronouncing it 
 " a perfect little cherub, just like its mother ;" and there 
 her services ended, for it never occurred to her that she 
 could make the room much more cheerful by picking up 
 and putting away the numerous articles which lay scattered 
 around, and wlu'ch were a great annoyance to the more 
 orderly Mr. Hastings. Once, when Ella, as usual, waa
 
 DORA AT ROSE HILL. 65 
 
 expatiating upon her goodness, asking her husband if she 
 were not the best girl in the world, and saying "they must 
 make her some handsome present in return for sill she had 
 done," he replied, " I confess, I should think more of Miss 
 Deane, if she did you any real good, or rendered you any 
 actual service ; but, as far as I can discover, she merely sits 
 here talking to you until you are wearied out." 
 
 " Why, what would you have her do ?" asked Ella, her 
 large bine eyes growing larger and bluer. 
 
 " I hardly know myself," answered Mr. Hastings ; " but 
 it seems to me that a genuine woman could not sit day 
 after day in such a disorderly room as this." 
 
 "Oh, Howard 1" exclaimed Ella, "you surely cannot 
 expect Eugenia Deane to do a servant's duty. Why, she 
 has been as delicately brought up as I, and knows quite as 
 little of work." 
 
 " More shame for her if this is true," answered Mr. Has 
 tings somewhat bitterly, and Ella continued, " You've got 
 such queer ideas, Howard, of woman's duties. I should 
 suppose you would have learned, ere this, that few ladies are 
 like your mother, who, though a blessed good soul, has the 
 oddest notions." 
 
 " But they make a man's home mighty comfortable, those 
 odd notions of mother's," said Mr. Hastings ; then, knowing 
 how useless it would be to argue the point he was abouf 
 changing the subject, when the new nurse who had beep 
 there but a few days (the first one having quarrelled with 
 Mrs. Leah, and gone home), came in and announced her 
 iiilention of leaving also, saying, "she would not live in the 
 same house with old mother Leah !" 
 
 It was in vain that Mr. Hastings tried to soothe the 
 angry girl she was determined, and for a second time was 
 Klla left alone.
 
 C DORA DEANE. 
 
 " Oh, what will become of me ?" she groaned, as the 
 door closed npon her late nurse. " Do, pray, Howard, go to 
 the kitchen and get me some some / don't know what, 
 but get me something /" 
 
 With a very vague idea as to what he was to get or to 
 do, Mr. Hastings left the room just as it was entered by 
 Eugenia, to whom Ella detailed her grievances. "Her 
 head ached dreadfully, Howard was cross, and her nurse 
 gone. Oh, Eugenia 1" she cried, "what shall I do ? I wish 
 I could die. Don't ever get married. What shall I do ?" 
 
 And hiding her face in the pillow, poor Ella sobbed 
 bitterly. For a time Eugenia stood, revolving the propriety 
 of offering Dora as a substitute in the place of the girl who 
 had just left. "Mother can work a little harder," she 
 thought. " And Alice can help her occasionally. It will 
 please Mr. Hastings, I know. Poor man, I pity him!" 
 
 So, more on account of the pity she felt for Mr. Hastings, 
 than for the love she bore his wife, she said at last, " We 
 have a little girl at our house, who is very capable for one 
 of her years. I think she would be quite handy in a sick 
 room. At all events, she can rock the baby. Shall I send 
 her up until you get some one else ?" 
 
 " Oh, if you only would," answered Ella. " I should be 
 BO glad." 
 
 So, it was arranged that Dora should come next morn 
 ing, and then Eugenia, who was this time in a hurry, took 
 her leave, having first said that Mrs. Hastings "needn't 
 think strange if Dora called her cousin, and her mother aunt, 
 for she was a poor relation, whom they had taken out of 
 charity I" 
 
 At first Mrs. Deane objected to letting her niece go, 
 " for she was needed at home," she said ; but Eugenia 
 finally prevailed, as she generally did, and the next morning
 
 DORA AT ROSE HILL. 67 
 
 Dora, who was rather pleased with the change, started 
 bundle in hand for Rose Hill. She had never been there 
 before, and she walked leisurely along, admiring the beauti 
 ful house and grounds, and thinking Mrs. Hastings must be 
 very happy to live in so fine a place. Ella was unusuallj 
 nervous and low-spirited this morning, for her husband had 
 gone to Rochester ; and when Dora was shown into the 
 room she was indulging in a fit of crying, and paid no 
 attention whatever when Mrs. Leah said, "This is the new 
 girl." " She'll get over it directly," muttered the house 
 keeper, as she went from the room, leaving Dora inexpressi 
 bly shocked at witnessing such grief in one whom she had 
 thought so happy. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ?" she said at last, drawing 
 near, and involuntarily laying her hand on the golden curls 
 Bhe had so much admired. 
 
 There was genuine sympathy in the tones of that childish 
 voice, which touched an answering chord in Ella's heart, 
 and lifting up her head she gazed curiously at the little 
 brown-faced girl, who stood there neatly attired in a dress 
 of plain dark calico, her auburn hair, which had grown 
 rapidly, combed back from her open brow, and her dark- 
 blue eyes full of tears. No one could mistake Dora Deane 
 for a menial, and few could look upon her without being at 
 once interested ; for early sorrow had left a shade of sadness 
 upon her handsome face, unusual in one so young. Then, 
 too, there was an expression of goodness and truth shining 
 out all over her countenance, and Ella's heart yearned 
 towards her. at once as towards a long-tried friend. Stretch 
 ing out her white, wasted hand, she said, "And you are 
 Dora. I am glad you have come. The sight of you makea 
 sne feel better already," and the small, rough hand she held 
 tfas pressed with a fervor which showed that she was sin
 
 38 DORA DEANE. 
 
 cere in what she said. It was strange how fast they grew 
 to liking each other those two children for in everything 
 save years, Ella was younger far than Dora Deane ; and U 
 was strange, too, what a change the little girl's presence 
 wrought in the sick-chamber. Naturally neat and orderly, 
 she could not sit quietly down in the midst of disorder, and 
 as far as she was able, she put things in their proper places; 
 then, as her quick-seeing eye detected piles of dust which 
 for days had been unmolested, she said, " Will it disturb 
 you if I sweep ?" 
 
 " Not at all. Do what you like," answered Ella, her own 
 spirits rising in proportion as the appearance of her sur 
 roundings was improved. 
 
 Everything was in order at last. The carpet was swept, 
 the furniture dusted, the chairs emptied, the curtains looped 
 back, and the hearth nicely washed. Fresh, clean linen 
 was put upon the pillows, while Ella's tangled curls were 
 carefully brushed and tucked under her tasteful cap, and 
 then for the first time Dora took the baby upon her lap. It 
 was a little thing, but very beautiful to the young .mother, 
 'and beautiful, too, to Dora, when she learned that its name 
 was " Fannie." 
 
 " Fannie!" how it carried her back to the long ago, 
 when her father had spoken, and her precious mother had 
 answered to that blessed name ! And how it thrilled her 
 as she repeated it again and again, while her tears fell liko 
 rain on the face of the unconscious infant. 
 
 " Why do you cry ?" asked Ella, and Dora answered, " 1 
 am thinking of mother. Her name was Fannie^ and I shall 
 love the baby for her sake." 
 
 " Has your mother long been dead ? Tell me of her," 
 Baid Ella ; and drawing her cha ; r close to the bedside, Dora 
 told the sad story of her life, while Ella Hastings's tears felJ
 
 DORA AT HOSE HILL. 6f 
 
 fast and her eyes opened wide with wonder as she heard of 
 the dreary room, the dead mother, the bitter cold night, and 
 of the good lady who brought them aid. 
 
 Starting up in bed and looking earnestly at Dora, Ella 
 Baid, "And you are the little girl whom Howard and Mrs. 
 Elliott found sleeping on her mother's neck that New Year'a 
 morning. But God didn't let you freeze. He saved you 
 to live with me, which you will do always. And I will be 
 to you a, sister, for I know you must be good." 
 
 And the impulsive creature threw her arms around the 
 neck of the astonished Dora, who for some time could not 
 speak, so surprised and delighted was she to learu that her 
 benefactress was indeed the sister of Mr. Hastings. After 
 a moment, Ella continued, " And you came to live with 
 some distant relatives with Mrs. Deane ?" 
 
 " Yes, with Aunt Sarah," answered Dora, stating brieflj 
 the comparatively double relationship that existed between 
 herself and her cousins, and casually mentioning her uncle 
 Nathaniel, whom she had never seen. 
 
 " Then he is your uncle, too the old East India man, 
 whose heir Eugenia is to be. I should think he would send 
 you money." 
 
 " He never does," said Dora, in a choking voice. " He 
 sent some to Eugenia once, but none to me," and a tear at 
 her uncle's supposed coldness fell on the baby's head. 
 
 Ella was puzzled, but she conld not doubt the truth of 
 what Dora had said, though she wisely refrained from be 
 traying Eugenia, in whom her confidence was slightly 
 Bhaken, but was soon restored by the appearance of the 
 young lady herself, who overwhelmed her with caresses, 
 and went into ecstasies over the little Fannie, thus surely 
 winning her way to the mother's heart. Owing to a severe 
 cold from which Eugenia was suffering, she left for home
 
 70 DORA DEANE. 
 
 about dark, and soon after her departure, Ella began to ex 
 pect her husband. 
 
 " If you will tell me where to find his dressing-gown and 
 slippers, Fll bring them out for him," said Dora, wheeling 
 up before. the glowing grate the large easy-chair which she 
 felt almost sure was occupied by Mr. Hastings. 
 
 " His gown and slippers 1" repeated Ella. " It's an age 
 since I saw them, but I guess they are in the dressing-room, 
 either behind the door, or in the bla,k trunk, or on the 
 shelf or, stay, I shouldn't wonder if they were on the closet 
 floor:' 
 
 And there, under a promiscuous pile of other garments, 
 Dora found them, sadly soiled, and looking as if they had 
 not seen the light for many a day. Shaking out the gown, 
 and brushing the dust from off the slippers, she laid them in 
 the chair, and Ella, who was watching her, said, " Pray, 
 what put that into your mind ?" 
 
 " I don't know," returned Dora ; " only I thought, per 
 haps, you did so, when you were well. Ever so long ago, 
 before pa died, mother made him a calico dressing-gown, and 
 he used to look so pleased when he found it in his chair." 
 
 " Strange I never thought of such things," softly whis 
 pered Ella, unconsciously learning a lesson from the little 
 domestic girl, who brushed the hearth, dropped the curtains, 
 lighted the lamp, and then went out to the kitchen in quest 
 of milk for Fannie. 
 
 " He will be so happy and pleased !" said Ella, as, lifting 
 up her head, she surveyed the cheerful room. 
 
 And happy indeed he was. It was the first time he had 
 left his wife since her illness, and with a tolerable degree of 
 satisfaction he took his seat in the evening cars. We say 
 tolerable, for though he was really anxious to see EHj, and 
 the baby, he was in no particular haste to see the r j^in i
 
 DORA AT ROSE HILL. 71 
 
 Which he had left 'them ; and rather reluctantly he entered 
 his handsome dwelling, starting back when he opened the 
 door of the-sick chamber, and half thinking he had mis 
 taken another man's house for his own. But Ella's voice 
 reassured him, and in a few moments he had heard from her 
 the story of Dora Deane, who ere long came in, and waa 
 duly presented. Taking her hand in his, and looking down 
 upon her with his large black eyes, he said, " I have seen 
 you before, I believe, but I did not then think that when we 
 met again I should be so much indebted to you. I am glad 
 you are here, Dora." 
 
 Once before had he held that hand in his, and now, as 
 then, the touch sent the warm blood bounding through her 
 veins. She had passed through much since that wintry 
 morning, had grown partially indifferent to coldness and 
 neglect, but the extreme kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Hastings 
 touched her heart ; and stammering out an almost inaudible 
 reply, she turned away to hide her tears, while Mr. Hast 
 ings, advancing towards the fire, exclaimed, " My double 
 gown! And it's so long since I saw it! To whose thought- 
 fulness am I indebted for this ?" 
 
 " 'Twas Dora," answered Ella. " She thinks of every 
 thing. She is my good angel, and I mean to keep her 
 always, if she will stay. Will you, dear ?" 
 
 " Oh, if I only could," answered Dora; " but I can't. They 
 need me at home 1" 
 
 " Why need you ? They have servants enough," said 
 Ella, who had not yet identified Eugenia's waiting-maid 
 with the bright, intelligent child before her. 
 
 " We have no servants but me" answered the truthful 
 Dora. " We are poor, and I help Aunt Sarah to pay for 
 my board; so, you see, I can't stay. And then, too, I must 
 go to school."
 
 ?* DORA DEANE. 
 
 Perfectly astonished at this fresh disclosure, Ella glanced 
 towards her husband, whose quizzical expression kept he/" 
 bilent, for it seemed to say, " I told you all the time, that 
 Miss Eugenia was not exactly what you supposed her 
 to be." 
 
 " How could she deceive me so ?" thought Ella, while Mi- 
 Hastings was mentally resolving to befriend the child, in 
 lyhcm he felt such a strong interest. 
 
 Wishing to know something of her education, he ques 
 tioned her during the evening concerning her studies, and 
 the books she had read, feeling surprised and pleased to find 
 how good a scholar she was, considering her advantages. 
 
 " There's the germ of a true, noble woman there. I wish 
 my sister could have the training of her," he thought, as he 
 saw how animated she became when he mentioned her 
 favorite books, and then watched her as she hovered round 
 the. bedside of his wife. 
 
 Very swiftly and pleasantly passed the three following 
 days, and during all that time Eugenia did not once appear; 
 but at the close of the fourth day, a note was brought to 
 Ella, saying that both Eugenia and her mother were sick, 
 and Dora must come home. 
 
 " Oh, how can I let you go ?" cried Ella, while Dora 
 crept away into a corner and wept. 
 
 But there was no alternative, and just at dark she came 
 to say, good bye. "Winding her feeble arms around her 
 iieck, Ella sobbed out her adieu, and then, burying her face 
 in her pillow, refused to be comforted. One kiss for the 
 little Fannie one farewell glance at the weeping Ella, and 
 then, with a heavy heart, Dora went put from a place where 
 she had been so happy went back to the home where no 
 one greeted her kindly, save the old house cat, who purred 
 a joyous welcome, and rubbed against her side as she
 
 DORA AT ROSE HILL. 7 
 
 kindled a fire in the dark, dreary kitchen, where, on the 
 table, were piles of dishes left for her to wash. That night, 
 when, at a late hour, she stole up to bed, the contrast 
 between her humble room and the cozy chamber where she 
 had recently slept, affected her painfully, and, mingled with 
 her nightly prayer, was the petition, that " sometimes she 
 might go back and live with Mr. Hastings !" 
 
 Meantime at Rose Hill there was sorrowing for her, Ella 
 refusing to be comforted unless she should return. Mr. Hast 
 ings, who had spent the day in the city, and did not come 
 home until evening, felt that something was wrong the 
 moment he entered the door of his chamber. The fire was 
 nearly out, the lamp was burning dimly, and Ella was in 
 tears. 
 
 " What is it, darling ?" he asked, advancing towards 
 her ; and laying her aching head upon his bosom, she told 
 him of her loss, and how much she missed the little' brown- 
 faced girl, who had been so kind to her. 
 
 And Howard Hastings missed her, too missed the tones 
 of her gentle voice, the soft tread of her busy feet, and 
 more than all, missed the sunlight of comfort she had shed 
 over his home. The baby, missed her, too; for over her 
 Dora had acquired an almost mesmeric influence, and until 
 midnight her wailing cry smote painfully upon the ear of 
 the father, who, before the morning dawned, had concluded 
 that Rose Hill was nothing without Dora Deane. " She 
 shall come back, too," he said, and the sooner to effect this, 
 he started immediately after breakfast for the house of 
 Mra. Dcane. Very joyfully the deep blue eyes of Dora, 
 who met him at the door, looked up into his, and her 
 bright face flushed with delight when he told her why he 
 had come. Both Eugenia and her mother were convalescent, 
 and sitting by the parlor fire, the one in a shilling calico, 
 
 4
 
 74 DORA DEANE. 
 
 and the other in a plaid silk morning gown. At first 
 Mrs. Deane objected, when she heard Mr. Hastings's errand, 
 eaying, with a sudden flash of pride, that " it was not 
 necessary for her niece to work out." 
 
 " And I assure you, it is not our intention to make a 
 servant of her," answered Mr. Hastings. " We could not do 
 otherwise than treat so near a relative of yours as an equal." 
 
 This last was well timed, and quite complacently Mrs. 
 Deane listened, while he told her that if Dora were allowed 
 to stay with them until his wife was better, she should be 
 well cared for, and he himself would superintend her studies, 
 so she should lose nothing by being out of school. " Come, 
 Miss Eugenia," he continued, " please intercede for me, and, 
 I assure you, both Ella and myself will be eternally grateful." 
 
 He had touched the right chord at last. Rumor said 
 that Ella Hastings would never see another summer, and if 
 before her death the husband was eternally grateful, what 
 would he not be after her death ? Then, too, but the day 
 before they had received a remittance from Uncle Nat, and 
 with that they could afford to hire a servant ; so, when 
 Eugenia spoke, it was in favor of letting " Mr. Hastings 
 have Dora just when he. wanted tier, if it would be any satis 
 faction to poor dear Ella !" 
 
 A while longer Mr. Hastings remained, and when at last 
 he arose to go, he was as sure that Dora Deane would 
 again gladden his home as he was next morning, when from 
 his library window he saw her come tripping up the walk, 
 her cheeks flushed with exercise, and her eyes sparkling 
 with joy, as, glancing upward, she saw him looking down 
 npon her. In after years, when Howard Hastings's cup was 
 full of blessings, he often referred to that morning, saying 
 " he had seldom experienced a moment of deeper thankful 
 ness than the one when he welcomed back again to h'? 
 fireside and his home the orphan Dora Deane."
 
 ELLA. 
 
 . CHAPTER X. 
 
 ELLA. 
 
 VKBY pleasantly to Dora did the remainder of the wintel 
 pass away. She was appreciated at last, and nothing could 
 exceed the kindness of both Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, the lat 
 ter of whom treated her more like a sister than a servant, 
 while even Eugenia, who came often to Rose Hill, and 
 whose fawning manner had partially restored her to the 
 good opinion of the fickle Ella, tried to treat her with a 
 show of affection, when she saw how much she was respected. 
 Regularly each day Dora went to the handsome library, 
 where she recited her lessons to Mr. Hastings, who became 
 deeply interested in watching the development of her fine, 
 intellectual mind. 
 
 One thing, however, troubled her. Ella did not improve 
 and never since Dora came to Rose Hill had she sat up 
 more than an hour, but lay all day on her bed, while her 
 face grew white almost as the wintry snow, save when a 
 bright red spot burned upon her cheeks, making her, aa 
 Dora thought, even more beautiful than she had been in 
 health. Once in the gathering twilight, when they sat 
 together alone, she startled Dora with the question, " la 
 everybody a f :aid to die ?" 
 
 " Mother ^as not," answered Dora, and Ella continued, 
 '* But she rt-as good, and I am not. I have never douo
 
 76 DORA DEANE. 
 
 a worthy act in all my life. Never thought of dtatk, 01 
 even looked upon it, for mother told us there was no need 
 of harrowing up our feelings it would come soon enough, 
 she said ; and to me, who hoped to live so long, it has come 
 too soon all too soon ;" and the hot tears rained through 
 the transparent fingers, clasped so convulsively over her 
 face. 
 
 For many weeks Dora had felt an undefined presentiment 
 of coming evil had seen it in Ella's failing health in the 
 increased tenderness of Mr. Hastings's manner, whenever he 
 bent over the pillow of his youug wife, or bore her in his 
 arms, as he sometimes did, to the window, that she might 
 look out upon the garden, and the winding walks which she 
 would never tread again. And now Ella herself had con 
 firmed it had spoken of death as something very near. 
 
 " Oh, she must not die I" was Dora's mental cry of 
 anguish, as moving nearer to the bedside she grasped the 
 little wasted hand which lay outside the counterpane, and 
 this was her only answer, for she could not speak. There 
 was a numbness at her heart, a choking sensation in her 
 ihroat, which prevented her utterance. But Ella understood 
 her, and returning the warm pressure, she continued, "You, 
 too, have seen it then, and know that I must die ; but oh ! 
 you do not know how I dread the Idnesome darkness of the 
 grave, or the world which lies beyond. If somebody would 
 go with me, or teach me the way, it wouldn't be so 
 hard." 
 
 Poor Ella 1 Her life had been one round of fashionable 
 folly, and now that the world was fading from her view, her 
 faiuting soul cried out for light to guide her through" the 
 shadowy valley her feet were soon to tread. And light 
 came at last, through the word of God and the teachings 
 of the faithful clergyman, who was sent for at her reqrest.
 
 ELLA. *7 
 
 and who came daily np to see her. There was no more fear 
 now no more terror of the narrow tomb, for there was Om 
 to go with her one whose arm was powerful to save ; and 
 on him Ella learned to lean, clinging still with an undying 
 love to her husband, with whom she often talked of the time 
 when he would be alone and she be far away. 
 
 " It is so hard to give you up," she said one day, when as 
 usual he was sitting by her side ; " so hard to say good bye 
 forever, and know that though you will miss me at first, and 
 mourn for me too, there will come a time when another will 
 take my place another than Ella can call you hers ; but I 
 am willing," she continued, as she saw him about to speak, 
 " willing that it should be so. I have loved yon, Howard, 
 more than you can know, or I can ever tell ; but I am not 
 worthy of you. I do not satisfy the higher feelings of your 
 heart ; I am not what your wife should be, and for this 
 I must die. Many a night, when you were sleeping at ray 
 side, have I laiu awake, asking myself why 7, to whom the 
 world was so beautiful and bright, must leave it so soon ; 
 and as I thought over the events of our short married life, 
 the answer came to me, ' I cannot make you happy as you 
 ought to be, and for your sake I am taken away.' " 
 
 " Oh, Ella, 'Ella 1" groaned Mr. Hastings, laying his head 
 beside hers, upon the pillow. 
 
 From his inmost soul he knew that what she said was 
 true ; but for this he would not that she should die. She 
 had been to him a gentle, loving wife ; the one be had chosen 
 from all others to share his home ; and though he had failed 
 to find in her the companion he had sought, she was very 
 dear to him was the mother of his child ; and the strong 
 man's heart was full of anguish as he thought of giving her 
 np so soon. Who would comfort him when she was gone, 
 or speak to him words of love ?
 
 78 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Softly the chamber door unclosed, and Dora Deane looke,] 
 in; but seeing them thus together, she stole away into the 
 garden, where the early spring grass was just starting into 
 life, and there, weeping bitterly, she too prayed that Ella 
 might not die. But neither tears nor prayers were of avail 
 to save her. Still, for weeks she lingered, and the soft June 
 air, stealing in through the open window, had more than 
 once lifted the golden curls from off her fading brow, and 
 more than one bouquet of sweet wild blossoms had beeu 
 laid upon her pillow, ere the midnight hour, when, with an 
 guish at their hearts, Howard Hastings and Dora Deane 
 watched together by her side, and knew that she was dying. 
 There had been long, dreary nights of wakefulness, and the 
 worn-out sufferer had asked at last that she might die 
 might sleep the dreamless sleep from which she would never 
 waken. And Howard Hastings, as night after night went 
 by, and the laughing blue eyes which had won his early love 
 grew dim with constant waking, had felt that it would be 
 better when his loved one was at rest. But death, however 
 long expected, is sudden at the last, and so it was to him, 
 when he saw the shadow creeping over her face, which 
 cometh once to all. She would not suffer them to rouse the 
 household, she would rather die with them alone, she said, 
 with Dora standing near, and her husband's arms about her, 
 BO that the tones of his voice should be the last sound which 
 would fall upon her ear, and Dora's hand the last to minis 
 ter to her wants. 
 
 " I have loved you so much, Howard, oh, so much !" and 
 th: white clammy fingers, so soon to be laid away beneath 
 the summer flowers, strayed lovingly through the raven 
 locks of her husband, who could answer only with his tears, 
 which fell fast upon her face. " And you too, Dora," she 
 continued, motioning the weeping girl to advance, " I have
 
 ELLA. n 
 
 loved you too, for you have been kind to me, and when I 
 am gone, you will live here still and care for my child, 
 whom we have called Fannie. It is a beautiful name, Dora 
 your mother's name, and for your sake, I would fain let 
 her keep it but," turning to Mr. Hastings, and laying her 
 hand caressingly upon his head, " when I no longer UTC, I 
 would rather you should call my baby Ella Grey ; and if, 
 my husband " here she paused to gather strength for what 
 she was about to say, and after a moment continued, " if in 
 coming years, another sits beside you in my chair, and the 
 voices of other children shall call you father, you will not 
 forget your first-born, I know, but will love her better, and 
 think, perchance, the oftener of me, if she bears my name ; 
 for however truly you may hereafter love, it was Ella Grey 
 that won your first affection. 
 
 Again she paused, and there was no sound heard in the 
 chamber of death, save the sobs of those about to be be 
 reaved, and the faint rustling of the leaves without, which 
 were gently moved by the night wind. 
 
 " Bring me my baby," she said at last; and Dora laid the 
 sleeping child in the arms of the young mother, who, clasp 
 ing it fondly to her bosom, breathed over it a dying mother's 
 blessing, and with a dying mother's tears baptized it Ella 
 Grey. 
 
 There was a long, deep silence then, and when at last 
 Howard Hastings lifted up his head from the pillow where 
 it had been resting, and Dora Deane came timidly to hia 
 gide, they gazed toge; her on the face of the sweetly sleeping 
 lead
 
 DORA DKANE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 ELLA HASTINGS was dead. The deep-toued bell pro 
 claimed it to the people of Duuwood, who, counting the 
 nineteen strokes, sighed that one so young should die. The 
 telegraphic wires carried it to her childhood's home, in the 
 far-off city ; and while her tears were dropping fast for the 
 first dead of her children, the fashionable mother did not 
 forget to have her mourning in the most expensive and be 
 coming style. The servants in the kitchen whispered it one 
 to the other, treading softly and speaking low, as if aught 
 could disturb the slumber of her who lay so motionless and 
 still, unmindful of the balmy summer air which kissed her 
 marble cheek. The grief-stricken husband repeated it again 
 and again as he sat by her side in the darkened room ; and 
 only they who have felt it, can know with what a crushing 
 weight they fell upon his heart, the three words " She ia 
 dead !" 
 
 Yes, Ella was dead, and Eugenia Deane, with hypocriti 
 cul tears upon her cheek, gathered fresh, white rose-buds, 
 and twining them in the golden curls which shaded the face 
 of the beautiful dead, dared even there to think that IIoMo> 
 ard Hastings was free ; and as she saw the silent grief of 
 the stricken man, who, with his head upon the table, sat 
 hour after hour, unmindful of the many who came to look on
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 8\ 
 
 what had been his wife, her lip curled with scorn, and she 
 marvelled that one so frivolous as Ella should' be so deeply 
 mourned. Once she ventured to speak, asking him some 
 trivial thing concerning the arrangement of affairs, and with 
 out looking up, he answered, " Do as you like, until her mo 
 ther comes. She will be here to-morrow." 
 
 So, for the remainder of the day, Eugenia flitted from the 
 parlor to the chamber of death, from the chamber of death 
 to the kitchen, and from the kitchen back again to the par 
 lor, ordering the servants, admitting visitors, and between 
 times scolding Dora for " being so foolish as to cry herself 
 sick for a person who, of course, cared nothing for her, ex 
 cept as a waiter 1" 
 
 Since the night of her mother's death, Dora's heart had 
 not been half so sore with pain. The girlish Ella had been 
 very dear to her, and the tears she shed were genuine. To 
 no one else would the baby go, and after dinner was over, 
 the dinner at which Eugenia presided, and of which Mr. 
 Hastings could not be induced to partake, she went into 
 the garden with her little charge, seating herself in a pleasant 
 summer-house, which had been Ella's favorite resort. It 
 was a warm, drowsy afternoon, and at last, worn out with 
 weeping, and the fatigue of the last night's watching, she 
 fell asleep, as the baby had done before. Not long had 
 she sat thus, when Mr. Hastings, too, came down the 
 gravelled walk, and stood at the arbor door. The constant 
 bustling in and out of Eugenia annoyed him, and wishing to 
 be alone, he had come out into the open air, which he felt 
 would do him good. When his eye fell on Dora, who waa 
 oo soundly sleeping to be easily aroused, he murmured, 
 " Poor child 1 she is wearied with so many wakeful nights;" 
 then, fearing lest the slender arms should relax their hold 
 and drop the babe, he took it gently from her, and folding 
 
 4*
 
 A3 DOHA DEANE. 
 
 it to his bosom, sat down by her side, so that her drooping 
 head could rest upon his shoulder. 
 
 For two long hours she slept, and it was not until the 
 baby's waxen fingers gave a vigorous pull to her short, thick 
 hair, that she awoke, feeling greatly surprised when she 
 Baw Mr. Hastings sitting near. 
 
 " 1 found you asleep," he said, by way of explanation, 
 " and knowing how tired you were, I gave you my arm for 
 a pillow;" then, as the baby wished to go to her, he gave it 
 up, himself going slowly back to the lonesome house, from 
 which Ella was gone forever. 
 
 The next morning, the mother and her three youngest 
 daughters, all draped in deepest black, arrived at Rose 
 Hill, prepared to find fault with everything which savored 
 at all of the " horrid country." Even Eugenia sank into 
 nonenity in the presence of the cold, city-bred woman, who 
 ignored her existence entirely, notwithstanding that she 
 loudly and repeatedly expressed so much affection for the 
 deceased. 
 
 " Perhaps your daughter wrote to you of me (Miss Deane); 
 we were great friends," she said, when they stood together 
 in the presence of the dead, and Mrs. Grey's emotions hat? 
 somewhat subsided. 
 
 " Possibly; but I never remember names," returned the 
 haughty lady, without raising her eyes. 
 
 " There are so few people here with whom she could be 
 intimate," continued Eugenia, " that I saw a great deal of 
 her." 
 
 But to this Mrs. Grey made no reply, except to ask, 
 " Whose idea was it dressing Ella in this plain muslin wrap 
 per, when she has so many handsome dresses ? But it don't 
 matter," she continued, as Eugenia was about to disclaim 
 all participation in that affair. " It don't matter, for no
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 81 
 
 one here appreciates anything better, I dare say, Whtre'a 
 the baby ? I haven't seen that yet," she asked, as they 
 were descending the stairs. 
 
 " She's with Dora, I presume," answered Eugenia; &nd 
 Mrs. Grey continued 
 
 " Oh, the nurse girl, whom Ella wrote so much about 
 Send her in." 
 
 But Eugenia was not one to obey orders so peremptorily 
 given, and, for a long time, Madam Grey and her three 
 daughters waited the appearance of the nurse girl, who, not 
 knowing that they were in the parlor, entered it at last, of 
 her own accord, and stood before them with such a quiet, 
 self-possessed dignity, that even Mrs. Grey treated her with 
 far more respect than she had the assuming Eugenia, whose 
 rule, for the time being, was at an end. Everything had 
 been done wrong; and when Mr. Hastings spoke of having 
 Ella buried at the foot of the spacious garden, in a quiet, 
 grassy spot, where trees of evergreen were growing, she 
 held up her hands in amazement at the idea that her daugh 
 ter should rest elsewhere than in the fashionable precincts 
 of Greenwood. So Mr. Hastings yielded, and on the morn 
 ing of the third day, Dora watched with blinding tears the 
 long procession winding slowly down the avenue, and out 
 into the highway towards the village depot, where the 
 shrieking of the engine, and the rattling of the car bell 
 would be the only requiem tolled for Ella Hastings, as she 
 was borne rapidly away from a spot which had been her 
 home for one brief year. 
 
 The little Ella was in Dora's arms, and as she, too, saw 
 the handsome steeds and moving carriages, she laughed 
 aloud, and patted the window-pane with her tiny baby 
 hands. Dear little one I she did not know would never 
 know, how much she was bereaved; but Dora knew, and
 
 64 DOHA DEANE. 
 
 her tears fell all the faster when she thought that she, too, 
 must leave her, for her aunt had said to Mr. Hastings, that 
 after the funeral Dora must go home, adding, that Mrs. 
 Leah would take care of Ella until his return. So, when 
 the hum of voices and the tread of feet had ceased, when 
 the shutters were closed and the curtains dropped, Eugenia 
 came for her to go, while Mrs. Leah came to take the child, 
 who refused to leave Dora, clinging so obstinately to her 
 neck, and crying so pitifully, that even Eugenia was touched, 
 arid bade her cousin remain until Mr. Hastings came home. 
 So Dora staid, and the timid servants, as they sat together 
 in the shadowy twilight, felt not half so lonely when they 
 heard her gentle voice singing the motherless babe to sleep.
 
 WAYS AND MEANS. Bft 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WAY S AND MEANS. 
 
 WITH all the showy parade and empty pomp of a fasH- 
 ionable city funeral, Ella was laid to rest in Greenwood, 
 and, in their darkened parlor, arrayed in the latest style of 
 mourning, the mother and sisters received the sympathy of 
 their friends, who hoped they would. try to be reconciled, 
 and were so sorry they could not now go to the Springs, as 
 usual. In another parlor, too, far more elegant but less 
 showy than that of Mrs. Grey, another mother wept for her 
 only son, speaking to him blessed words of comfort in his 
 bereavement, and telling him of the better world, where 
 again he would meet the loved and lost. Once she ventured 
 to hope that he would come back again to her fireside, now 
 that his was desolate, but he refused. Rose Hill henceforth 
 would be his home, and though it was lonely and drear, he 
 must in a few days go back to it ; for the sake of the little 
 one, doubly dear to him now that its mother was gone. Oh, 
 how sad was that journey back, and what a sense of deso 
 lation came over him, as he drew near his home, and knew 
 that Ella was not there ! that never more would she come 
 forth to meet him never again would her little feet stray 
 through the winding walks, or her fairy fingers pluck the 
 flowers she had loved so well. 
 
 It was near the first of July. The day had been rainy.
 
 S DORA DEANE. 
 
 and the evening was dark and cold. Wet, chilly, and for 
 lorn, he entered the hall and ascended the stairs, but he 
 could not that night go to the old room and find it empty ; 
 and he was passing on to his library, wheu the sound of 
 gomo one singing made him pause, while a thrill of joy ran 
 through his veins, for he knew that childish voice, knew it 
 was Dora Deane singing to his child. Another moment arid 
 he stood within the room where Ella had died. All traces 
 of sickness and death had been removed, and everything 
 was in perfect order. Vases of flowers adorned the mantel 
 and the stands, seeming little out of place with the rain 
 which beat against the window, and the fire which burned 
 within the grate. In her crib lay Fannie, and sitting near 
 was Dora Deane, her rich auburn hair combed smoothly 
 back, and the great kindness of her heart shining out from 
 the depths of her clear blue eyes. 
 
 There are people whose very presence brings with it a 
 feeling of comfort, and such a one was Dora. Mr. Hast 
 ings had not expected to find her there ; and the sight of 
 her bright face, though it did not remove the heavy pain 
 from his heart, took from him the sense of utter dcsolatioi^ 
 the feeling of being alone in his sorrow. 
 
 " Dora," he exclaimed, coming to her side, " I did not 
 expect this ! How happened you to stay ?" 
 
 " The baby cried so hard," answered Dora, " that Eugenie 
 told me I might remain until your return." 
 
 " It was very kind and thoughtful in her, and I thank her 
 very much. Will you tell her so ?" he said, involuntarily 
 kying his hand on Dora's head. 
 
 Divesting himself at last of his damp overcoat, and 
 donning the warm dressing gown, which Dora brought him, 
 he sat down before the fire, and listened while she told him 
 bow she had staid in that room and kept it in order for him,
 
 WAYS AND MEANS. 81 
 
 because she thought it would not seem half so bad to him 
 jf he came into it at once aud found it comparatively 
 pleasant. 
 
 " You are a very thoughtful girl," he said, when she had 
 finished, " and I hope I shall some time repay you for your 
 kindness to myself and Ella." 
 
 Bat Dora did not wish for any pay, and at the mention 
 of Ella's name her tears burst forth afresh. The next morn 
 ing, when news of Mr. Hastings's return was received at 
 Locust Grove, Eugenia at once suggested that Dora be sent 
 for immediately. " It did not look well," she said, " for a 
 good sized girl, fourteen and a half years of age, to be 
 staying in the same house with a widower. Folks would 
 talk 1" 
 
 And growing suddenly very careful of her cousin's repu 
 tation, she dispatched a note to Rose Hill, requesting her 
 immediate return. Not that she really thought there would 
 be any impropriety in Dora's staying with Mr. Hastings, but 
 because she had a plan by which she hoped herself to seo 
 him every day. And in this plan she succeeded. As she 
 had expected, her note brought down Mr. Hastings himself, 
 who, on his child's account, objected to parting with Dora, 
 unless it were absolutely necessary. 
 
 " She is as well off jthere as here," said he ; " aud why 
 can't she stay ?" 
 
 " I arn perfectly willing she should take care of little 
 Ella," answered the previously instructed Mrs. Deane, who, 
 in a measure, shared her daughter's ambitious designs; " but 
 it must be done here, if at all. I can't suffer her to remaiu 
 alone with those gossiping servants." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" exclaimed Eugenia, speaking as if this were the 
 first she had heard of it. " That is a good idea. It will be 
 delightful to have the dear little creature here, and so much
 
 68 DORA. DEANE. 
 
 better for her too in case of croup, or anything like that, to 
 be with an experienced person like mother 1" 
 
 " But," said Mr. Hastings, " this would keep Dora 
 entirely from her studies, and that ought not to be." 
 
 ' It need not," hastily interrupted Eugenia. " She can 
 go to school every day, for nothing will give me greater 
 pleasure than to take care of our dear Ella's child ;" and 
 the pocket-handkerchief went up to her face to conceal 
 the tears which might have been there, but probably were 
 not. 
 
 It was finally arranged, and in the course of a few days 
 the parlor of Locust Grove was echoing sometimes to the 
 laughter, and sometimes to the screaming of Little Ella 
 Grey, who, from some unaccountable freak of babyhood, 
 conceived a violent fancy for Eugenia, to whom she would 
 go quite as readily as to Dora, whose daily absence at 
 school she at last did not mind. Regularly each day, and 
 sometimes twice a day, Mr. Hastings came down to Locust 
 Grove, and his manner was very kind toward Eugenia, when 
 he found her, as he often did, with his baby sleeping in her 
 arms. He did not know how many times, at his approach, it 
 was snatched from the cradle by Eugenia, who, in reality, wa? 
 not remarkably fond of baby-tending, and who, in the absence 
 of the father, left the child almost wholly to the care of her 
 mother and sister. Management, however, was everything, 
 and fancying she had found the shortest avenue to Mr, 
 Hastings's heart, she, in his presence, fondled, and petted, 
 and played with his child, taking care occasionally to hint 
 of neglect on the part of Dora, whom he now seldom saw, 
 as, at the hour of his calling, she was generally in school. 
 It was by such means as this, that Eugenia sought to 
 increase Mr. Hastings's regard for herself, and, in a measure, 
 Bhe succeeded; for though his respect for Dora wa? undunin
 
 WAYS AND MEANS. 8 
 
 Ished, he could not conceal from himself the fact that 
 Eugenia was very agreeable, very interesting, and very kind 
 to kis daughter ! 
 
 As the autumn advanced, and the cold rainy weather 
 prer.ln,i?d out-door exercise, it was but natural that he 
 should spend much of his time at Locust Grove, where hia 
 tastes were carefully studied, bis favorite books read, and 
 his favorite authors discussed, while Eugenia's handsome 
 black eyes smiled a welcome when he came, and drooped 
 pensively beneath her long eyelashes when he went away. 
 Thus the autumn and the winter passed, and when the 
 spring had come, the village of Dunwood was rife with 
 rumors concerning the attraction which drew Mr. Hastings 
 so often to Locust Grove ; some sincerely pitying him if, 
 indeed, he entertained a serious thought of making Eugenia 
 Deane his wife, while others severely censured him for having 
 so soon forgotten one whose grave had not been made a 
 twelvemonth. But he had not forgotten, and almost every 
 hour of his life was her loved name upon his lips, and the 
 long golden tress his own hand had severed from her head 
 was guarded as his choicest treasure, while the dark hours 
 of the night bore witness to his lonely grief. And it was to 
 escape this loneliness to forget for a brief time the sad 
 memories of the past that he went so often to Locust 
 Grove, where as yet his child was the greater attraction, 
 though he could not be insensible to the charms of Eugenia, 
 who spared no pains to interest him in herself. 
 
 lie was passionately fond of music, and many an hour 
 eha sat patiently at the piano, seeking to perfect herself in 
 a difficult piece, with which she thought to surprise him. 
 But nothing, however admirably executed, could sound weli 
 upon her old-fashioned instrument, and how to procure a 
 new one was the daily subject of her meditations. Occa-
 
 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Eioually, as she remembered the beautiful rosewood piano 
 standing useless and untouched in the parlors of Rose Hill, 
 something whispered her to " wait and it would yet be hers." 
 But this did not satisfy her present desire, for aside from 
 the sweet sounds, with which she hoped to entrance Mr. 
 Hastings, was the wish to make him think them much 
 wealthier than they were. From one or two circumstances, 
 she had gathered the impression that he thought them poor, 
 and, judging him by herself, she fancied her chances for 
 becoming Mrs. Hastings 2d, would be greatly increased if 
 by any means he could be made to believe her comparatively 
 rich. As one means of effecting this, she must and would 
 have a new piano, costing not less than four hundred dol* 
 lars. But how to procure the money was the question ; the 
 remittance from Uncle Nat, which had come on the first day 
 of January, was already half gone, and she could not, as 
 she had once done before, make Dora's head keep her out of 
 the difficulty. At last, a new idea suggested itself, and 
 springing to her feet she exclaimed aloud, for she was alone, 
 " I have it ; strange I didn't think of that before. I'll write 
 to the old man, and tell him that as Dora is now fifteen, we 
 would gladly send her away to school, if we had the means, 
 bat our expenses are so great it is impossible, unless the 
 money comes from him. And he'll do it too, the old miser 1 
 for in his first letter he said he would increase the allow 
 ance as Dora grew older." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, she drew out her writing- 
 desk, and commenced a letter to her "dearest Uncle 
 Nathaniel," feelingly describing to him their straitened 
 circumstances, and the efforts of herself and her sister to 
 keep the family in necessaries, which they were enabled to do 
 very comfortably with the addition of the allowance he so 
 generously sent them every year. But they wished now to
 
 WAYS AND MEANS. 91 
 
 Bend Dora to school, to see if anything could be made of 
 her ! She had improved latterly, and they really hoped a 
 change of scene would benefit her. For Dora's sake, then, 
 would " her dear uncle be so kind as to send them, on the 
 receipt of that letter, such a sum as he thought best. If 
 BO, he would greatly oblige his loving niece." 
 
 " There I That will do," she said, leaning back in her 
 chair, and laughing as she thought what her mother and 
 Alice would say, if they knew what she had done. " But 
 they needn't know it," she continued aloud, " until the money 
 comes, and then they can't help themselves." 
 
 Then it occurred to her that if Dora herself were to send 
 some message, the coming of the money might be surer ; 
 and calling her cousin into the room, she said : 
 
 " I am about writing to old Uncle Nat have you any 
 word or anything to send him ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," answered Dora. " Give him my love, and tell 
 him how much I wish he would come home and stay !" she 
 added, leaving the room, and soon returning with a lock of 
 soft brown hair, which she laid upon the table. " Give him 
 that, and tell him it was mother's." 
 
 Had a serpent started suddenly into life before Eugenia, 
 she could not have turned whiter than she did at the sight 
 of that hair. It brought vividly to mind the shadowy twilight, 
 the darkness in the corners, and the terror which came over 
 her on that memorable night, when she had thought to steal 
 Dora's treasure. Soon recovering her composure, however, 
 she motioned her cousin from the room, and, resuming her 
 pen, said to herself, " I sha'u't write all that nonsense about 
 bis coming home, for nobody wants him here ; but the lovt 
 and the hair may as well go." 
 
 Then, as she saw how much of the latter Dora had 
 brought, she continued, " There's no need of sending all this
 
 P2 DORA DEANE. 
 
 It would make beautiful Lair ornaments, and I mean to 
 keep a part of it ; Dora won't care, of course, and I shall 
 tell her." 
 
 Dividing off a portion of the hair for her own use, she 
 laid it aside, and then in a postscript wrote, " Dora sends"- 
 here she paused ; and thinking that " Dora's love " would 
 please the old man too much, and possibly give him too 
 favorable an opinion of his niece, she crossed out the 
 "sends," and wrote, "Dora wishes to be remembered to 
 you, and sends for your acceptance a lock of her mother's 
 hair." 
 
 Thus was the letter finished, and the next mail which left 
 Dunwood bore it on its way to India, Eugenia little think 
 ing how much it would influence her whole future life.
 
 UNCIJ: NAT. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 UNCLE NAT 
 
 IT was a glorious moonlight night, and, like gleams of 
 barnished silver, the moonbeams flashed from the lofty 
 domes and minarets of Calcutta, or shone like sparkling 
 gems on the sleeping waters of the bay. It was a night 
 when the Hindoo lover told his tale to the dusky maiden at 
 his side, and the soldier, wearing the scarlet uniform, talked 
 to his blue-eyed bride of the home across the waters, which 
 she had left to be with him. 
 
 On this night, too, an old man in his silent room, sat 
 thinking of his home far beyond the shores of " Merrie Eng 
 land." Near him lay a letter, Eugenia's letter, which was 
 just received. He had not opened it yet, for the sight of 
 it had carried him back across the Atlantic wave, and 
 again he saw, in fancy, the granite hills which had girded 
 his childhood's home the rock where he had played the 
 tree where he had carved his name, and the rushing moun 
 tain stream, which ran so swiftly past the red house in the 
 valley the home where he was born, and where had come 
 to him the heart grief which had made him the strange, 
 eccentric being he was. Thoughts of the dead were with 
 him, too, to-night, and with his face buried in his broad, 
 rough hands, he thought of her, whose winsome smile and 
 gentle ways had woven around his heart a mighty and
 
 94 DOHA DEANK. 
 
 undying love, such as few men ever felt. Of Dora, too, he 
 thought Dora, whom he had never seen, and his heart 
 yearned towards her with a deep tenderness, because his 
 Fannie had been her mother. 
 
 " I should love her, I know," he said, " even though she 
 were cold-hearted and stupid as they say ;" then, as he 
 remembered the letter, he continued, " I will open it, for it 
 may have tidings of the child." 
 
 The seal was broken, the letter unfolded, and a tress of 
 shining hair dropped on the old man's hand, clinging lov 
 ingly, as it were, about his fingers, while a low, deep cry 
 broke the stillness of the room. He knew it in a moment 
 knew it was Fannies hair the same he had so oft caressed 
 when she was but a little girl and he a grown-up man. It 
 was Fannie's hair, come to him over laud and sea, and his 
 eyes grew dim with tears, which rained over his thin, dark 
 face as he kissed again and again the precious boon, dearer 
 far to him than the golden ore of India. " Fannie's hair !" 
 rery softly he repeated the words, holding it up to the 
 moonlight, and then turning it toward the lamp, as if to 
 assure himself that he really had it in his possession. 
 " Why was it never sent before ?" he said at last, " or 
 why was it sent at all ?" and taking up the letter, he read 
 it through, lingering long over the postscript, and grieving 
 that Dora's message, the first he had ever received, should 
 be comparatively so cold. 
 
 " Why couldn't she have sent her love to her poor old 
 uncle, who has nothing in the wide, wide world to love save 
 this one lock of hair 1 God bless you, Dora Deane, for 
 Bending that," and again he raised it to his lips, saying as 
 he did so, " And she shall have the money, too, aye, more 
 than Eugenia asked ; one, golden dollar for every golden hair, 
 will be a meet return 1" And the old man laughed aloud al
 
 UNCLE NAT. 98 
 
 the novel idea, which no one but himself would have con 
 ceived. 
 
 It was a long, weary task, the counting of those hairs ; 
 for more than once, when he paused in his work to think of 
 her whose head they once adorned, he forgot how many 
 had been told, and patiently began again, watching care 
 fully, through blinding tears, to see that none were lost, for 
 he would not that one should escape him. It was strange 
 how childish the strong man became, counting those threads 
 of hair ; and when at last the Jabor was completed, he 
 wept because there were no more. Fifteen hundred dollars 
 seemed too small a sum to pay for what would give him so 
 much joy ; and he, mourned that the tresj> had not been 
 larger, quite as much as did Eugenia, when she heard of 
 his odd fancy. 
 
 The moon had long since ceased to shine on the sleeping 
 city, and day was breaking in the east, ere Nathaniel 
 Deane arose from the table where he had sat the livelong 
 night, gloating over his treasure, and writing a letter which 
 now lay upon the table. It was addressed to Dora, and in 
 it he told her what he had done, blessing her for sending 
 him that lock of hair, and saying that the sight of it made 
 his withered heart grow young and green again, as it waa 
 in the happy days when he so madly loved her mother. 
 Then he told her how he yearned to behold her, to look 
 upon her face and see which she was like, her father or 
 her mother. Both were very dear to him, and for their 
 sake he loved their child. 
 
 " No one will ever call me father , n he wrote, " and I am 
 knely in my Indian home, lined all over, as it is, with gold, 
 and sometimes, Dora, since I have heard of you, orphaned 
 thus early, I have thought I would return to A.merica, and 
 seeking out some pleasant spot, would build a home for
 
 96 DORA DEANE. 
 
 you and me. And this I would do, were I sure that I wap 
 wanted there that you would be happier with me than 
 with your aunt and cousins. Are they kind to you, my 
 child ? Sometimes, in my reveries, I have fancied they 
 if ere not have dreamed of a girlish face, with locks like 
 that against which my old heart is beating, and eyes of deep 
 dark blue, looking wistfully at me, across the waste of 
 waters, and telling me of cruel neglect and indifference. 
 Were this indeed so, not all India would keep me a moment 
 from your side. 
 
 " Write to me, Dora and tell me of yourself, that I may 
 judge something of your character. Tell me, too, if you 
 ever think of the lonesome old man, who, each night of his 
 life, remembers you it his prayers, asking that if on earth 
 he may never look on Fannies child, he may at last meet 
 and know her in the better land. And now farewell, my 
 daughter, mine by adoption, if from no other cause. 
 
 " Write to me soon, and tell me if at home there is one 
 who would kindly welcome back 
 
 " Your rough old 
 
 "UNCLE NAT." 
 
 "She'll answer that," the old man said, as he read it 
 over. "She'll tell me to come home," and, like a very 
 child, his heart bounded with joy as he thought of breath 
 ing again the air of the western world. 
 
 The letter was sent, and with it we, too, will return to 
 America, and going backward for a little, take up our story 
 t a period three months subsequent to the time when Eu 
 genia wrote to Uncle Nat.
 
 MANAGEMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MANAGEMENT. 
 
 ONE year had passed away since the night wnen Ella 
 Hastings died, and alone in his chamber the husband was 
 musing of the past, and holding, as it were, communion with 
 the departed, who seemed this night to be so near that once 
 he said aloud, " Ella, are you with me now ?" But to his 
 call there came no answer, save the falling of the summer 
 rain ; and again, with his face upon the pillow, just as it 
 had lain one year ago, he asked himself if to the memory of 
 the dead he had thus long been faithful ; if no thought of 
 another had mingled with his love for her ; and was it to 
 ascertain this that she had come back to him to-night, for 
 he felt that she was there, and again he spoke aloud, " I 
 have not forgotten you, darling ; but I ara lonesome, oh, so 
 lonesome, and the world looks dark and drear. Lay your 
 hand upor my heart, dear Ella, and you will feel its weight 
 of pain." 
 
 But why that sudden lifting of the head, as if a spirit 
 hand had indeed touched him with its icy fingers ? Howard 
 Hastii.gs was not afraid of the dead, and it was not this 
 which made him start so nervously to his feet. His ear had 
 caught the sound of a light footstep in the hall below, and 
 coming at that hour of a stormy night, it startled him, for 
 he remembered that the outer door had been left unlocked 
 
 5
 
 98 DORA DEANS. 
 
 Nearer and nearer it came, up the winding stairs, and on 
 through the silent hall, until it reached the threshold of his 
 chamber, where it ceased, while a low voice spoke his 
 name. 
 
 In an instant he was at the door, standing face to face 
 with Dora Deane, whose head was uncovered, and whos 
 hair was drenched with the rain. 
 
 "Dora," he exclaimed, "how came you here and where 
 fore have you come ?" 
 
 " Your child 1" was her only answer, and in another mo 
 ment he, too, was out in the storm with Dora Deane, whose 
 hand he involuntarily took in his, as if to shield her from 
 the darkness. 
 
 In a few words she told him how she had been aroused 
 from her sleep by her aunt, who said the baby was dying 
 with the croup ; that the servant was timid and refused to 
 go either for him or the physician, and so she had come 
 herself. 
 
 " And were you not afraid ?" he asked ; and the heroic 
 girl answered, " No ; I fancied Ella was with me, cheering 
 me on, and I felt no fear." 
 
 Mr. Hastings made no reply, but, when he reached the 
 house, and saw the white, waxen face of the child, he felt 
 that Ella had indeed been near to him that night ; that she 
 had come for her little one, who, with a faint, moaning cry, 
 etretched its hands towards Dora, as she entered the room. 
 And Dora took it in her arms, holding it lovingly there, 
 until the last painful struggle was over, and the father, 
 standing near, knew that wife and child had met together 
 in heaven. 
 
 \t the foot of the garden, beneath the evergreens, where 
 he had wished to lay his other Ella, they buried the little 
 girl, and then Howard Hastings was, indeed, alone in the
 
 MANAGEMENT. 99 
 
 World alone in lus great house, which seemed doubly deso 
 late now that all were gone. For many weeks he did not 
 go to Locust Grove, but remained in his quiet rooms, brood 
 ing over his grief, and going often to the little grave be 
 neath the evergreens. There, once, at the hour of sunset, 
 lie found Eugenia Deane planting flowers above his sleeping 
 child ! She had marvelled much that he staid so long 
 away, and learning that the sunset hour was always spent 
 in the garden, she had devised a plan for meeting him. It 
 succeeded, and with well-feigned embarrassment she was 
 hurrying away, when he detained her, bidding her tarry 
 while he told her how much he thanked her for her kindness 
 to his child. 
 
 " I have wished to come to Locust Grove," he said, " and 
 thank you all, but I could not, for there is now no baby 
 face to greet me." 
 
 " But there are those there still who would welcome you 
 with pleasure," softly answered Eugenia ; and then with 
 her dark eyes sometimes on the ground and sometimes look 
 ing very pityingly on him, she acted the part of a consoler, 
 telling him how much better it was for the child to be at 
 rest with its mother. 
 
 And while she talked, darkness fell upon them, so that 
 Howard Hastings could not see the look of triumph which 
 the dark eyes wore when he said, " You must not go home 
 alone, Miss Deane. Let me accompany you." 
 
 So the two went together very slowly down the long 
 avenue, and when over an imaginary stone the fair Eugenia 
 stumbled, the arm of Howard Hastings was offered for her 
 support, and then more slowly still they continued on their 
 way. From that time Mr. Hastings was often at Eugenia's 
 side, and before the autumn was gone, he had more than 
 once been told she was to be his wife. And each time that
 
 400 DORA DEAXE. 
 
 he Iieard it, it affected him less painfully, until at last he 
 himself began to wonder how it were possible for him ever 
 to have disliked and distrusted a person so amiable, so intel 
 ligent and so agreeable as Eugenia Deane ! Still he could 
 never quite satisfy himself that he loved her, for there was 
 omethiug which always came up before him whenever he 
 Beriously thought of making her his wife. This something 
 he could not define, but when, as he sometimes did, he 
 fancied Eugenia the mistress of his house, there was always 
 in the background the form of Dora Deane, gliding noise 
 lessly about him, as she did that night when first she came 
 to Rose Hill. He saw but little of her now, for whenever 
 he called, Eugenia managed to keep from the room both 
 mother, sister and cousin, choosing to be alone with the 
 handsome widower, who lingered late and lingered long, 
 dreading a return to his lonely home. 
 
 Eugenia was now daily expecting an answer to her letter, 
 and feeling sure that it would bring the money, she began 
 to talk to Mr. Hastings of her new piano, playfully remark 
 ing, that as he was a connoisseur in such matters, she be 
 lieved she should call on him to aid in her selection ; and 
 this he promised to do, thinking the while of the unused 
 instrument in his deserted parlor, and feeling strongly 
 tempted to offer her its use. Thus the weeks passed on, 
 while Eugenia became more and more impatient for the letter. 
 
 " It is an age since I had anything from the post-office. 
 I wish you'd call and inquire," she said to Dora one after 
 noon, as she saw her preparing to go out. 
 
 Scarcely was she gone, however, when, remembering some 
 thing which she wanted, and, thinking she might possiblv 
 meet with Mr. Hastings, she started for the village herself! 
 reaching the office door just as Dora, accompanied by Mr 
 Hastings, was crossing the street in the same lirection.
 
 MANAGEMENT. 101 
 
 " I shan't have to go in now," said Dora ; and, fancying 
 her companion would prefer waiting for her cousin to walk 
 ing with her, she passed on, all unconscious of what she had 
 lost by being a minute too late. 
 
 " A letter from Uncle Nat directed to Dora, too 1" and 
 Eugenia grew alternately red and white, as, crushing the 
 missive into her pocket, she went out into the street, where 
 she was joined by Mr. Hastings. 
 
 "Dora left me rather unceremoniously," said he, as he 
 bade her good evening, " and so I waited to walk with 
 you." 
 
 But Eugenia could not appear natural, so anxious was she 
 to know what the letter contained. Up to the very gate 
 Mr. Hastings went, but for once she did not ask him to 
 stop ; and he turned away, wondering at her manner, and 
 feeling a little piqued at her unusual coolness. Hastening 
 to her chamber, and crouching near the window, Eugenia 
 tore open Dora's letter, and clutching eagerly at the draft, 
 almost screamed with delight when she saw the amount. 
 FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS ! She could scarcely believe her 
 senses ; and drawing still nearer the window, for the day 
 light was fading fast, she sought for the reasou of this 
 unexpected generosity. But the old man's childish fancy, 
 which would have touched a heart less hard than hers, 
 aroused only her deepest ire not because he had counted 
 out the hairs, but because there had not been more to 
 count. Bounding to her feet in her wrath, she exclaimed, 
 " Fool that I was, to have withheld one, when the old 
 dotard would have paid for it so richly. But it cannot now 
 be helped," she continued, and resuming her seat, she read 
 the letter through, exploding but once more, and that at 
 the point where Uncle Nat had spoken of returning, asking 
 if there was one who would welcome him hoine.
 
 102 DORA DEAXE. 
 
 " Gracious heavens !" she exclaimed, growing a littlfl 
 faint. " Wouldn't I be in a predicament ? But it shall 
 never be, if I can prevent it, and I fancy I can. As Dora 
 will not read this letter, it is not reasonably to be expected 
 that she will answer it, and it will be some time, I imagine, 
 before / invite him to come and see if we are kind to her I 
 What a childish old thing he must be, to pay so much for 
 one little lock of hair 1 I'd send him all of mine, if I 
 thought it would bring me fifteen hundred dollars." 
 
 It did seem a large sum to her, that fifteen hundred dol 
 lars, more than she dared to appropriate to herself ; but the 
 piano she was determined to have, and, as she dreaded what 
 her mother might say, she resolved upon keeping the letter 
 a secret until the purchase was made, and then Mrs. Deane 
 could not do otherwise than indorse the draft, and let her 
 have the money. 
 
 They had been talking of going to Rochester for some 
 time past, and if she could manage to have Mr. Hastings go 
 with her, she could leave her mother at the hotel, or dispose 
 of her elsewhere, while she went with him to the music 
 rooms, and made the selection. As if fortune were, indeed, 
 favoring her, Mr. Hastings called the next night, and they 
 were, as usual, left- together alone. She was looking uncom 
 monly well this evening ; and as she saw how often, and 
 how admiringly his eyes rested upon her, hope whispered 
 that the prize was nearly won. After conversing awhile on 
 different subjects, she spoke of her new piano, asking him if 
 he remembered his promise of assisting her in a selection, 
 and saying she thought of going to the city some day that 
 week. Again Mr. Hastings remembered the beautiful rose 
 wood instrument, whose tones had been so long unheard in 
 bis silent home, and he said, " Do you not like Ella's piano ?" 
 while a feeling, shadowy and undefined, stole over him, that
 
 MANAGEMENT. 103 
 
 possibly it might, some day, be hers ; and Eugenia, divining 
 his thoughts, answered artfully, " Oh, very much. I used 
 to enjoy hearing dear Elia play, but that don't do me any 
 good. It isn't mine, you know." 
 
 Very softly and tenderly the beautiful black eyes looked 
 Into his, and the voice was low and gentle, as it breathed 
 the sacred name of Ella. It was the hour of Howard 
 Hastings's temptation; and, scarce knowing what he did, he 
 essayed to speak to offer her ^the piano, whose keys had 
 been so often touched by the fairy fingers, now folded away 
 beneath the winter snow. But his lips refused to move ; 
 there was a pressure upon them, as if a little hand were laid 
 upon his mouth to prevent the utterance of words he had 
 better far not speak. Thus was he saved, and when Eugenia, 
 impatient at his delay, cast towards him an anxious glance, 
 she saw that his thoughts were not of her, and, biting her 
 lips with vexation, she half petulantly asked, " if he had 
 any intention of going to the city that week ?" 
 
 " Yes no certainly," said he, starting up as if from a 
 deep reverie. Then, as he understood what was wanted of 
 him, he continued, " excuse me, Miss Deane. I was think 
 ing of Ella, and the night when she died. What were you 
 saying of Eochester ? I have business there to-morrow, and 
 if you go down, I will aid you all I can. By the way," he 
 
 soutinued, " that is the night of 's grand concert. How 
 
 would you like to attend it ?" 
 
 " Oh, so much 1" answered Eugenia, her fine eyes spark 
 ling with delight. 
 
 " But stop," said he, " now I think of it, I have an en^ 
 garment which may possibly prevent me from attending it, 
 as I would like to do with you, for I know you would enjoy 
 it. Still, it may be that I can, and if so, I'll call for you at 
 the hotel. We can come home on the eleven o'clock train. 1
 
 104 DORA DEANE. 
 
 So, ere Mr. Hastings departed, it was arranged that 
 Eugenia and her mother should next morning go dowr with 
 him to the city, and that in the evening he would, perhaps, 
 accompany them to the concert. 
 
 " I am progressing fast," thought Eugenia, as she sat 
 alone in her chamber that night, after Alice had retired, " but 
 still I wish he'd come to the point, and not keep me in such 
 suspense. I thought once he was going to, and I believe now 
 he would if he hadn't gone to thinking of Ella, and all that 
 nonsense ; but never mind, he's worth waiting for, with his 
 fine house and immense wealth ; I shan't care so much 
 about Uncle Nat's money then, though goodness knows I 
 don't want him turning up here some day and exposing me, 
 as I dare say the meddlesome old thing would do." 
 
 This reminded her of the letter, and, as Alice was asleep, 
 she thought this as favorable an opportunity for answering 
 it as she would probably have. Opening her writing-desk, 
 and taking her pen, she framed a reply, the substance of 
 which was, that ma, Alice and hersdj were very, very thank 
 ful to her dear uncle for his generous gift to Dora, who, 
 strange to say, manifested no feeling whatever ! 
 
 " If she is grateful," wrote Eugenia, " she does not show 
 it in the least. I hardly know what to make of her, she's 
 BO queer. Sometime, perhaps, she will appreciate your 
 goodness, and meanwhile, rest fissured that I will see that 
 your gift is used to the best advantage." 
 
 Not a word of coming home to the expectant old man, 
 whose heart each day grew lighter as he thought of the 
 letter which Dora would write bidding him to come to the 
 friends who would welcome him back. Not one line from 
 Dora to the kind uncle who, when he read the cruel lines, 
 laid his weary head upon his pillow and wept bitterly that 
 this, his last fond hope, was crushed I
 
 MANAGEMENT. lot 
 
 There is such a thing as Retribution, and Eugenia Deane, 
 Bitting there alone that night, shuddered as the word 
 seemed whispered in her ear. But it could not deter her 
 from her purpose. Howard Hastings must be won. " The 
 object to be gained was worthy of the means used to gain 
 it," she thought, as she sealed the letter ; then, placing the 
 draft for the $1,500 safely in her purse, she crept softly to 
 bed, sleeping ere long as soundly as if the weight of a 
 guilty conscience bad nerer rested upon her.
 
 ;o DORA DEANfi. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 fHK NEW PIANO. 
 
 THE next morning, at the appointed time, Mr. Hast 
 ings, Mrs. Dcane and her daughter stood together in the 
 Dunwood Depot, awaiting the arrival of the train. Eu 
 genia was in high spirits, chatting gaily with Mr. Hastings, 
 whose manner was so unusually lover-like, that more than 
 one looker-on smiled meaningly, as they saw how very at 
 tentive he was. On reaching the city he parted from the 
 ladies for a time, telling Eugenia, as he bade her good 
 morning, that he should probably not see her again until 
 about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he would meet 
 her at the music-rooms. 
 
 " Meet you at the music-rooms for what ?" asked Mrs. 
 Deane, who, though she had frequently heard her daughter 
 talking of a new piano, had never for a moment believed 
 her to be in earnest. 
 
 " What do you suppose he would meet mo for, unless it 
 were to look at pianos ?" answered Eugenia, and her mother 
 replied, " Look at pianos I A great deal of good that will 
 do, I imagine, when both of us together have but twenty- 
 five dollars in the world 1" 
 
 A curious smile flitted over Eugenia's face, as she though I 
 of the draft, but she merely replied, "And suppose wo 
 hnven't any money, can't I make Idiece, and by looking at
 
 THE NEW PIANO. 101 
 
 expensive instruments induce Mr. Hastings to think we are 
 richer than we are ? I don't accuse him of being at all 
 mercenary, but I do think he would have proposed ere this, 
 if he hadn't thought us so wretchedly poor." 
 
 Mrs. Deane could not understand how merely looking at a 
 eostly piano indicated wealth ; but feeling herself consider 
 able interest in her daughter's success, she concluded to let 
 her pursue her own course, and the subject was not resumed 
 again until afternoon, when, having finished their shopping, 
 they sat alone in a private room, opening from the public 
 hall, and opposite the ladies' parlor in the hotel. They had 
 taken this room, because in case she attended the concert, 
 Eugenia would wish to rearrange her hair, and make some 
 little change in her personal appearance. " Then, too, when 
 Mr. Hastings came," she said, " they would be by them 
 selves, and not have everybody listening to what they said. 
 By the way, mother," she continued, as she stood before the 
 glass, " if Mr. Hastings can attend the concert, suppose you 
 go home at half-past six. You don't care for singing, you 
 know, and besides that, you stumble so in the dark, that it 
 will be so much pleasanter for Mr. Hastings to have but one 
 in charge." 
 
 " And much pleasanter for you, too, to be alone with 
 him," suggested Mrs. Deane, who really cared but little for 
 music, and was the more willing to accede to Eugenia's pro 
 posal." 
 
 " Why, yes," answered the young lady. " I think it 
 would be pleasanter so if he says he can accompany me, 
 you go home, like a dear good old woman as you are." And 
 tying on her bonnet, Eugenia went out to keep her appoint 
 ment, finding Mr. Hastings theri before her, as ehe had 
 expected. 
 
 Several expensive pianos were examined, and a selection
 
 L08 UOiiA DEANE. 
 
 ut last made of a very handsome one, whose cost was $450. 
 " I care but little what price I pay, if it only suits me," said 
 Eugenia, with the air of one who had the wealth of the 
 Indies at her disposal. " You will see that it is carefully 
 boxed and sent to Duuwood, will you not ?" she continued, 
 turning to the man in attendance, who bowed respectfully, 
 and stood waiting for the money, while Mr. Hastings, too, it 
 may be, wondered a very little if it would be forthcoming. 
 * I did not know certainly as I should make a purchase," 
 continued Eugenia, " so I left the money with mother at the 
 hotel : I will bring it directly ;" and she tripped gracefully 
 out of the store, followed by Mr. Hastings, who felt almost 
 as if he had done wrong in suffering her to buy a new piano, 
 when Ella's would have suited her quite as well, and -the 
 name upon it, " E. Hastings," would make no difference ! 
 
 Once, in the street, he thought to say something like thia 
 to her and prevent the purchase, but again an unseen hand, 
 as it were, sealed his lips ; and when he spoke, it was to tell 
 her that he could probably escort her to the concert, 
 and would see her again about dark. Here having reached 
 the hotel, he left her, and walked on a short distance, when, 
 remembering something concerning the concert, which ho 
 wished to tell her, he turned back, and, entering the hotel, 
 went to the parlor, where he expected to find her. But she 
 was not there, and thinking she had gone out for a moment 
 and would soon return, he stepped into the hall, and as the 
 day was rather cold, stood over the register, which was very 
 near Eugenia's room. He had been there but an instant, 
 when he caught the sound of his own name, and looking up, 
 he saw that the ventilator over the door opposite was turned 
 back, so that everything said within, though spoken in a low 
 tone, could be distinctly heard without. It was Eugenia 
 who was speaking, and not wishing to listen, he was aboui
 
 THE NEW PIANO. 101 
 
 turning away, when the words she uttered aroused hia 
 curiosity and chained him to the spot. 
 
 They were, " And what if Mr. Hastings did give it to me? 
 If he marries me, and I intend that he shall, 'twill make no 
 difference whether the piano was bought afterward or a 
 little in advance. He knows, or ought to know, that I 
 would not use Ella's old one." 
 
 " But has he ever said a word to you on the subject of 
 marriage?" queried Mrs. Deane, and Eugenia answered, 
 ".Not directly, perhaps, but he has had it in his mind a 
 hundi-ed times, I dare say. But pray don't look so distressed. 
 I never knew before that scheming mothers objected to their 
 daughters receiving costly presents from the gentlemen to 
 whom they were engaged." 
 
 " You are not engaged," said Mrs. Deane, and Eugenia 
 replied, " But expect to be, which is the same thing ;" then 
 after a pause, she continued, " but, jesting aside, Mr. Has 
 tings did not buy the piano. I bought it myself and expect 
 to pay for it, too, that is, if you will indorse this draft. 
 Look !" and she held to view the draft, of which Mrs. Deanr 
 was, until that moment, wholly ignorant. 
 
 Wiping from his white brow the heavy drops of perspira 
 tion which had gathered thickly upon it, Mr. Hastings 
 attempted to leave the place, but the same hand which 
 twice before had sealed his lips, was interposed to keep 
 him there, and he stood silent and immovable, while his sur 
 prise and indignation increased as the conversation pro 
 ceeded. 
 
 . In great astonishment Mrs. Deane examined the draft, 
 and then questioned her daughter as to how she came by 
 it. Very briefly Eugenia told of the letter she had sent her 
 Uncle Nat. " I knew there was no surer way of gaining his 
 good will," said she, " than by thrusting Dora in his
 
 HO DORA DEANE. 
 
 BO I asked her if she had any message, and she sent her 
 love, together with a lock of her mother's hair, which I 
 verily believe turned the old fellow's heart. I have not the 
 letter with me which he wrote in reply, and directed to 
 Dora, but it was a sickish, sentimental thing, prating about 
 his love for her mother, and how much he prized that lock, 
 which he said he would pay for at the rate of one dollar a 
 hair ! And, don't you believe, the silly old fool sat up all 
 night, crying over and counting the hairs, which amounted 
 to lifteeen hundred 1 'Twould have been more if I hadn't 
 foolishly kept back some for hair ornaments. I was so pro 
 voked I could have thrown them in the fire." 
 
 " But if the letter was directed to Dora, how came you 
 by it ?" asked Mrs. Deane, who, knowing Eugenia as well as 
 she did, was still wholly unprepared for anything like this. 
 
 " 'Twas the merest chance in the world," answered 
 Eugenia, stating the circumstance by which the letter came 
 into her possession, and adding that " Mr. Hastings must 
 have thought her manner that night very strange ; but 
 come," she continued, " do sign your name quick, so I can 
 get the money before the bank closes." 
 
 But this Mrs. Deane at first refused to do, saying it was 
 not theirs, and Dora should no longer be defrauded ; at the 
 same time, she expressed her displeasure at Eugenia's utter 
 want of principle. 
 
 " Grown suddenly very conscientious, haven't you !" scorn 
 fully laughed the young lady, reminding her of the remittance 
 anually sent to them for Dora's benefit, but which had been 
 unjustly withheld ; " very conscientious indeod ; but I am 
 thankful I parted company with that commodity long ago. 
 
 Then followed a series of angry words, and bitter recrimi 
 nations, by which the entire history of Eugenia's selfish 
 treatment of her cousin, even to the cutting off her hair
 
 THE NEW PIANO. Ill 
 
 more than two years before, was disclosed to Mr. Hastings, 
 who. immeasurable shocked and sick at heart, turned away 
 just as Mrs. Deane, to avoid further altercation, expressed 
 her readiness to indorse the draft, on condition that the 
 balance after paying for the piano, should be set aside for 
 Dora. 
 
 " And haven't I told you repeatedly that the piano was all 
 1 wanted ? and I shouldn't be so particularly anxious about 
 that, if I did not think it would aid me in securing Mr. Has 
 tings." 
 
 "Which you never shall, so help me Heaven I" exclaimed 
 the indignant man, as he strode noiselessly down the hall, 
 and out into the open air, where he breathed more freely, 
 as if just escaping from the poisonous atmosphere of the 
 deadly upas. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe his emotion, as he walked 
 on through one street after another. Astonishment, rage, hor 
 ror, and disgust each in turn predominated, and were at last 
 succeeded by a deep feeling of thankfulness that the veil 
 had been removed, and he had escaped from the toils of one, 
 who, slowly but surely, had been winding herself around his 
 fancy he would not say affect ions, for he knew he had never 
 loved her. " But she might have duped me," he said, " for I 
 am but human ;" and then as he thought what a hardened, 
 unprincipled woman she was, he shuddered aud grew faint 
 at the mere idea of taking such a one to fill the place of his 
 gentle, loving Ella. " I cannot meet her to-night," he con 
 tinued, as he remembered the concert. " I could not 
 endure the sound of her voice, for I should say that to her 
 which had better not be said. I will go home back to 
 Dunwood, leaving her to wait for me as long as she chooses." 
 
 With him, to will was to do, and having finished his busi 
 ness, he started for the depot, whither Mrs. Deaue had
 
 112 DORA DEANE. 
 
 preceded him, having been coaxed by Eugenia to return at 
 half past six, and thus le;ve her the pleasure of Mr. Ha* 
 tiugs's company alone. The piano had been paid for, and aa 
 it was quite dark, and beginning to rain, the now amiable 
 young lady accompanied her mother to the depot, and 
 having seen her safely in the cars, which would not start in 
 some minutes, was on her way back to the hotel, her mind 
 too intently occupied with thoughts of coming pleasure to 
 heed the man. who, with dark lowering brow, and hat 
 drawn over his face, met her on the sidewalk, and who at 
 sight of her started suddenly as if she had been a crawling 
 serpent. 
 
 " Will the Deanes always cross my path ?" he exclaimed, 
 as, opening the car door, he saw near the stove the brown 
 satin hat and black plumes of the mother, who was sitting 
 with her back towards him, and consequently was not aware 
 of his presence. 
 
 To find a seat in another car was an easy matter, and 
 while Eugenia, at the hotel, was alternately admiring her 
 self in the glass, and peering out into the hall to see if he 
 were coming, he was on his way to Dunwood, breathing more 
 and more freely, as the distance between them increased. 
 
 " Yes, I have escaped her," he thought, and mingled with 
 thankfulness for this, was a deep feeling of sympathy for 
 Dora, to whom such injustice had been done. 
 
 He understood perfectly her position knew exactly the 
 course of treatment, which, from the first, she had received, 
 and while trembling with anger, he resolved that it should 
 not continue. "I can help her, and I will," he said em 
 phatically ; though how, or by what means he could not, in 
 his present state of excitement, decide. Arrived at Dun- 
 wood, he stepped hastily from the car and walked rapidlj 
 down the street until he came opposite Locust Grove
 
 THE NEW PIANO. Ill 
 
 Then, indeed he paused, while an involuntary shudder ran 
 through his frame as he thought of the many hours he had 
 epent within those walls with one who had proved herself un- 
 F Drthy even of the name of woman. 
 
 "But it is over now," he said, " and when I cross that 
 threshold again, may " 
 
 The sentence was unfinished, for a light flashed suddenly out 
 npon Lira, and a scene met his view which arrested his foot 
 steps at once, and, raining as it was, he leaned back against 
 the fence and gazed at the picture before him. The shut 
 ters were thrown open, and through the window was plainly 
 discernible the form of Dora Deane, seated at table, 
 on which lay a book which she seemed to be reading. 
 There was nothing elegant about her dress, nor did How 
 ard Hastings think of this ; his mind was intent upon her 
 who had been so cruelly wronged, and whose young face, 
 seen through the window on that winter night, looked very 
 fair, so fair that he wondered he had never thought before 
 how beautiful was Dora Deane. 
 
 At this point, Mrs. Deane, who had been slower in her 
 movements, reached the gate, and, resigning his post near 
 the fence, Mr. Hastings walked slowly home, bearing in his 
 mind that picture of Dora Deane as he saw her through 
 the window, with no shadows on her brow, save those left 
 there by early grief, and which rendered her face still more 
 attractive than it would otherwise have been. That night, 
 all through the silent hours, there shone a glimmering light 
 from the room where Howard Hastings sat, brooding upon 
 what he had heard, and meditating upon the best meana 
 for removing Dora from the influence of her heartless cousin. 
 Slowly over him, too, came memories of the little brown-faced 
 girl who, when his home was cheerless, had come to him 
 with her kindly acts and gentle ways, diffusing over all an air
 
 114 DORA DEANE. 
 
 of comfort and filling his home with sunlight. Then he r 
 menjbered that darkest hour of his desolation that first com 
 ing home from burying his dead ; and, now as then be felt 
 creeping over him the icy chill which had lain upon his heart 
 when he approached the house whence they had borne hia 
 fair girl wife. But he had found her there Dora Deane 
 folding his motherless baby to her bosom, and again in imagi 
 nation ho met the soft glance of her eye as she welcomed him 
 back to Ella's room which seemed not half so lonely with 
 Dora sitting by his side. Again he was with her in the storm 
 whicli she had braved on that night when his child lay dying 
 the child whom she had loved so much, and who had died 
 upon her lap. Anon, this picture faded too, and he saw her 
 as he had seen her but a few hours before almost a woman 
 now, but retaining still the same fair, open brow, and sunny 
 smile which had characterized her as a child. And this was the 
 girl whom Eugenia would trample down would misrepre 
 sent to the fond old uncle, far away. "But it shall never 
 be/' he said aloud ; " I will remove her from them by force 
 if need be." But " where would she go ?" he asked. Then 
 as he remembered Ella's wish that he should care for her 
 a wish which his foolish fancy for Eugenia had for a time 
 driven from his mind, he felt an intense longing to have her 
 there with him ; there, in his home, where he could see her 
 every day not as his wife, for at that time, Howard Hast 
 ings had never thought it possible for him to call her by 
 that name, she seemed so much a child ; but she should 
 be his sister, and his manly heart throbbed with delight, as 
 he thought how he would watch over and protect her from 
 all harm. He would teach her, and she should learn, sit 
 ting at his feet as she sat two years before ; and life 
 would seem no longer sad and dreary, for he would have a 
 uleasant home, and in it Dora Deane ! Ere long, however,
 
 THE NEW PIANO. 115 
 
 ftis better judgment told him that the censoriousj curious 
 world would never suffer this to be ; she couldn't come as hit 
 sister she couldnt come at all and again there came over him 
 a sense of desolation, as if he were a second time bereaved. 
 
 Slowly and steadily the rain drops pattered against the 
 window pane, while the lamp upon the table burned lower 
 and lower, and still Mr. Hastings sat there, pondering 
 another plan, to which he could see no possible objection, 
 provided Mrs. Deane's consent could be obtained ; " and 
 she shall consent," he said, " or an exposure of her daughter 
 will be the consequence." 
 
 Then, it occurred to him, that in order to succeed, he must 
 fur a time at least appear perfectly natural must continue 
 to visit at Locust Grove, just as he had been in the habit 
 of doing must meet Eugenia face to face, and even school 
 himself to listen to the sound of her piano, which he felt 
 would grate so harshly on his ear. And all this he could do 
 if in the end Dora would be benefited. 
 
 For the more immediate accomplishment of his purpose, 
 it seemed necessary that he should visit New York, and as, 
 in his present excitement, he could not rest at home, he de 
 termined upon going that very morning, in the early train. 
 Pushing back the heavy drapery which shaded the window, 
 he saw that daylight was already breaking in the east, and, 
 after a few hurried preparations, he knocked at Mrs. 
 Leah's door, and telling her that important business required 
 his presence in New York, whither he should be gone a few 
 days, he started for the depot, just as the sun was rising ; 
 and, that aight, Mrs. Elliott, his sister, was surprised ta 
 hear that he was in the parlor, and wished to see her. 
 
 " Why, Howard 1" she exclaimed, as she entered the room. 
 *nd saw how pale and haggard he was, " what is the mat 
 ter, and why have you come upon me so suddenly ?" 
 
 " ] have come, Louise, for aid," he answered, advancing
 
 /l DORA DEANE. 
 
 towards her, and drawing her to his side. " Aid for an in 
 jnred orphan. Do you remember Dora Deane ?" 
 
 " Perfectly well, answered Mrs. Elliott. I was too raue 1 
 interested in her to forget her soon. Slla wrote me that 
 she was living in Dunwood, and when next I visited you, I 
 intended seeking her out. But what of her, and how 3an I 
 befriend her ?" 
 
 In as few words as possible, Mr. Hastings told what he 
 knew of her history since his sister saw her last, withholding 
 not even the story of his own strange fancy for Eugenia. 
 "But that is over, thank Heaven," he continued ;" and 
 now, Louise, you must take Dora to live with you. You 
 have no child, no sister, and she will be to you both of these. 
 You must love her, educate her, make her just such a wo 
 man as you are yourself ; make her, in short, what that no 
 ble-hearted old man in India will wish her to be when he 
 returns, as he shall do, if my life is spared ; and Louise," he 
 added, growing more and more earnest, " she will well re 
 pay you for your trouble. She brought sunshine to my 
 home ; she will bring it to yours. She is naturally refined 
 and intelligent. She is amiable, ingenuous, open-hearted, 
 and will one day be beautiful. 
 
 " And you, my brother, love her ?" queried Mrs. Elliott, 
 looking him steadily in his face, and parting the thick, black 
 hair from off his high, white forehead. 
 
 " Love her, Louise I" he answered, " I lave Dora Deane ! 
 Why, no. Ella loved her, the baby loved her, and for this 
 I will befriend her, but to love her, I never thought of such * 
 thing 1" and walking to the window, he looked out upou the 
 night, repeating to himself, " Love. Dora Deane! I woudsf 
 what put that idea into Louise's braiu ?" 
 
 Returning ere long to his seat, he resumed the conversa 
 tion, which resulted at last in Mrs. Elliott's expressing her 
 2>er(ect willingness to give Dora a home, and a mother's
 
 THE NEW PIANO. Ill 
 
 rare, to see that she had every possible advantage, to watch 
 over and make her not only what Uncle Nat would wish to 
 find her, but what Howard Hastings himself desired that 
 she should be. Of Mrs. Elliott, we have said but little, 
 neither is it necessary that we should dwell upon her charac- 
 acter at large. She was a noble, true-hearted woman, find 
 ing her greatest happiness in doing others good. Widowed 
 in the second year of her married life, her home was com 
 paratively lonely, for no second love had ever moved her 
 heart. In Dora Deane, of whom Ella had written so en 
 thusiastically, she felt a deep interest, and when her brother 
 came to her with the story of her wrongs, she gladly con- 
 pented to be to her a mother, nay, possibly a sister, for, with 
 woman's ready tact, she read what Mr. Hastings did not 
 even suspect, and she bade him bring her at once. 
 
 A short call upon his mother, to whom he talked of Dora 
 Deaue ; a hasty visit to Ella's grave, on which the winter 
 snow was lying ; a civil bow across the street to Mrs. Grey, 
 who had never quite forgiven him for having killed her daugh 
 ter ; and he started back to Dunwood, bearing with him 
 a happier, healthier, frame of mind, than he had experi 
 enced for many a day. There was something now worth 
 living for the watching Dora Deane grow up into a wo 
 man, whose husband would delight to honor her, and whoso 
 children would rise up and call her blessed. This picture, 
 however, was not altogether pleasing, though why the 
 thoughts of Dora's future husband should affect him un 
 pleasantly, he could not tell. Still it did, and mentally 
 hoping she would never marry, he reached Dunwood at the 
 close of the third day after his departure from it. 
 
 Here for a moment we leave him, while, in another chap< 
 ter, we look in upon Eugenia, whom we left waiting for him 
 at the hotel.
 
 HI DORA DEANE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. 
 
 IN a state of great anxiety, which increased each moment, 
 Eugenia looked for the twentieth time into the long hull, and 
 seeing no one, went back again to the glass, wondering if her 
 new hat, which, without her mother's knowledge, had that 
 afternoon been purchased, and now adorned her head, were 
 as becoming as the milliner had said, and if fifteen dollars 
 were not a great price for one in her circumstances to pay 
 for a bonnet. Then she thought if Mr. Hastings proposed 
 soon, as she believed he would, she should never again feel 
 troubled about the trivial matter of money, of which she 
 would have an abundance. But where was he and why did 
 he not come ? she asked herself repeatedly, caring less, how 
 ever, for the delay, when she considered that if they were 
 late, more people would see her in company with the elegant 
 Mr. Hastings, who was well known in the city. 
 
 " Eight o'clock as I live," she exclaimed at last, consult 
 ing her watch, " and the concert was to commence at half- 
 past seven. What can it mean ?" and with another glance 
 at *er bonnet, she walked the length of the hall, and leaning 
 far over the balustrade looked anxiously down into the 
 office below, to see if by any chance he were there. 
 
 Hut he was not, and returning to her room, she waited 
 another half hour, when, grow.n more fidgety and anxious
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. 118 
 
 she descended to the office, inquiring if Mr. Hastings had 
 been there that evening. Some one thought they had seen 
 him in the ladies' parlor that afternoon, but further informa 
 tion than that, she could not obtain, and the discomfited 
 joung lady went back to her room in no very enviable framtj 
 of mind, particularly as she heard the falling of the rain, 
 and thought how dark it was without. 
 
 " What can have kept him ?" she said, half crying with 
 vexation. " And how I wish I had gone home with 
 mother I" 
 
 Wishing, however, was of no avail, and when that night 
 at half-past ten, the hotel omnibus as usual went to the 
 depot, it carried a very cross young lady, who, little heed 
 ing what she did, and caring less, sat down beneath a 
 crevice in the roof, through which the rain crept in, lodging 
 upon the satin bows and drooping plumes of her fifteen- 
 dollar hat, which, in her disappointment, she had forgotten 
 to exchange for the older one, safely stowed away in the 
 band-box she held upon her lap. Arrived at Dunwood 
 station, she found, as she had expected, no omnibus in 
 waiting, nor any one whose services she could claim as an 
 escort, so, borrowing an umbrella, and holding up her dress 
 as best she could, she started, band-box in hand, for home, 
 stepping once into a pool of water, and falling once upon 
 the dirty sidewalk, from which the mud and snow were 
 wiped by her rich velvet cloak, to say nothing of the fright 
 ful pinch made in her other bonnet by her having crushed 
 Ihe band-box in her fall. 
 
 In a most forlorn condition, she at last reached home, 
 where to her dismay she found the door was locked and the 
 fire gone out, her mother not having expected her to return 
 on such a night as this. To rouse up Dora, and scold her 
 unmercifully, though for what she scarcely knew, was undo;
 
 120 DORA DEANE. 
 
 (lie circumstances quite natural, and while Mr. Hastings at 
 Rose Hill was devising the best means of removing Dora 
 from her power, she at Locust Grove, was venting the 
 entire weight of her pent-up wrath upon the head of the 
 dovoted girl, who bore it uncomplainingly. Removing at last 
 her bo.'inet^ she discovered the marks of the omnibus leak, 
 and then her ire was turned towards him as having been 
 the cause of all her disasters. 
 
 "I'll never speak to him again, never," she exclaimed, aa 
 she crept shivering to bed. 
 
 But a few hours, quiet slumber dissipated in a measure 
 her wrath, and during the next day she many times looked 
 out to see him coming, as she surely thought he would, 
 laden with apologies for his seeming neglect. But nothing 
 appeared except the huge box containing the piano, and in 
 superintending the opening of that her mind was for a time 
 diverted. Greatly Alice and Dora marvelled whence came 
 the money with which the purchase had been made, and 
 both. with one consent settled upon Mr. Hastings as having 
 been the donor. To this suggestion Eugenia made no reply, 
 and feeling sure that it was so, Dora turned away and walking 
 to the window sighed as she wondered what Ella would say 
 if she could know who was to take her place in the heart 
 of Howard Hastings. 
 
 The instrument was finely toned, and Eugenia spent the 
 remainder of the day in practising a very difficult piece, 
 which she knew Mr. Hastings admired, and with which she 
 Intended to surprise and charm him. But he did not come, 
 hither that day or the next, and on the morning of the 
 next, which was Saturday, feigning some trivial errand to 
 Mrs. Leah, she went herself to Rose Hill, casting anxious 
 glances towards the windows of his room to see if he were 
 in sight. Dame Leah was a shrewd old woman, and readily
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. 121 
 
 guessing that Eugenia's visit was prompted from a desire to 
 see her master, rather than herself, she determined to tan 
 talize her by saying nothing of him unless she were ques 
 tioned. Continually hoping he would appear, Eugenia 
 lingered until there was no longer a shadow of excuse for tarry 
 ing, and then she arose to go, saying as she reached the door, 
 " Oh,now I think of it, Mr. Hastings has a book in his library 
 which I very much wish to borrow. Is he at home ?" 
 
 " No," answered Mrs. Leah, " he went to New York, 
 Thursday morning, on the early train." 
 
 " To New York !" repeated Eugenia, " for what ? and 
 when will he be home ?" 
 
 " He said he had important business," returned Mrs. Leah, 
 adding that " maybe he'd be home that night." 
 
 Eugenia had heard all she wished to know, and forgetting 
 entirely the look, bade Mrs. Leah good morning, and walked 
 away, feeling in a measure relieved, for the busimss which 
 took him so suddenly to New York, had undoubtedly some 
 connection with his failing to call at the hotel for her ! 
 He had never called upon Sunday evening, but thinking that 
 after so long an absence he might do so now, she sat in 
 state from six o'clock till nine, starting nervously at every 
 sound, and once when sure, she heard him, running from the 
 room, BO he would not find her there, and think she had been 
 waiting for him. But he did not come, and the next day, 
 feeling exceedingly anxious to know if he had returned, and 
 remembering the book, which she had failed to get, and must 
 have, she towards night sent Dora to Rose Hill, bidding 
 her if she saw Mr. Hastings tell him that her piauo had 
 come and she wished him to hear it. 
 
 In the long kitchen by a glowing stove, Dame Leah sat, 
 busy with her knitting, which she quickly suspended when 
 ehe saw Dora, who was with her a favorite. 
 
 6
 
 M DORA DEAN!. 
 
 14 So Eugenia sent you for that book ?" she said, when 
 told of Dora's errand. " I'll see if he will lend it." 
 
 Mr. Hastings was alone in his library. All that day he 
 had been making up his mind to call at Locust Grove, where 
 he knew Eugenia was impatiently expecting him, for Mm 
 Leah had told him of her call, winking slily as she spoke of 
 the forgotten book ! 
 
 " Yes, I will go and have it over," he thought, just as 
 Mrs. Leah entered, telling him that " Miss Deane wanted 
 that book." 
 
 Thinking that Eugenia was in the house, he answered 
 hastily. " Take it to her, and pray don't let her in here." 
 
 " It's Dora, not Eugenia," said Mrs. Leah, and instantly 
 the whole expression of his countenance changed 
 
 " Dora /" he exclaimed. " It's a long time since I saw 
 her in this room. Tell her to come up." 
 
 Very gladly Dora obeyed the summons, and in a moment 
 she stood in the presence of Mr. Hastings. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," he said, motioning her to the lit 
 tle stool, on which she had often sat when reciting to him 
 her lessons, and when she now sat down, it was so near to 
 him that, had he chosen, his hand could have rested on her 
 beautiful hair, for she held her hood upon her lap. 
 
 Two months before and he would not have hesitated to 
 smooth these shining tresses, but the question of his sister, 
 "Do you love her?" had produced upon him a curious effect, 
 making him half afraid of the child-woman who sat before 
 him, and who, after waiting a time for him to speak, looked 
 up into his face, and said, " Do you want me for anything 
 in particular, Mr. Hastings ?" 
 
 " Want you, Dora ? Want you ?" he said, abstract' 
 edly, as if that question, too, had puzzled him ; then re 
 membering himself, and why he had sent for her, he aus-
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. ll 
 
 wered, " I want to talk with you, Dora to tell you s jme- 
 thing. Do you remember my sister Mrs. Elliott ?" 
 
 The eager, upward glance of Dora's eyes, was a sufficient 
 answer, and he continued. " I saw her last week and 
 talked with her of you. She wishes you to come and live 
 with her. Will you go ?" 
 
 Dora could never tell why she cried, but the thought of 
 living with Mrs. Elliott, whom she regarded as an almost 
 superior being, overcame her, and she burst into tears, 
 while Mr. Hastings looked at her, quite uncertain as to what, 
 under the circumstances, it was proper for him to do. If 
 his sister had never bothered him with that strange ques 
 tion, he would have known exactly how to act ; but 
 now in a state of perplexity, he sat motionless, until, think 
 ing he must do something, he said gently, " Dora, my child." 
 The last word removed his embarrassment entirely. She 
 was a child, and as such he would treat her. So he said 
 again, " Dora, my child, why do you cry ?" and Dora ans 
 wered impulsively, " It makes me so glad to think of living 
 with Mrs. Elliott, for you do not know how unhappy I have 
 been since she found me four years ago. 
 
 " I know more than you suppose. But it is over now," 
 he said ; and stretching out his arm, he drew her nearer to 
 him, and resting her head upon his knee, he- soothed her ag 
 if she were indeed the child he tried to believe she was, and 
 he her grey-haired sire, instead of a young man of twenty- 
 
 And Dora grew very calm sitting there with Mr. Hastir.gs ? s 
 baud upon her head, and when he told her it was all ar 
 ranged, and she should surely go, she sprang to her feet, 
 and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, exclaimed, " It 
 is too good to come true. Something will happen, A.unt 
 Sarah will not let ine y;o "
 
 124 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " Yes, she will," said Mr. Hastings decidedly. " I am 
 going tuorc to-night to talk with her." 
 
 Then, as it was already growing dark, he arose tD accom 
 pany Dora home, both of them forgetting the book, which 
 Eugenia seemed destined never to receive. But she did not 
 think to ask for it in her joy at meeting Mr. Hastings, who 
 succeeded in appearing natural far better than he had ex 
 pected, telling her, not that he was sorry for having failed 
 to keep his appointment, but that it was not consistent for 
 him to do so, and adding that he hoped she was not very 
 much disappointed. 
 
 " Oh, 110," she said, " I know of course that business de 
 tained you ;" then, as she saw him looking at her piano, 
 she advanced towards it, and seating herself upon the stool, 
 asked, " if he would like to hear her play ?" 
 
 He could not conscientiously answer "yes," for he felt 
 that the sound would sicken him ; but he stood at her side 
 and turned the leaves of her music as usual, while she dashed 
 through the piece she had practised with so much care. 
 
 " How do you like it ?" she said, when she had iinished ; 
 and he answered, " I always admired your playing, you 
 know, but the tone of the instrument does not quite suit me. 
 It seems rather muffled, as if the wires were made of hair .'" 
 and his large black eyes were bent searchiugly upon her. ' 
 
 Coloring crimson, she thought, " Can he have learned 
 my secret ?" then, as she remembered how impossible it was 
 for him to know aught of the money, she answered, " Quite 
 an original idea," at the same time seating herself upon tho 
 sofa. S'tting down beside her as he had been in the habit 
 ol doing, he commenced at once upon the object of his visit, 
 asking if her mother were at home, and saying he wished to 
 gee her on a matter of some importance ; then, knowing who 
 was really the ruling power there, be added, as Eugenia
 
 FAILURE AND SUCCESS. 121 
 
 arose to leave the room in quest of her mother, " perhaps I 
 bad better speak of my business first to you !" 
 
 Feeling sure now of a proposal, the young lady resumed 
 her seat, involuntarily pulling at her fourth finger, and meu 
 tally hoping the engagement ring would be a- diamond one I 
 What then was her surprise when she found that not her* 
 self, but Dora was the subject of his remarks I After tell 
 ing her of his visit to his sister, and of her wishes with re 
 gard to Dora, he said, " since the death of my wife and 
 baby, I have felt a deep interest in your family, for the 
 kindness shown to me in my affliction. I promised Ella that 
 I would befriend Dora, and by placing her with Louise, I 
 shall not only fulfill my word, but shall also be relieved of 
 all care concerning her. Do you think I can persuade your 
 mother to let her go ?" 
 
 Eugenia did not know. She would speak to her about 
 it after he was gone, and tell him on the morrow. 
 
 " I shall rely upon you to plead my cause," he continued ; 
 " Louise's heart is quite set upon it, and I do not wish to 
 disappoint her." 
 
 " I will do my best," answered Eugenia, never suspecting 
 that Mr. Hastings was quite as anxious as his sister, who, 
 she presumed, intended making a half companion, half wait 
 ing-maid of her cousin. 
 
 " But it will be a good place for her, and somewhat of a 
 relief to us," she thought, after Mr. Hastings had gone. 
 " She is getting to be a young lady now, and growing each 
 year more and more expensive. I presume Mrs. Elliott will 
 send her to school for a time at least, and in case oar 
 families should be connected, it is well for her to do so I 
 wrote to Uncle Nat that we wished to send her away to 
 school, and this is the very thing. Mother won't of course 
 insist upon her having all that money, for she will be
 
 J2 DORA DEANE. 
 
 well enough off without it, and if Mr. Hastings ever does pro 
 pose, I can have a handsome outfit ! Fortune does favof 
 me certainly." 
 
 Thus Eugenia mused, and thus did she talk to her mother, 
 and she wag the more easily persuaded when she saw how 
 eager Dora was to go." 
 
 " I shall be sorry to leave you, Aunt Sarah," said Dora, 
 coming to her side, and resting her hand upon her shoulder, 
 " but I shall be so happy with Mrs. Elliott, that I am sure 
 you'll let rue go." 
 
 Mrs. Deaue was naturally a cold, selfish woman, but the 
 quiet, unassuming Dora had found a place in her heart, and 
 she would be very lonely without her ; still it was better 
 for her, and better for them all that she should go ; so she 
 at last gave her consent, and when the next day Mr. Hast 
 ings called he was told that Dora could go as soon as he 
 thought best. 
 
 " Let it be immediately, then," he said. " I will write to 
 Louise to night, and tell her we shall come next week." 
 
 " I wish 1 could go to New York with her," said Eugenia. 
 " It's so long since I was there." 
 
 " You had better wait till some other time, for I could 
 not now show you over the city," answered Mr. Hastings, 
 who had no idea of being burdened with Eugenia. 
 
 " He expects me to go with him sometime, or he would 
 never have said that," thought Eugenia, and this belief 
 kept her good natured during all the bustle and hurry of 
 preparing Dora for her journey. 
 
 The morning came at last on which Dora was to leave, 
 ud with feelings of regret Mrs. Deane and Alice bade her 
 good bye, while Eugenia accompanied her to the depot, 
 where she knew she should see Mr. Hastings. 
 
 " I've half a mind to go with you as far as Rochester," sh
 
 FAILUBE AND SUCCESS, 1*7 
 
 said to Dora, in his presence, as the cars came np, but he 
 made no reply, and the project was abandoned. 
 
 Kissing her cousin good-bye, she stood upon the platform 
 until the train had moved away, and then walked slow I/ 
 back to the house, which even to her seemed lonesome.
 
 DOHA 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THS QUESTION ANSWERED. 
 
 IT was late in the evening when our travellers reached the 
 city, which loomed up before Dora like an old familiar friend. 
 Thej 1 found Mrs. Elliott waiting to receive them, together 
 with Mr. Hastings's mother, who, having heard so much of 
 Dora Deane, had come over to see her. Very affectionately 
 did Mrs. Elliott greet the weary girl, and after divesting her 
 of her wrappings, she led her to her mother, whose keen eyes 
 scrutini/ed her closely, but found no fault in the fair childish 
 face which looked so timidly up to her. Half bewildered, 
 Dora gazed about her, and then, with her eyes swimming in 
 tears, whispered softly to Mr. Hastings, "I am so afraid it 
 will prove to be a dream." 
 
 " I will see that it does not," said Mrs. Elliott, who had 
 overheard her, and who, as time passed on, became morp 
 and more interested in the orphan girl. 
 
 For several days Mr. Hastings lingered, showing her all 
 over the city, and going once with her to visit the 
 room where he had found her. But the elements had pre 
 ceded them fire and water and net a trace of the oh? 
 building remained. At the expiration of a week, Mr. Hast 
 ings started for home, half wishing he could take Dora with 
 him, and wondering if his sister were iu earnest, when sh 
 asked him if lie. loved her 1
 
 THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 12 
 
 A new world now seemed opened to Dora, who never 
 thought it possible for her to be so happy. The ablest in 
 structors were hired to teach her, and the utmost care be 
 stowed upon her education, while nothing could exceed the 
 kindness both of Mrs. Elliott and Mrs. Hastings, the latter 
 of whom treated her as she would have done a young and 
 favorite daughter. One evening when Mrs. Elliott waa 
 dressing for a party, Dora asked permission to arrange her 
 soft glossy hair, which she greatly admired. 
 
 " It's not all my own," said Mrs. Elliott, taking off a 
 heavy braid and laying it upon the table. " I bought it iu 
 Rochester, nearly two years ago, on the day of Ella's party. 
 I have often wished I knew whose it was," she continued, 
 " for to me there is something disagreeable in wearing other 
 people's hair, but the man of whom I purchased it, assured 
 me that it was cut from the head of a young, healthy girl." 
 
 For a moment Dora stood thinking then catching up the 
 beautiful braid and comparing it with her own, she exclaimed, 
 " It was mine ! It was mine I Eugenia cut it olf, and sold 
 it the day before the party. Oh, I am so glad," she added, 
 " though I was sorry then, for I did not know it would come 
 to you, the dearest friend I ever had," and she smoothed 
 caressingly the shining hair, now a shade lighter than her 
 own. 
 
 Mrs. Elliott had heard from her brother the story of 
 Dora's shorn locks, and the braid of hair was far more val 
 uable to her, now that she knew upon whose head it had 
 grown. In her next letter to her brother, she spoke of the 
 discovery, and he could not forbear mentioning the circum- 
 stances to Eugenia, who, not suspecting how much he knew 
 of the matter, answered indifferently, " Isn't it funny how 
 things do come round ? Dora had so much of the headache 
 that we thought it best tc cut off her hair, which sh 
 
 6*
 
 130 DORA DEANE. 
 
 wished me to sell for her in Rochester. I thiuk she wai 
 always a little penurious 1" 
 
 Wholly disgusted with this fresh proof of her duplicity. 
 Mr. Hastings could scarcely refrain from upbraiding hor for 
 her perfidy, but thinking the time had not yet come, he re 
 strained his wrath, and when next he spoke, it was to tell 
 her of a foreign tour which he intended making. 
 
 " I have bug wished to visit the old world," said he, " and 
 as there is nothing in particular to prevent my doing so, I 
 shall probably start the first of June. I should go sooner, 
 but I prefer being on the ocean in the summer season." 
 
 For a moment Eugenia grew faint, fancying she saw an 
 end of all her hopes, but soon rallying, she expatiated large 
 ly upon the pleasure and advantages to be_ derived from a 
 tour through Europe, saying, " it was a happiness she had 
 herself greatly desired, but should probably never realize." 
 
 " Not if you depend upon me for an escort," thought Mr. 
 Hastings, who, soon after, took his leave. 
 
 Much Eugenia wondered whether he would ask the im 
 portant question, and take her with him, and concluding at 
 last that he would, she secretly made some preparations for 
 the expected journey ! But alas for her hopes ! The spring 
 went by, the summer came, and she was still Eugenia Deane, 
 when one evening towards the middle of June, Mr. Hastings 
 came over to say good-bye, as he was intending to start 
 uext morning for New York, or rather, for his sister's coun 
 try seat on the Hudson, where she was now spending the 
 summer. This was a death-blow to Eugenia, who could 
 scarcely appear natural. Tears came to her eyes, and once 
 when she attempted to tell him how lonely Rose Hill would 
 be without him, she failed entirely for want of voice. 
 
 " How hoarse you are. Have you a cold," said Mr. Hast 
 Ings, and that was all the notice he took of her emotion
 
 THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 181 
 
 Fearing lest he should suspect her real feelings, she tried 
 to compose herself, and after a time said, jokingly. " I 
 shouldn't wonder if you were going to take you a wife from 
 gome of the city belles." 
 
 " Oh, no," he answered lightly. " Time enough to think 
 of that when I return." 
 
 This gave her hope, and she bore the parting better than 
 she could otherwise have done. 
 
 " You will not forget me entirely, I trust," she said, as she 
 gave him her hand. 
 
 " Oh, no," he answered. " That would be impossible. I 
 have many reasons which you do not perhaps suspect, for 
 remembering you I By the way," he continued, " have you 
 any message for Dora 1 I shall probably see her as she is 
 with my sister." 
 
 " Give her my love," answered Eugenia, " and tell her 
 to write more definitely of her situation. She never par 
 ticularizes, but merely says she is very happy. I do hope 
 Mrs. Elliott will make something of her 1" 
 
 The next moment Mr. Hastings's good bye was ringing in 
 her ears, and he was gone. Seating herself upon the stairs, 
 and covering her face with her hands, Eugenia wept bit 
 terly, and this was their parting. 
 
 One week later and at the same hour in the evening, Mr. 
 Hastings sat in his sister's pleasant parlor, looking out upon 
 the blue waters of the Hudson, and wondering why, as the 
 time for his departure drew near, his heart should cling so 
 fondly to the friends he was to leave behind. " I shall see 
 them again if I live," he said, "and why this dread of 
 bidding them farewell ?" 
 
 At this moment his sister entered the room, bringing to 
 him a letter from a rich old Texan bachelor, who was spend 
 ing the summer with some friends in the vicinity of her
 
 i32 DOHA DEANE. 
 
 home. It was directed to the " Guardians of Dora Deane,* 
 and asked permission to address her 1 lie had seen he* 
 occasionally at Mrs. Elliott's house, had met her frequently 
 in his morning rambles, and the heart which for forty-five 
 years had withstood the charms of northern beauties and 
 southern belles, was won by the modest little country 
 girl, and he would make her his wife, would bear her to his 
 luxurious home, where her slightest wish should be his law. 
 "With a curious smile upon her lip, Mrs. Elliott read this 
 letter through, and then without a word to Dora, carried it 
 to her brother, watching him while he read it, and smiling 
 still more when she saw the flush upon his brow, and the 
 unnatural light in his eye. 
 
 " Have you talked with Dora ?" he said, when he had 
 finished reading. 
 
 " No, I have not," answered his sister. " I thought I 
 would leave that to you, for in case she should ask my 
 advice, my fear of losing her might influence me too much." 
 
 "Louise," he exclaimed, leaning forward so that his hot 
 breath touched her cheek, "you surely do not believe that 
 Dora Deane cares aught for that old man. She is nothing 
 but a child." 
 
 " She is seventeen next November," said Mrs. Elliott, 
 " almost as old as Ella was when first you were engaged, and 
 how can we tell how often she has thought of matrimony ? Mr. 
 Trevors is a man of unexceptionable character, and though 
 old enough to be her father, he is immensely wealthy, and 
 ehis, you know, makes a vast difference with some girls." 
 
 " But not with her not with Dora Deane, I'm sure," he 
 6aid, " Where is she ? Send her to me, and I will 
 see." 
 
 i Dora's governess, who had accompanied them to the 
 country, was sometimes very exacting, and this day she had
 
 THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 131 
 
 been unusually cross, on account of her pupil's having failed 
 in one or two lessons. 
 
 " I'll report you to Mr. Hastings, and see what he can 
 do,' ; she had said, as she hurled the French Grammar back 
 npoc the table. 
 
 This threat Dora had forgotten, until told that Mr. lias- 
 tings had scut for her ; then, fancying he wished to repri 
 mand her, she entered the parlor reluctantly, and rather 
 timidly took a seat upon an ottoman near the window, 
 where he was sitting. 
 
 During Dora's residence with Mrs. Elliott, she had 
 improved much, both in manner and personal appearance, 
 and others than the Texan planter called her beautiful. 
 The brownish hue, which her skin had acquired from fre. 
 quent exposure, was giving way to a clearer and more 
 brilliant complexion, while the peculiarly sweet expression 
 of her deep blue eyes would have made a plain face hand 
 some. But Dora's chief point of beauty lay in her hair 
 her beautiful hair of reddish brown. It had grown rapidly, 
 fully verifying Alice's prediction, and in heavy shining braids 
 was worn around her classically shaped head. And Dora 
 sat there very still demurely waiting for Mr. Hastings to 
 speak, wondering if he would be severe, and at last laughing 
 aloud when, in place of the expected rebuke, he asked if 
 she knew Mr. Trevors. 
 
 " Excuse me," she said, as she saw his look of surprrse. 
 " Miss Johnson threatened to report me for indolence, and 
 I thought you were going to scold me. Yes, I know Mr. 
 Trevors. I rode horseback with him last week." 
 
 A pang shot through Mr. Hastings's heart, but he con 
 tinued, holding up the letter. " He has sued for your hand, 
 He asks you to be his wife. Will you answer yes ?" 
 
 And trembling with excitement, he awaited her reply,
 
 134 DORA DEANE. 
 
 while the revelation of a new light was faintly dawning 
 Apon him. 
 
 " Mr. Trevors wish me to be his wife that old man !' 
 she exclaimed, turning slightly pale. " It cannot be ; let 
 me read the letter." And taking it from his hand, she stood 
 beneath the chandelier, and read it through, while Mr. Has 
 tings scanned her face to see if he could detect aught to 
 verify his fears. 
 
 But there was nothing, and breathing more freely, ho 
 said, as she returned to him the letter, " Sit down here, 
 Dora, and tell me what I shall say to him. But first con 
 sider well, Mr. Trevors is rich, and if money can make you 
 happy, you will be so as his wife." 
 
 Dora did not know why it was, but she could not endure 
 to hear him talk in such a calm unconcerned manner of 
 what was so revolting. It grieved her, and laying her 
 head upon the broad window seat, she began to cry. 
 Mr. Hastings did not this time say " Dora, my child," for 
 Louise had told him she was not a child, and he began to 
 think so, too. Drawing his chair nearer to her, and laying 
 his hand upon her hair, he said gently, " will you answer 
 me ?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied, somewhat bitterly. " If Mrs. Elliott is 
 tired of me, I will go away, but not with Mr. Trevors. I 
 would rather die than marry a man I did not love, because 
 of his gold." 
 
 " Noble girl 1" was Mr. Hastings's involuntary exclama- 
 ticn, but Dora did not hear it, and looking him in his face, 
 she said, " do you wish me to marry him ?" 
 
 ' Never, never," he answered, " him, nor any one else 1" 
 " Then tell him so," said she, unmindful of the latter part 
 of the remark. "Tell him I respect him, but I cannot be 
 bis wife."
 
 THE QUESTION ANSWEKED. 1X6 
 
 And rising to her feet she left the room, to wash a\vay in 
 another fit of tears, the excitement produced by her first oiler' 
 
 Very still sat Mr. Hastings wheu she was gone, thought 
 after thought crowding fast upon him, and half bewildering 
 him by their intensity. He could answer Louise's question 
 now 1 It had coine to him at last, sitting there with Mr. 
 Trevor's letter in his hand, and Dora at his feet. Dora 
 who was so dear to him, and his first impulse was to hasten 
 to her side, and sue for the love she could not give the grey- 
 haired Texan. 
 
 " And she will not tell me nay," he said. " It will como 
 to her as it has to me the love we have unconsciously 
 borne each other." 
 
 He arose to leave the room, but meeting his sister in the 
 door, he turned back, and seating himself with her in the 
 deep recess of the window, he told her of the mighty love 
 which had been so long maturing, and of whose existence 
 he did not dream until another essayed to come between him 
 and the object of his affection. 
 
 " And, Louise," he said, " Dora Deaue must be mine. 
 Are you willing will you call her sister, and treat her as 
 my wife ?" 
 
 And Mrs. Elliott answered, "I know, my brother, that 
 you love Dora Deane. I knew it when I asked you that 
 question, and if to-night I tried to tease you by making you 
 believe it possible that she cared for Mr. Trevors, it was to 
 show you the nature of your feelings for her. And I am 
 willing tlxat 't should be so but not yet. You must not 
 Bpeak to her of love, until you return. Hear me out," she 
 continued, as she saw in him a gesture of impatience. 
 " Dora is no longer a child but she is too young to bo 
 trammelled with an engagement. And it must not be. You 
 must leavj her free till she has seen more of *,hc world, and 
 her mind is more mature.
 
 136 DOHA DEANE. 
 
 "Free till another wins her from me," interrupted Mr. 
 Tastings, somewhat bitterly ; and his sister answered, " 1 
 am sure that will never be, though were you now to startle 
 her with your love she probably would refuse you." 
 
 " Never," he said emphatically ; and Mrs. Elliott replied 
 " I think she would. She respects and admires you, but 
 ar you have looked upon her as a child, so in like manner, 
 has she regarded you as a father, or, at least the hus 
 band of Ella, and such impressions must have time to wear 
 away. You would not take her with you, and it is better 
 to leave her as she is. I will watch over her and seek to 
 make her what your wife ought to be, and when you return 
 she will be older, will be capable of judging for herself, and 
 she will not tell you no. Do you not think my reasoning 
 good ? 
 
 " I suppose it is," he replied, " though it is sadly at vari 
 ance with my wishes. Were I sure no one would come be 
 tween us, I could more easily follow your advice, and were 
 it not that I go for her, I would give up my journey at once, 
 and stay where I could watch and see that no one camo 
 near." 
 
 " This I will do," said Mrs. Elliott, "and I fancy I can 
 keep her safe for you." 
 
 Awhile longer they talked together, and their conversation 
 was at last interrupted by the appeareuce of Dora herself, 
 who came to say good night. 
 
 " Come and sit by me, Dora," said Mr. Hastings, unmind 
 ful of his sister's warning glance. " Let me tell you what I 
 wish you to do while I am gone," and moving along upon 
 the sofa, he left a place for her at his side. 
 
 Scarcely was she seated when a servant appeared, wish 
 ing to speak with Mrs. Elliott, and Mr. Hastings was left 
 alone with Dora, with whom he merely talked of what he. 
 bopcd to find her when he returned. Once, indeed, he
 
 THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 15? 
 
 told her how often he should think of her, when he was fai 
 away, and asked as a keepsake a lock of her soft hair. 
 
 Three days afterwards he went to New York accompa 
 nied by Mrs. Elliott and Dora. He was to sail next morn 
 ing, and wishing to see as much of the latter as possible, he 
 felt somewhat chagrined when, soon after their arrival, his 
 Bister insisted upon taking her out for a time, and forbade 
 hiui to follow. For this brief separation, however, he was am 
 ply repaid when, on the morrow, his sister, who went with him 
 on board the vessel, placed in his hand at parting a daguer 
 reotype, which she told him not to open till she was gone. 
 He obeyed, and while Dora in his sister's home was weeping 
 that he had left them, he in his state-room was gazing 
 rapturously on a fair young face, which, looking out from 
 its handsome casing, would speak to him many a word of 
 I'omfort when he was afar en the lonely sea.
 
 Ill DORA DEANE 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA. 
 
 IT was night again in Calcutta, and in the same room 
 where we first found him was Nathaniel Deane not alone this 
 time, for standing before him was a stranger " an Amer 
 ican," he called himself, and the old East Indiaman, when he 
 heard that word, grasped again the hand of his unknown 
 guest, whose face he curiously scanned to see if before he 
 had looked upon it. But he had not, and pointing him to a 
 chair, he too sat down to hear his errand. Wishing to 
 know something of the character of the individual he had 
 come so far to see, Mr. Hastings, for he it was, conversed 
 awhile upon a variety of subjects, until, feeling sure that 
 'twas a noble, upright man, with whom he had to deal, he 
 said, " I told you, sir, that I came from New York, and so I 
 did ; but my home is in Duuwood." 
 
 One year ago, and Uncle Nat would have started with 
 delight at the mention of a place so fraught with remem 
 brances of Dora, but Eugenia's last cruel letter had chilled 
 his love, and now, when he thought of Dora, it was as one 
 incapable of either affection or gratitude. So, for a moment 
 he was silent, and Mr. Hastings, thinking he had not been 
 understood, was about to repeat his remark ; when Uncle 
 Nat replied, " My brother's widow lives in Dunwood Mrs. 
 Richurd Deane possibly you may have seen her 1" And
 
 MR. HASTES Gb iN INDIA. 13J 
 
 with a slight degree of awakeued interest, the little keen, 
 olack eyes looked out from under their thick shaggy eye 
 brows at Mr. Hastings, who answered, " I know the family 
 well. Dora is not now at homo, but is living with my 
 sister." 
 
 Many and many a time had Uncle Nat repeated to him 
 self the name of Dora, but never before had he heard it 
 from other lips, and the sound thrilled him strangely, bring 
 ing back in a moment all his olden love for one whose 
 mother had been so dear. In the jet black eyes there waa 
 a dewy softness now, and in the tones of his voice a deep 
 tenderness, as, drawing nearer to his guest, he said in a half 
 whisper, " Tell me of her of Dora for though I never 
 saw her, I knew her mother." 
 
 "And loved her too," rejoined Mr. Hastings, on purpose to 
 rouse up the old man, who, starting to his feet exclaimed, 
 " How knew you that ? You, whom I never saw until to 
 night I Who told you that I loved Fannie Deane ? Yes it 
 is true, young man true, though love does not express 
 what I felt for her ; she was my all my very life, and when 
 I lost her the world was a dreary blank. But go on tell 
 me of the child, and if she is like her mother. Though how 
 should you know ? You, who never saw my Fannie ?" 
 
 " I have seen her," returned Mr. Hastings, " but death was 
 there before me, and had marred the beauty of a face which 
 once must have been lovely. Five years ago last January I 
 found her dead, and at her side was Dora, sweetly sleeping, 
 with her arms around her mother's neck." 
 
 " You you," gasped the old man, drawing near to Mr. 
 Hastings "you found them thus 1 I could kneel at your 
 feet, whoever you may be, and bless you for coming here to 
 tell me this ; I never knew before how Fannie died. They 
 uever wrote me that, but go on and tell me all you know.
 
 140 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Did Fannie freeze to death while in India I counted mj 
 gold by hundreds of thousands ?" 
 
 Briefly Mr. Hastings told what he knew of Mrs. Deane'a 
 Bad death, \\hile the broad chest of Uncle Nat heaved with 
 broken sobs, and the big tears rolled down his sunken 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Heaven forgive me for tarrying here, while she was suf 
 fering so much 1" he cried ; " but whal of Dora ? She did 
 not die. I have written to her, and sent her many messages, 
 but never a word has she replied, save once " here Uucie 
 Nat's voice grew tremulous as he added, " and then she sent 
 nie this look 'twas Fauuie's hair," and he held to view 
 a silken tress much like the* one which lay next How- 
 ird Hastiugs's heart 1 " Oh, what a child it made of me, 
 the first sight of this soft hair," he continued, carefully re 
 turning it to its hiding-place, without a word of the gener 
 ous manner in which it had been paid for. 
 
 " Shall I tell him now ?" thought Mr. Hastings, but Un 
 cle Nathaniel spoke before him, and as if talking with him 
 self, said softly, " Oh, how I loved her, and what a wreck 
 that love has made of me. But I might have known it. 
 Twenty-one year's difference in our ages, was too great a 
 disparity, even had my face been fair as John's. She waa 
 seventeen, and I was almost forty ; I am sixty now, and 
 with every year added to my useless life, my love for her 
 has strengthened." 
 
 " Could you not transfer that love to her daughter ? Il 
 might make you happier," suggested Mr. Hastings, and 
 mournfully shaking his head, Uncle Nat replied, " No, no, 
 I've tried to win her love so hard. Have even thought of 
 going home, and taking her to my bosom as my own dar* 
 ling child but to all my advances, she has turned a deaf 
 ear. I could not make the mother love ine I cannot make
 
 MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA. 141 
 
 the child. It isn't in me, the way how, and I must live here 
 all alone. I wouldn't mind that so much, for I'm used to it 
 now, but when I come to die, there will be nobody to hold 
 my head, or to speak to me a word of comfort, unless God 
 sends Fannie back to me in the dark hour, and who knows 
 but he will ?" 
 
 Covering his face with his hands, Uncle Nathaniel cried 
 aloud, while Mr. Hastings, touched by his grief, and grow 
 ing each moment more and more indignant, at the deception 
 practised upon the lonesome old man, said slowly and dis 
 tinctly: " Dcra Deane never reteived your letter never dreamed 
 how much you loved her never knew that you had sent her 
 money. She has been duped abused and you most treach 
 erously cheated by a base, designing woman ! To tell you this, 
 sir, I have come over land and sea ! I might have written it, 
 but I would rather meet you face to face would know if you 
 were worthy to be the uncle of Dora Deane /" 
 
 Every tear was dried, and bolt upright, his keen eyes 
 flashing gleams of fire, and his glittering teeth ground 
 firmly together, Nathaniel Deane sat, rigid and immovable, 
 listening to the foul story of Dora's wrongs, till Mr. Has 
 tings came to the withholding of the letter, and the money 
 paid for Fanuie's hair. Then, indeed, his clenched fistg 
 struck fiercely at the empty air, as if Eugenia had been 
 there, and springing half way across the room, he exclaimed, 
 " The wretch ! The fiend ! The beast ! The Deeil ! ' 
 What shall I call her ? Help me to some name which will 
 be appropriate." 
 
 " You are doing very well, I think," said Mr. Hastings, 
 muling in spite of himself at this new phase in the charac 
 ter of the excited man, who, foaming with rage, continued 
 to stalk up and down the room, setting his feet upon the 
 floor with vengeance, and with every breath denouncing 
 Eugenia's perfidy.
 
 142 DORA DEANE. 
 
 *' Curse her !" he muttered, " for daring thus to maltreat 
 Funnie's child, and for making me to believe her so ungrate 
 ful and unkind. And she once cut off her hair to buy a 
 party dress with, you say," he continued, stopping in front 
 of Mr. Hastings, who nodded in the affirmative, while Uncle 
 Nat, as if fancying that the few thin locks, which grew 
 upon his own bald head, were Eugenia's long, black tresses, 
 clutched at them savagely, exclaiming, " The selfish 
 jade ! But I will be avenged, and Madam Eugenia shall 
 rue the day that she dared thus deceive me. That mother, 
 too, had not, it seems, been wholly guiltless. She waa 
 jealous of my Fannie she has been cruel to my child. I'll 
 remember that, too !" and a bitter laugh echoed through 
 the room, as the wrathful old man thought of revenge. 
 
 But as the wildest storm expends its fury, so Uncle 
 Nat at last grew calm, though on his dark face there were 
 still traces of the fierce passion which had swept over it. 
 Resuming his seat and looking across the table at Mr. Has 
 tings, he said, " It is not often that old Nat Deane is moved 
 as you have seen him moved to-night ; but the story you 
 told me set me on fire, and for a moment, I felt that I was 
 going mad. But I am now myself again, and would hear 
 how you learned all this." 
 
 In a few words, Mr. Hastings told of his foolish fancy for 
 Eugenia, and related the circumstance of his having over 
 heard her conversation at the hotel in Rochester. 
 
 " And Dora, you say, is beautiful and good," said Uncle 
 Nat ; " and I shall one day know her and see if there is in 
 ber aught like her angel mother, whose features are as perfect 
 to me now as when last I looked upon them beneath tie 
 locust trees." 
 
 Bending low his head, he seemed to be thinking of the 
 past, while Mr. Hastings, kissing fondly the picture of Dora 
 Deane, laid it softly upon the table, and then anxiously
 
 MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA. 143 
 
 awaited the result. Uncle Nathaniel did not see it at first, 
 but his eye ere long fell upon it, and, -with a cry like that 
 which broke from his lips when first he looked on his dead 
 Fannie's hair, he caught it up, exclaiming, " 'Tis her 'tia 
 Fannie my long lost darling, cotne back to me from the 
 other world. Oh, Fannie, Fannie 1" he cried, as if hia 
 reason were indeed unsettled, " I've been so lonesome here 
 without you. Why didn't you come before ?" 
 
 Again, for a time, he was silent, and Mr. Hastings could 
 see the tears dropping upon the face of Dora Deane, who 
 little dreamed of the part she was acting, far off in Hin- 
 dostan. Slowly the reality dawned upon Uncle Nat., and 
 speaking to Mr. Hastings, he said, " Who are you that 
 moves me thus from one extreme to another, maknig me first 
 a fury and then a child'?" 
 
 11 1 have told you I am Howard Hastings," answered the 
 young man, adding that the picture was not that of Fannie, 
 but her child. 
 
 " I know I know it," returned Uncle Nat, " but the first 
 sight of it drove me from my senses, it is so like her. The 
 same open brow, the same blue eyes, the same ripe lips, and 
 more than all, the same sweet smile which shone on me so 
 often 'mid the granite hills of New Hampshire. And it is 
 mine," he continued, making a movement to put it away. 
 " You brought it to me, and in return, if you have need for 
 gold, name the sum, and it shall be yours, even to half a 
 million." 
 
 Maney could not buy that picture from Howard Hastings, 
 tnd though it grieved him to do so, he said, very gently, 
 " I cannot part with the likeness, Mr. Deane, but we will 
 share it together until the original is gained." 
 
 Leaning upon his elbows and looking steadily at his visi 
 tor, Uncle Nathaniel said, " You have been married once ?*
 
 144 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " Yes, sir." answered Mr. Hastings, while his coun 
 tenance flushed, for he readily understood the nature of the 
 questioning to which he was to be subjected. 
 
 " What was the name of your wife ?" was the next 
 query, and Mr. Hastings replied, " Ella .Grey." 
 
 " Will you describe her ?" said Uncle Nat, and almost 
 &s vividly as the features of Dora Deane were delineated by 
 the artist's power, did Mr. Hastings portray by word the 
 laughing blue eyes, the pale, childish face, the golden curls, 
 and little airy form of her who had once slept upon his 
 bosom as his wife. 
 
 " And did you love her, this Ella Grey?" asked Uncle Nat. 
 
 " Love her ? Yes. But she is dead," answered Mr. Has 
 tings, while Uncle Nat continued : 
 
 " And now if I mistake not, you love Dora Deane ?" 
 
 " Yes, better than my life" said Mr. Hastings, firmly. 
 " Have you any objections ?" 
 
 " None whatever," answered Uncle Nat, " for, though you 
 are a stranger to me, there is that in your face which tells 
 me you would make my darling happy. But it puzzles m 
 to know how, loving one as you say you did, you can 
 forget and love another." 
 
 " I have not forgotten," said Mr. Hastings, sadly ; " God 
 forbid that I should e'er forget my Ella ; but, Mr. Deane, 
 though she was good and gentle, she was not suited to me. 
 Our minds were wholly unlike ; for what I most appreciated, 
 was utterly distasteful to her. She was a fair, beautiful 
 little creature, but she did not satisfy the higher, nobler feel 
 ings of my heart ; and she, too, knew it. She told me so 
 before she died, and spoke of a coming time when I would 
 love another. She did not mention Dora, who then seemed 
 like a child, but could she now come back to me, she would 
 approve my choice, for she, too, loved Dora Deane."
 
 MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA. 145 
 
 " Have you told her this ?" asked Uticle Nat " told 
 Dora how much you loved her ?" 
 
 " I have not," was Mr. Hastings's reply. " My sistei 
 would not suffer it until my return, when Dora will be more 
 mature. At first I would not listen to this ; but I yielded 
 at last ; consenting the more willingly to the long separation, 
 when I considered that with Louise she was at least safo 
 from Eugenia, and I hope, safe from any who might seek 
 either to harm her, or win her from me." 
 
 "You spoke of having stopped in Europe on your way 
 hither," said Uncle Nat. " How long is it since you left 
 New York ?" 
 
 " I sailed from there the latter part, of June, almost ten 
 months ago," was Mr. Hastiugs's answer, adding that, as he 
 wished to visit some parts of Europe, and left home with 
 the ostensible purpose of doing so, he had thought it advis 
 able to stop there on his way, for he well knew that Mr. 
 Deane, after learning why he had come, would be impatient 
 to return immediately. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you are right," answered the old man. " I 
 would go to-morrow if possible ; but I shall probably never 
 return to India, and I must make some arrangements for 
 leaving my business in the hands of others. Were Dora 
 still in Eugenia's power, I would not tarry a moment. I 
 would sacrifice everything to save her, but as you say she is 
 safe with your sister, and a few week's delay, though annoy 
 ing 'to me, will make no difference with her. Do they know 
 aught of this those wretches in Dunwood ?" he continued, 
 Irgimiing to grow excited. 
 
 " They suppose me to be in Europe, for to no one save 
 D/ mother and sister, did I breathe a \vord of India," Mr. 
 Hastings replied ; and Uncle Nat rojoiueJ, " Let them con 
 tinue to think so, then. I would rather they should not 
 
 1
 
 t4 i)ORA DEANE. 
 
 suspect ray presence in America until I meet them face to 
 face, and taunt them with their treachery. It shall not be 
 long, either, before I do it. In less than a month, we are 
 homeward bound and then, Miss Eugenia Deane we'll 
 see !" aad his hard fist came down upon the table, as he 
 thought of her dismay when told that he stood before her. 
 
 But alas for Uncle Nat ! The time was farther in the 
 distance than he anticipated. The excitement of what he 
 had heard, told upon a frame already weakened by constant 
 toil and exposure in the sultry climate of India, and one 
 week from the night of Mr. Hastings's arrival, the old 
 man lay burning with fever, which was greatly augmented 
 by the constant chafing at the delay this unexpected illness 
 would cause. Equally impatient, Mr. Hastings watched 
 over him, while his heart grew faint with hope deferred, as 
 weeks, and even months, glided by ; while vessel after ves 
 sel sailed away, leaving Uncle Nat prostrate and powerless 
 to move. He had never been sick before in all his life, and 
 his shattered frame was long in rallying, so that the sum 
 mer, and the autumn and a part of the winter passed away, 
 ere, leaning heavily on Mr. Hastings's arm, he went on board 
 the ship which was to take him home take him to Dora 
 Deane, who had listened wonderingly to the story of hei 
 wrongs, told her by Mrs. Elliott at Mr. Hastings's request. 
 
 Indignant as she was at Eugenia, she felt more than re 
 paid for all she had suffered, by the knowledge that Uncle 
 Nat had always loved her ; and many a cheering letter from 
 her found its way to the bedside of the invalid, who laid each 
 one beneath his pillow, beside the picture which Mr. Hast 
 ings suffered him to keep. More than once, too, had Dora 
 written to Mr. Hastings kind, sisterly notes, with which he 
 tried to be satisfied, for he saw that she was the same frank, 
 ingenuous girl he had left, and from one or two things whicb
 
 MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA. U7 
 
 she wrote, he fancied he was not indifferent to her. " She 
 did not, at least, care for another," so Louise assured him. 
 There was comfort in that, and during the weary days when 
 their floating home lay, sometimes becalmed and sometimes 
 tossed by adverse winds, he and Uncle Nat whiled away the 
 tedious hours, by talking of the happiness which awaited 
 them when home was reached at last. 
 
 During Mr. Deane's illness, Mr. Hastings had suggested 
 that the annual remittance be sent to Dunwood, as usual, 
 lest they should suspect that something was wrong, if it 
 were withheld, and to this Uncle Nat reluctantly consented, 
 saying, as he did so, " It's the last dime they'll ever receive 
 from me. I'll see her starve before my eyes, that girl Eu 
 genia." 
 
 Still, as the distance between himself and the young lady 
 dimii.ished, he felt a degree of satisfaction in knowing that 
 the draft had as usual been sent, thus lulling her into a state 
 of security with regard to himself. Rapturously he talked 
 of the meeting with Dora, but his eye was fiery in its ex 
 pression when he spoke of that other meeting, when Euge 
 nia would be the accused and he the wrathful accuser. The 
 invigorating sea breeze did him good, and when at last the 
 Cape was doubled and he knew that the waves which 
 dashed against the ship, bore the same name with those 
 which kissed the shores of America, he stood forth upon tho 
 deck, tall and erect as ever, with an eager, expectant look 
 in his eye, which increased as he each day felt that he dretf 
 Bearer and nearer to his home and Dora Deane '
 
 (44 DORA DEANB. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 ONE bright, beautiful summer morning, a noble vessel 
 was sailing slowly into the harbor of New York. Groups 
 of passengers stood upon her deck, and a little apart from 
 the rest were Uncle Nat and Howard Hastings, the former 
 gazing eagerly towards the city, which had more than 
 doubled its population since last he looked upon it. 
 
 " We are almost home," he said to his companion, joy 
 fully, for though the roof that sheltered his childhood wag 
 further to the northward, among the granite hills, he knew 
 that it was America, the land of his birth, which lay before 
 him, and as a child returns to its mother after a long and 
 weary absence, so did his heart yearn towards the shore they 
 were fast approaching. 
 
 A crowd of memories came rushing over him, and when, 
 at last, the plank was lowered, he was obliged to lean upon 
 the' stronger arm of Howard Hastings, who, procuring a 
 carriage, bade the hackman drive them at once to his sister's. 
 For some time Mrs. Elliott and Dora had been looking for 
 the travellers, whose voyage was unusually long, and they 
 had felt many misgivings lest the treacherous sea had not 
 been faithful to its trust ; but this morning they were not 
 expecting them, and wishing to make some arrangements 
 for removing to her country seat on the Hudson, Mrs. Elliott 
 had gone out there and taken Dora with her. Mr. Hast?
 
 THE MEETING. 149 
 
 ings's first impulse was to follow them, but knowing that they 
 would surely be homo that night, aud remembering how 
 weary Uucle Nathaniel was, he wisely concluded to remain 
 in the city and suprise them on their return. 
 
 Like one in a dream, Uncle Nat walked from room to 
 room, asking every half hour if it were not almost time for 
 the train, aud wondering if Dora would recognize him if no 
 one told her who he was. Scarcely less excited, Mr. Hast- 
 ins, too, waited and watched ; and when, just at dark, ho 
 heard the door unclose, and Dora's voice in the hall without, 
 the rapid beating of his heart was distinctly audible. 
 
 " That's her that's Dora. I'll go to her at once," said 
 CTncle Nat ; but Mr. Hastings kept him back, and Dora 
 passed on to her room, from which she soon returned, and 
 they could hear the sound of her footsteps upon the stairs, as 
 she drew near. 
 
 With his face of a deathlike whiteness, his lips apart, and 
 the perspiration standing thickly about them, Uncle Nat 
 sat leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon the door through 
 which she would enter. In a moment she stood before 
 them Dora Deane but far more lovely than Mr. Hast 
 ings had thought or dreamed. Nearly two years before, he 
 had left her a school girl, as it were, and now he found her 
 a beautiful woman, bearing about her an unmistakable air 
 of refinement and high breeding. She knew him in an instant, 
 aud with an exclamation of surprised delight, was hasten 
 ing forward, when a low, moaning cry, from another part 
 of the room, arrested her ear, causing her to pause ere Mr. 
 Hastings was reached. 
 
 Uncle Nat had recognized her knew that she was Doia, 
 and attempted to rise, but his strength utterly foiled him, 
 and stretching out his trembling arms towards her, he said, 
 Bupplicatingly, "me. first, Dora me first."
 
 150 DORA DEANE. 
 
 It wa. sufficient, and Dora passed on with a welcoming 
 glance at Mr. Hastings, who feeling that it was not for him 
 to witness that meeting, glided noiselessly from the room in 
 quest of his sisier. Fondly the old man clasped the yonng 
 girl to his bosoro, and Dora could hear the whispered bless 
 ings which he breathed over her, and felt the hot tears 
 dropping f/u Lf r oheek. 
 
 " Speak to 'jQ'j, darling," he said at last ; " let me hear 
 your ov.n Wje assuring me that never again shall we be 
 parted, wAil yjar mother calls for me to come and be with 
 her." 
 
 Loc>'ng lovingly up into his face, Dora answered, " I 
 will never leave nor forsake you, my father, but wherever 
 your home may be there will mine be also." 
 
 Clasping her still closer in his arms, he said, " God blesa 
 you, my child, for so I will call yoa, and never, I am sure, 
 did earthly parent love more fondly an only daughter than 
 I love you, my precious Dora. I have yearned so often to 
 behold you, to look into your eyes and hear you say that I 
 was loved, and now that it has come to me, I am willing, 
 almost, to die." 
 
 Releasing her after a moment, and holding her off at a 
 little distance, he looked earnestly upon her, saying, as he 
 did so, " Yes, you are like her like your mother, Dora. 
 Some, perhaps, would call you even more beautiful, but to 
 me there is not in all the world a face more fair than hers." 
 
 In his delight at seeing her, he forgot for the time being 
 how deeply she had been injured, and it was well that he did, 
 for now nothing marred the happiness of this meeting, and for 
 half an hour longer he sat with her alone, talking but little, 
 but lookiog ever at the face so much like her whom he had 
 loved and lost. At last, as if suddenly remembering him 
 self, he said, "Excuse me, Dora; the sight of you drove
 
 THE MEETIXG. 151 
 
 ^ other thought from nay mind, and I have kept "you 
 toe v *ig from one who loves you equally well with myself, 
 and who must be impatient at the delay. He is worthy of 
 you, too, my child," he continued, without observing how the 
 color faded from Dora's cheeks. "He is a noble young 
 man, and no son was ever kinder to a father than he haa 
 been to me, since the night when I welcomed him to my 
 home in India. Go to him, then, my daughter, and ask him 
 to forgive my selfishness." 
 
 From several little occurrences, Dora had received the im 
 pression that a marriage between herself and Mr. Hastings 
 would not be distasteful to his sister, but she had treated 
 the subject lightly as something impossible. Still the 
 thought of his loving another was fraught with pain, and 
 when at last she knew that he was on the stormy sea, and 
 felt that danger might befall him when the faces of his 
 mother and sister wore an anxious, troubled look as days 
 went by, bringing them no tidings when she thought it just 
 possible that he would never return to them again, it came 
 to her just as two years before it had come to him, and sit 
 ting alone in her pleasant chamber, she, more than once, 
 had wept bitterly, as she thought how much she loved him, 
 and how improbable it was that he should care for her, whom 
 he had found almost a beggar girl. 
 
 In the first surprise of meeting him she had forgotten every 
 thing, save that he had returned to them in safety, and her 
 manner towards him then was perfectly natural ; but now, 
 when Uncle Nat, after telling what he did, bade her go to 
 him, she quitted the room reluctantly, and much &s she 
 wished to see him, she would undoubtedly have run away 
 up stairs, had she not met him in the hall, together with 
 Mrs. Elliott, who was goiug to pay her respects to Uncl 
 Nat.
 
 152 DORA DEANE. 
 
 ' I have not spoken with you yet, Dora," he said, taking 
 her hand between both his. " Go in there," motioning to 
 the room he had just left, " and wait until I present Louise 
 to yonr uncle." 
 
 It was a habit of Dora's always to cry just when she 
 wished to least, and now entering the little music room, she 
 threw herself upon the sofa and burst into tears. Thus Mr. 
 ] Tastings found her on his return, and sitting down by her 
 side, he said gently, " Are you, then, so glad that I have 
 corno home ?" 
 
 Dora would not, for the world, let him know her real 
 feelings, and she answered, " Yes, I am glad, but I am cry 
 ing at what Uncle Nat said to me." 
 
 Mr. Hastings bit his lip, for this was not exactly the kind 
 of meeting he had anticipated, and after sitting an awkward 
 moment, during which he was wishing that she had not ans 
 wered him as she did, he said : "Will you not look up, 
 Dora, and tell me how you have passed the time of my ab 
 sence ? I am sure you have improved it, both from your own 
 appearance and what Louise has told me." 
 
 This was a subject on which Dora felt that she could trust 
 herself, and drying her tears, she became very animated aa 
 she told him of the books she had read, and the studies she 
 had pursued. " I have taken music lessons, too," she added. 
 " Would you like to hear me play ?" 
 
 Mr. Hastings would far rather have sat there, watching 
 her bright face, with his arm thrown lightly around her 
 waist, but it was this very act, this touch of his arm, which 
 prompted her proposal, and gracefully disengaging herself, 
 vhc crossed over to the piano, which was standing in the 
 room, and commenced singing the old, and on that occasion, 
 very appropriate song of "Home again, home again, from 
 a foreign shore." The tones of her voice were rich and full,
 
 THE MEETING. 16* 
 
 and they reached the ear of Uncle Nat, wlio in his eager 
 ness to listen, forgot everything, until Mrs. Elliott said, 'It 
 >s Dora singing to my brother. Shall we join them ?" 
 
 Leading the way she ushered him into the music room, 
 where, standing at Dora's side, he listened rapturously to 
 her singing, occasionally wiping away a tear, called forth 
 by the memories that song had awakened. The sight of 
 the piano reminded him of Eugenia, and when Dora had 
 finished playing, he laid his broad hand upon her shoulder 
 and said, " Do you ever hear from them the villains ?" 
 
 Dora knew to whom he referred, and half laughing at his 
 excited manner, she replied, as she stole a mischievous 
 glance towards Mr. Hastings, " I received a letter from Eu 
 genia not long since, and she seemed very anxious to know 
 in what part of Europe Mr. Hastings was now travelling, and 
 if he were ever coming home 1" 
 
 " Much good his coming home will do her, the trollop /" 
 muttered Uncle Nat, whispering incoherently to himself as he 
 generally did, when Eugenia was the subject of his thoughts. 
 "Don't answer the letter," he said at last, "or, if you 
 do, say nothing of me ; I wish to meet them first as a 
 stranger." 
 
 Near the window Mr. Hastings was standing, revolving 
 in his own mind a double surprise which he knew would mor 
 tify Eugenia more than anything else. But in order to ef 
 fect this, Uncle Nat must remain incog, for some time yet, 
 while Dora herself must be won, and this, with the jealous 
 fears of a lover, he fancied might be harder to accomplish 
 than the keeping Uncle Nat silent when in the presence of 
 Eugenia. 
 
 " To-morrow I will see her alone, and know the worst," 
 he thought, and glancing at Dora, he felt a thrill of feat 
 lest she, in all the freshness of her youth, should refuse hef 
 
 7*
 
 154 DORA DEANE. 
 
 heart, to one, who had called another than herself his 
 wife. 
 
 But Ella Grey had never awakened a love as deep and ab- 
 sorbing as that which he now felt for Dora Deane, and all 
 that night he lay awake, wondering how he should ap 
 proach her, and fancying sometimes that he saw the cold 
 surprise with which she would listen to him, and again that 
 he read in her dark blue eyes the answer which he sought. 
 The morrow came, but throughout the entire day, he found 
 no opportunity of speaking to her alone, for Uncle Nat 
 hovered near her side, gazing at her as if he would never 
 tire of looking at her beautiful face. And Dora, too, had 
 much to say to the old man, on this the first day after his 
 return. With his head resting upon her lap, and her soft 
 white hand upon his wrinkled brow, she told him of her 
 mother, and the message she had left for him on the sad 
 night when she died. Then she spoke of her aunt Sarah, 
 of Eugenia and Alice, and the wrath of Uncle Nat was 
 somewhat abated, when he heard fier pleading with him not 
 to be so angry and unforgiving 
 
 " I can treat Alice well, perhaps," he said, " for she, it 
 seems, was never particularly unkind. And for your sake, 
 I may forgive the mother. But Eugenia never ! not even 
 if Fannie herself should ask me 1" 
 
 Thus passed that day, and when the next one came. 
 Uncle Nat still staid at Dora's side, following her from 
 room to room, and never for a moment leaving Mr. Hastings 
 with her alone. In this manner nearly a week went by, and 
 the latter was beginning to despair, when one evening as 
 the three were together in the little music room, and Mrs. 
 Elliott was with her mother, who was ill, it suddenly occurred 
 to Uncle Nat that he had appropriated Dora entirely to 
 himself, not giving Mr. Hastings a single opportunity fof 
 her alone.
 
 THE MEETING. 151 
 
 " I have wondered that he did not tell me he was en 
 gaged," he thought, " but how could he when I haven't 
 g'.ven him a chance to speak to her, unless he did it before 
 me ; strange, I should be so selfish : but I'll make amenda 
 oow though I do hope he'll be quick !" 
 
 Rising up, he walked to the door, when thinking that Mr. 
 Hastings might possibly expect him to. return every mo 
 ment, and so keep silent, he said, " I've been in the way of 
 you young folks long enough, and I feel just as if something 
 might happen if I left you together 1 Call me when you 
 want me?" so saying he shut the door, and Mr. Hastings 
 was alone at last with Dora Deane 1 
 
 Both knew to what Uncle Nat referred, and while Dora 
 fidgeted from one thing to another, looking at a book of 
 prints wrong side up, and admiring the pictures, Mr. Hast 
 ings sat perfectly still, wondering why he was so much 
 afraid of her. Two years before he felt no fear ; but a 
 refusal at that time would not have affected him as it 
 would do now, for he did not then know how much he loved 
 her. Greatly he desired that she should speak to him 
 look at him or do something to break the embarrassing 
 silence ; but this Dora had no intention of doing, and she 
 was just meditating the propriety of running away, when ho 
 found voice enough to say, " Will you come and sit by me, 
 Dora ?" 
 
 She had always obeyed him, and she did so now, taking 
 a seat, however, as far from him as possible, on the end of 
 the sofa. Still, when he moved up closely to her side, 
 and wound his arm about her, she did not object, though 
 her face burned with blushes, and she thought it quite likely 
 that her next act would be to cry ! And this she did do, 
 when he said to her, " Dora, do you remember the night 
 when Ella died ?"
 
 tftg DORA DEANE. 
 
 He did not expect any answer yet, and he continued, 
 " She told me, you know, of a time when, though not for 
 getting her, I should love another should seek to call 
 another my wife. And, Dora, she was right, for I do lor* 
 another, better, if it be possible, than I did my lost Ella. 
 'Tis four years since she left me, and now that I would have 
 a second wife, will the one whom I have chosen from all the 
 world to be that wife, answer me yes ? Will she go back 
 with me in the autumn to my long deserted home, where her 
 presence always brought sunlight and joy ?" 
 
 There was no coquetry about Dora Deane, and she could 
 not have practised it now, if there had been. She knew 
 Mr. Hastings was in earnest knew that he meant what he 
 said and the little hand, which at first had stolen partly 
 under her dress, lest he should touch it, came back from its 
 hiding-place, and crept slowly along until his was reached, 
 and there she let it lay 1 This was her answer, and he was 
 satisfied ! 
 
 For a long, long time they sat together, while Mr. Hast 
 ings talked, not wholly of the future when she would be his 
 wife, but of the New Year's morning, years ago, when he 
 found her sleeping in the chamber of death of the bright 
 Juue afternoon, when she sat with her bare feet in the run 
 ning brook of the time when she first brought comfort to 
 his home of the dark, rainy evening, when the sight of 
 her sitting in Ella's room, with Ella's baby on her lap, had 
 cheered his aching heart of the storm she had braved to 
 tell him his baby was dying of the winter night when he 
 watched her through the window of the dusky twilight 
 when she sat at his feet in the little library at Rose Hill 
 and again in his sister's home on the Hudson, when he first 
 knew how much he loved her. Of all these pictures so in- 
 ielibly stamped upon his memory, he told her, and of th
 
 THE MEETING. 167 
 
 many, many limes his thoughts had been of her when afur 
 on a foreign shore. 
 
 And Dora, listening to him, did not care to answer, her 
 oeart was so full of happiness, to know that she should h 
 Urns loved by one like Howard Hastings. From a tower not fai 
 .li^taut, a city clock struck twelve, and then, starting up, she ex- 
 daiu xl, " So late! I thought 'twas only ten ! We have kept 
 Uncle N&o too long. Will you go with me to him ?" and with 
 his arms still around her, Mr. Hastings arose to accompany her. 
 
 For half an hour after leaving the music-room Uncle Nat 
 had walked up and down the long parlors, with his hands 
 in his pockets, hoping Mr. Hastings would be brief, and 
 expecting each moment to hear Dora calling him back ! la 
 this manner an hour or more went by, and then grown very 
 nervous and cold (for it was a damp, chilly night, such as 
 often occurs in our latitude, even in summer) he began to 
 think that if Dora were not coming, a fire would be accep 
 table, and he drew his chair near to the register, which was 
 closed. Wholly unaccustomed to furnaces, he did not think 
 to open it, and for a time longer he sat wondering why he 
 didn't grow warm, and if it took everybody as long to pro 
 pose as it did Mr. Hastings. 
 
 It " didn't take me long to tell my love to Fanny," he said, 
 " but then she refused, and when they accept, as Dora will, 
 it's always a longer process, I reckon !" 
 
 This point satisfactorily settled, he began to wish the 
 atmosphere of the room would moderate, and hitching in 
 bis chair, he at last sat directly over the register ! but even 
 ,his failed to warm him, and mentally concluding that, 
 * though furnaces might do very well for New Yorkers, they 
 irere of no account whatever to an East India man," he fell 
 asleep. In this situation, Dora found him. 
 
 " Poor old man.-"" said she, " 'twas thoughtless in me te
 
 158 DORA DEANE. 
 
 leave him so long," a,nd kissing his brow, she cried, " Wake 
 up, Uncle Nat wake up!" and Uncle Nat rubbing his eyea 
 with his red stiff fingers, and looking in her glowing face, 
 knew " that something had happened I"
 
 fHE SrRINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE SPRINGS. 
 
 MR. HASTINGS and Dora were engaged. Mrs. Hastings, 
 the mother, and Mrs. Elliott, the sister, had signified their 
 entire approbation, while Uncle Nat, with a hand placed on 
 either head of the young people, had blessed them as his 
 children, hinting the while that few brides e'er went forth as 
 richly dowered as should Dora Deane. The marriage was not 
 to take place until the following October, as Mr. Hastings 
 wished to make some improvements at Rose Hill, which was 
 still to be his home proper, though Uncle Nat insisted upon 
 buying a very elegant house in the city for a winter residence, 
 whenever they chose thus to use it. To this proposal Mr. 
 Hastings made no objection, for though he felt that his 
 greatest happiness would be in having Dora all to himself in 
 Dunwood, he knew that society in the city would never have 
 the effect upon her which it did upon Ella, for her tastes, 
 like his own, were domestic, and on almost every subject 
 she felt and thought as he did. 
 
 Immediately after his engagement he imparted to Uncle 
 Nat a knowledge of the double surprise he had planned for 
 Eugenia, and the old gentleman at last consented, saying, 
 though, that " 'twas doubtful whether he could hold him 
 self together when first he met the young lady. StLU, with 
 Mr Hastings's presence as a check, he would try "
 
 f0 DORA DEANE. 
 
 So it was arranged that in Dunwood, where Mr. Hixstings'a 
 return was still unknown, Uncle Nat should pass as a Mr 
 Hamilton, whom Mr. Hastings had picked up in his travels. 
 Four years of his earlier life had been spent in South 
 America, and whenever he spoke of any particular 
 place of abode it was to be of Buenos Ayres, where he had 
 once resided. By this means he could the more easily learn 
 for himself the character and disposition of his relatives, 
 and feeling now more eager than ever to meet them, he here 
 started with Mr. Hastings for Dunwood. It was morning 
 when they reached there, and with a dark, lowering brow, 
 he looked curiously at the house which his companion desig 
 nated as Locust Grove,. It was a pleasant spot, and it 
 Bcemed almost impossible that it should be the home of a 
 woman as artful and designing as Eugenia. About it now, 
 however, there was an air of desertion. The doors were 
 shut and the blinds closed, as if the inmates were absent. 
 
 On reaching Rose Hill, where he found his servants over 
 whelmed with delight at his unexpected return, Mr. Has 
 tings casually inquired of Mrs. Leah if the Deanes were at 
 home. A shadow passed over the old lady's face, and fold 
 ing her arms, she leaned against the door and began : " I 
 wonder now, if you're askin' after them the first thing ! I 
 don't know but they are well enough, all but E'" - " iia. I 
 believe I never disliked anybody as I do her, ami ;> won 
 der, the way she's gone on. At first she used to .;>ce up 
 here almost every week on purpose to ask about you, though 
 she pretended to tumble over your books, and mark 'em all 
 up with her pencil. But when that scapegrace Stephen 
 Grey came, she took another tuck, and the way she and ha 
 went on was scandalous. She was a runnin' up here the 
 whole time that he wasn't a streakin' it down there." 
 
 " Stephen Grey been here ? When and what for ?" inter
 
 THE SPRINGS. 161 
 
 rupted Mr. Hastings, who, as his father-in-law, during hia 
 absence, had removed to Philadelphia, knew nothing of the 
 family. 
 
 " You may well ask that," returned Mrs. Leah, growing 
 much excited as she remembered the trouble the fast 
 g man had made her. " Last fall in shootin' time, he 
 came here, bag, baggage, guns, dogs and all said it didn't 
 make a speck of difference, you being away 'twas all in the 
 family, and so you'd a' thought, the way he went on, drinkin, 
 sweariu', shootin', and carousin' with a lot of fellers who staid 
 with him here a spell, and then, when they were gone, he took 
 a flirtin' with Eugenia Deane, who told him, I'll bet, more'n 
 fire hundred lies about an old uncle that, she says, is rich 
 as a Jew, and has willed his property to her and Alice." 
 
 " The viper !" muttered Uncle Nat to himself ; and Mrs. 
 Leah continued, " I shouldn't woucler if old Mr. Grey was 
 gettiu' poor, and Steve, I guess, would marry anybody who 
 had money ; but Lord knows I don't want him to have her, 
 for though he ain't an atom too good, I used to live in the 
 family, and took care of him when he was little. I should 
 a' written about his carryin's on to Mrs. Elliott, only I knew 
 she didn't think any too much of the Greys, and 'twould 
 only trouble her for nothiu'." 
 
 " But where are they now Mrs. Deane and her daugh 
 ters ?" asked Mr. Hastings ; and Mrs. Leah replied, " Gone 
 to Avon Springs ; ind folks do say they've done their own 
 woik, and ate cold victuals off the pantry shelf ever since last 
 November, so as to save money, to cut a swell. I guess Eu 
 Ereda'll be mighty glad if that old uncle ever dies. For my 
 part, I hope he won't 1 or, if he does, I hope he won't leave 
 her a dollar." 
 
 " Not a dime .'" thought Uncle Nat, who, not being sup 
 posed to feel interested in Eugenia Deane, had tried to ap-
 
 162 DORA DEANE. 
 
 pear indifferent, holding hard the while upon the roinds of 
 his chair " to keep himself together." 
 
 Alone with Mr. Hastings, his wrath burst forth, but after 
 a few tremendous explosions, he grew calm, and proposed 
 that they too should g at once to Avon. " We shall then 
 see the lady in all her glory," said he, " and maybe hear 
 something about her old uncle, though you'll have to keep 
 your eye on me, or I shall go off on a sudden, and shake 
 her as a dog would a snake ! We'll send for Mrs. Elliott 
 and Dora to join us there," he continued ; " it will be fun 
 io bring them together, and see what Eugenia will do." 
 
 " I am afraid you could not restrain yourself," said Mr. 
 'Castings ; but Uncle Nat was sure he could, and after a few 
 t'ays they started for Avon, where " Miss Eugenia Deaue, 
 ilie heiress," was quite a belle. 
 
 For a long time after Mr. Hastings's departure for Eu- 
 Tope, she had remained true to him, feeding on the remem 
 brance of his parting words, that " he had more reasons for 
 remembering her than she supposed ;" but when, as mouths 
 went by, he seat her neither letter, paper nor message, she 
 began to think that possibly he had never entertained a 
 serious thought concerning her, and when Stephen Grey 
 came, she was the more ready to receive his attentions, and 
 forgive his former neglect. He was a reckless, unprincipled 
 fellow, and feeling this time rather pleased with the bold 
 dashing manner of Eugenia, backed as it was by the sup 
 posed will of Uncle Nat, he made some advances, which 
 uhe readily met, making herself and him, as Mrs. Leah had 
 laid, "perfectly ridiculous." When he left Dunwood he 
 went west, telling her playfully, that, "if he foand no one 
 there who suited him better than she, he would the next sum 
 mer meet her at Avon, and perhaps propose 1 He was 
 disgusted with Saratoga, Newport, Nahant, and all thosa
 
 THE SPRINGS. 168 
 
 stupid places," he said " and wished to try something 
 new." 
 
 To spend several weeks at Avon, therefore, was now 
 Eugenia's object. She had succeeded in coaxing her mother 
 to withhold from Dora the thousand dollars, a part of which 
 was safely invested for their own benefit, but this alone 
 would not cover all their expenses, for Mrs. Deane, growing 
 gay and foolish as she grew older, declared her intention of 
 going to Avon also. " The water would do her good," she 
 said, " and 'twas time she saw a little of society." 
 
 To this plan Eugenia did not particularly object, " for it 
 would indicate wealth," she thought, for the whole family to 
 spend the summer at a watering place. Still it would cost 
 a great deal, and though Uncle Nat's remittance came at 
 the usual time, they did not dare to depend wholly upon 
 that, lest on their return there shoukl be nothing left with 
 which to buy their bread. In this emergency, they hit 
 upon the expedient of dismissing their servant, and starv 
 ing themselves through the winter and spring, for the pur 
 pose of making a display in the summer ; and this last 
 they were now doing. Eugenia fluttered like a butterfly, 
 sometimes in white satin, sometimes in pink, and again in 
 embroidered muslin ; while her mother, a very little dis 
 gusted with society, but still determined to brave it through, 
 held aside her cambric wrapper and made faces over thru 
 glasses of spring water in the morning, drowned herself in a 
 hot bath every other day, rode twice a day in crowded 
 omnibuses to and from the springs, through banks of sand 
 and clouds of dust, and sat every evening in the heated 
 parlors with a very red face, and a very tight dress, won 
 dering if everybody enjoyed themselves as little in society 
 as she did, and thinking ten dollars per week a great deaJ 
 to pay for being as uncomfortable as she was I
 
 164 DORA DEANE. 
 
 For her disquietude, however, she felt in a measura 
 repaid when she saw that Eugenia was the most showy 
 young lady present, and managed to keep about her a cross 
 eyed widower, a near sighted-bachelor, a medical student 
 of nineteen, a broken down merchant, a lame officer, a 
 spiritualist, and Stephen Grey 1 This completed the list of 
 her admirers, if we except a gouty old man, who praised her 
 dancing, and would perhaps have called her beautiful, but 
 for his better half, who could see nothing agreeable or 
 pleasing in the dashing belle. True to his promise, Stephen 
 Grey had met her there, and they were in the midst of quite 
 a flirtation, when Mr. Hastings and Uncle Nat arrived ; 
 the latter registering his name as Mr. Hamilton; and taking 
 care soon after to speak of Buenos Ay res, as a place where 
 he formerly lived. The ruse was successful, and in less than 
 half an hour, it was known through the house, that " the 
 singular looking old gentleman was a South American, a 
 bachelor, and rich undoubtedly, as such men always 
 were ! 
 
 The Deanes were that afternoon riding with Stephen 
 Grey, and did not return until after supper, a circumstance 
 which Eugenia greatly lamented when she learned that their 
 numbers had been increased by the arrival of an elegant 
 looking stranger from New York, together with an old 
 South American, whose name was Hamilton. The name of 
 the other Eugenia's informant did not know, for he had not 
 registered it, but " he was a splendid-looking man," she 
 said, and with more than usual care, Eugenia dressed her* 
 self for the evening, and between the hours of eight aud 
 nine, sailed into the parlor with the air of a queen. 
 
 From his window in an upper chamber Uncle Nat had 
 seen the ladies, as they returned from their ride ; and when 
 Mr. Hastings, who at that time was absent from the room,
 
 THE SPRINGS. 165 
 
 came back to it, he found the old gentleman hnrriedly 
 pacing the floor and evidently much excited. 
 
 " I've seen her," said he, " the very one herself Eugenia 
 Diane ! I knew her mother in a moment, and I knew he? 
 too, by her evil eyes. I could hardly refrain from pouncing 
 apon her, and I believe I did shake my fist at her ! But 
 it's over now," he continued, " and I am glad I have seen 
 her, for I can meet her and not betray myself ; though, 
 Hastings, if at any time I am missing, yon may know that 
 I've come up here to let myself off, for my wrath must evapo 
 rate somehow." 
 
 Feeling confident that he could trust him, Mr. Hastings 
 ere long accompanied him to the parlor, where his gen 
 tlemanly manners, and rather peculiar looks procured for 
 him immediate attention ; and when Eugenia entered the 
 room, he was conversing familiarly with some gentlemen 
 whose notice she had in vain tried to attract. At a little 
 distance from him and nearer the door was Mr. Hastings, 
 talking to Stephen Grey. Eugenia did not observe him 
 until she was directly at his side, then, turning pale, she 
 uttered an exclamation of surprise, while he, in his usual 
 polite, easy manner, offered his hand, first to her mother, and 
 then to herself and Alice, saying, in reply to their many 
 Inquiries as to when he returned, that he reached Dunwood 
 a few days before, and finding they were all at Avon, had 
 concluded to follow. At this remark the pallor left Eugenia's 
 cheek, and was succeeded by a bright glow, for " Mr. Hastings 
 must feel interested in her, or he would not have followed her 
 there ;" and the black eyes, which a few hours before had 
 smiled so bewitchingly upon Stephen Grey, now shone with a 
 brighter lustre, as she talked with Mr. Hustings of his Euro 
 pean tour, asking him why he had staid so long, and telling 
 him how natural it seemed to have him home once more.
 
 166 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " By the way," she continued, " they say thtre is an old 
 South American here a queer old fellow did he com* 
 with you ?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Hastings, glancing towards Uncle 
 ^at, whose eyes had never for a moment lost sight of 
 Eugenia ; " I found him in my travels, and liking him very 
 much, brought him home with me. Allow me to introduce 
 you, for though rather eccentric, he's a fine man, and quite 
 wealthy, too." 
 
 " Wealth is nothing ! I wouldn't think any more of him 
 for that," returned Eugenia, taking Mr. Hastings's arm, and 
 advancing toward Uncle Nat, whose left hand grasped 
 tightly one side of his blue coat, while the other was offered 
 to Eugenia. 
 
 With a slight shudder, he dropped her hand as soon as it 
 was touched ; then, pressing his fingers together so firmly, 
 that his long nails left marks in his flesh, he looked curiously 
 down upon her, eyeing her furtively as if she had been a wild 
 beast. Nothing of all this escaped Eugenia, who, feeling 
 greatly amused at what she thought to be his embarrass 
 ment, and fancying he had never before conversed with so 
 fine a lady as herself, she commenced quizzing him in a 
 manner excessively provoking to one of his excitable tem 
 perament. Lifting up first one foot, and then the other, he 
 felt his patience fast giving way, and at last, as her ridicule 
 became more and more marked, he could endure it no longer, 
 but returned it with a kind of sarcasm far more scathing than 
 anything she could say. Deeply chagrined, and feeling that 
 she had been beaten with her own weapons, she was aboul 
 to leave the " old bear," as she mentally styled him, when 
 remembering that he was Mr. Hastings's friend, and, as such, 
 worthy of more respect than she had paid him, she said play 
 fully, " I have a mother and sister here, whom you maj
 
 THE SPRINGS. 1 
 
 like better than you do me. I'll introduce them," and 
 tripping across the room, she made known her wishes to her 
 mother, adding that " there was a chance for her, as he 
 was an old bachelor." * 
 
 Long and scarehingly the old man looked in the face of 
 the widow, thinking of the time when she had called Fannit 
 her sister ; but of this Mrs. Deane did not know ; and re 
 membering what Eugenia had said, she blushed crimson, 
 and as soon as possible, stole away, leaving him alone with 
 Alice, with whom he was better pleased, talking with her so 
 long that Eugenia, who was hovering near Mr. Hastings, 
 began to laugh at what she called her sister's conquest. 
 Nothing had escaped Mr. Hastings, and thinking this a good 
 opportunity for rebuking the young lady, he spoke of Mr. 
 Hamilton in the highest terms, saying that " he should con 
 sider any disrespect paid to his friend a slight to himself." 
 This hint was sufficient, and wishing to make amends for 
 her rudeness, Eugenia ere long sought the stranger, and 
 tried to be very agreeable ; but there was no affinity be 
 tween them, and to Mr. Hastings, who was watching them, 
 they seemed much like a fierce mastiff, and a spiteful cat, 
 impatient to pounce upon each other ! 
 
 During the evening the three were standing together, and 
 Eugenia suddenly remembering Dora, asked Mr. Hastings 
 how she was, saying she seldom wrote to them, and when 
 she did, her letters amounted to nothing. With a warn 
 ing glance at Uncle Nat, whose face grew very dark, Mr. 
 Hastings replied that she was well, and had, he thought, 
 improved under his sister's care. 
 
 " I am glad," said she, " for there was need enough of 
 improvement. She was so unrefined, always preferring the 
 kitchen to the parlor, that we couldn't make anything of 
 her."
 
 J68 DORA DEANE. 
 
 A sudden " Ugh !" from Uncle Nat stopped her, and she 
 ftsked him what was the matter. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," said he, wiping his face, " only I'nc 
 getting pretty warm, ajid must cool off." 
 
 The next moment he was gone, and when, at a late hour, \ 
 Mr. Hastings repaired to his room, he knew by the chairs, J 
 boots, brushes, and books scattered over the floor, that^X 
 Uncle Nat, snoring so loudly in bed, had cooled off ! 
 
 " I had to hold on, to keep from falling to pieces right 
 before her," he said, next morning, in speaking of the last 
 night's adventure ; " but I shall do better next time. I am 
 getting a little accustomed to it." 
 
 And he was right, for only twice during the entire day and 
 evening did he disappear from the room. Once when Eugenia 
 sat down to play, and once when he heard her telling Ste 
 phen Grey, who asked her to ride again, that, " he really must 
 excuse her, as she had a letter to write to Uncle Nat, who 
 undoubtedly wondered why she was so tardy. And you 
 know," she said, " it won't do to neglect him 1" 
 
 Uncle Nat knew it was a farce to get rid of Stephen Grey, 
 who was nothing compared with his brother-in-law, but 
 nis indignation was not the less ; and Mr. Hastings, when 
 ne saw the long blue coat flying up the stairs, smiled 
 quietly, though he pitied the poor old man, who was thus 
 kept vibrating between his chamber and the parlor. 
 
 In this manner several days passed away, during which 
 time Uncle Nat's temper was severely tested, both by Euge 
 nia's remarks concerning Dora, and by what she said of 
 himself, for he more than once heard her speaking of "Old 
 Untie Nat,"" who sent her money to buy the various articles 
 of jewelry which she wore. On such occasions it seemed 
 almo.st impossible for him to restrain his anger, and he often 
 wished he had never promised to keep silent ; but by ft*.
 
 THE SPRINGS. Nl 
 
 qnent visits to his chamber, which witnessed many a terrific 
 Btcrm, he managed to be quiet, so that Eugenia had no sus 
 picion whatever, though she disliked him greatly, and wished 
 he had never come there. Mr. Hastings troubled her, too, 
 fj] she felt rery uncertain as to the nature of his feelings to- 
 leaids her. He treated her politely, but that was all, and 
 no management on her part could draw from him any par 
 ticular attention. 
 
 " Maybe he's jealous of Stephen Grey," she thought, and 
 then she became so cold towards the latter individual, that 
 iiad he not remembered Uncle Nat's will, in which he firmly 
 believed, he would have packed his trunk at once, and left 
 her in disgust. 
 
 But Stephen's necessities were great. There was stand 
 ing against him a long list of bills, which his father refused 
 to pay, and he was ready to marry the first purse which was 
 offered. Had Eugenia been altogether agreeable to him, he 
 would have proposed ere this, but without knowing why, he 
 felt afraid of her. Added to this was the memory of his 
 mother's threat, that his father should disinherit him if he 
 disgraced them by marrying that Deane girl, in whose ex 
 pected fortune she did not believe. So halting .between 
 two opinions, he allowed himself to be taken up and cast 
 off whenever the capricious Eugenia chose. 
 
 In the meantime, Uncle Nat had cultivated the acquaint 
 ance of Mrs. Dcane and Alice, finding the latter quite a 
 pleasant girl, and feeling disposed to think more favorably 
 of the former when he heard her speak kindly of Dora, as 
 she always did. Matters were in this state, when, one 
 afurnoon, in compliance with her brother's written request, 
 Mrs. Elliott arrived, together with Dora. Most of the visi 
 tors were at the springs, and as Eugenia never let an oppor 
 tunity pass for showing herself to the guests of the different 
 
 8
 
 170 DORA DEAXE. 
 
 houses, she too was there, and thus failed to see how ten 
 derly Dora was greeted by Mr. Hastings, and how fondly 
 Uncle Nat clasped her in his arms, holding her hand all the 
 way up the stairs, and only releasing her when she reached 
 the door of the room, which had been previously engaged 
 for them by Mr. Hastings. Feeling slightly indisposed, 
 Mrs. Elliott did not go down to supper, and as Dora chose 
 to remain with her, neither of them were seen until evening. 
 Eugenia had heard of the arrival of two aristocratic looking 
 ladies, one of whom was young and very beautiful, and this 
 aroused her fears at once. Hitherto she had reigned with 
 out a rival, for aside from her beauty, the generally believed 
 rumor of her being an heiress, procured for her attention 
 from many who otherwise would have been disgusted with 
 her overbearing manner and boisterous conduct ; for, like 
 many others, she had fallen into the error of thinking that 
 to be fashionable, she must be bold and noisy,, and no voice 
 in the drawing-room ever reached so high a note as hers 
 Still she was tolerated and flattered, and when the friend, 
 who told her of the new arrivals, and who had caught a 
 view of Dora's face, laughingly bade her beware lest her 
 star should begin to wane, she curled her lip in scorn, a3 
 if anything in Avon could compete with her, who " had 
 spent so many seasons at Saratoga and Newport, and who 
 would have gone there this summer, only she wanted a 
 change, and then it was more quiet for ma /" 
 
 This was one of her stereotyped remarks until Mr. Hast 
 ings came, but he knew her, and in his presence she was less 
 assuming. She had heard that the new arrivals were his 
 friends, and thinking they must of course be somebody, she 
 arrayed herself for the evening with unusual care, wearing 
 her white satin and lace bertha, the most becoming aud at 
 the same time the most expensive dress she had.
 
 THE SPRINGS. 1T1 
 
 " I wish I had some pearls," she said, glancing at hei 
 raven hair; "they would look so much richer than these 
 flowers." 
 
 "I should think an heiress like you would have everything 
 she wanted," suggested Alice, mischievously, and Eugenia 
 rep'ied, " Oh, pshaw ! We shall never get more than five 
 hundred a year from Uncle Nat, but I don't much care. 
 Old Mr. Grey is wealthy, and if Mr. Hastings don't mani 
 fest any more interest in me than he has since he came 
 here, 1 shall let that foolish Steve propose, much as I dislike 
 him." 
 
 So saying, she clasped upon her arm a heavy bracelet, 
 for which the sum of forty dollars had been paid, and de 
 scended with her mother and sister to the parlor. Mrs. 
 Elliott and Dora were there before her the former leaning 
 on Mr. Hastings's arm, while the latter was already sur 
 rounded by a group of admirers, a few of whom had met 
 her before. She was standing with her back towards Eu 
 genia, who singled her out in a moment, as her rival, notic 
 ing first her magnificent hair, in which an ornament of any 
 kind would have been out of place, and which was confined 
 at the back of the head by a small and elegantly wrought 
 gold comb. Her dress was perfectly plain, consisting simply 
 of white India muslin, which fitted her admirably and 
 seemed well adapted to her youthful form. 
 
 " Who is she ?" inquired Eugenia of Uncle Nat, who had 
 gtationcd himself near the door, on purpose to see how tho 
 first sight of Dora would affect her. 
 
 " Who is she !" H replied. " Strange you don't know your 
 own cousin Dora Deane" aud a look of intense satisfaction 
 danced in his keen eyes, as he saw the expression of aston 
 ishment which passed over Eugenia's face. 
 
 " Impossible !" she exclaimed, while a pang of euvy shot
 
 172 DORA DEANE. 
 
 through her heart. "That stylish looking girl can't be 
 Dora 1 Why, I always supposed Mrs. Elliott made a half 
 servant, half companion of her. She never told us any 
 different ;" and with a vague hope that the old South Amer 
 lean might be mistaken, she took a step or two forward, 
 just as Dora turned round, disclosing to view her face. 
 
 There was no longer any doubt, and with mingled feelings 
 ti. surprise, mortification, jealousy, and rage, Eugenia ad 
 vanced to meet her, wisely resolving as she did so to make 
 the best of it, and never let her cousin know how much an 
 noyed she was. Both Mrs. Deane and Alice were greeted 
 kindly by Dora, who could scarcely be more than polite to 
 Eugenia, and when the latter made a movement to kiss 
 her, she involuntarily drew back, feeling that she could not 
 puffer it. 
 
 " Grown suddenly very proud," muttered Eugenia, at the 
 same time determining that her mother should insist upon 
 taking Dora home with them, and secretly exulting as she 
 thought how she should again work in the dark kitchen at 
 Locust Grove, as she had done before. " That'll remove 
 some of her fine airs, I reckon," she thought, as, with bitter 
 hatred at her heart, she watched her young cousin, who, 
 throughout the entire evening, continued to be the centre of 
 attraction. 
 
 Everybody asked who she was ; everybody pronounced 
 her beautiful, and everybody neglected Eugenia Deane, who, 
 greatly enraged, retired early, and vented her wrath in 
 tears, to think that the once despised Dora should now be 
 ic far above her. 
 
 But it shall not be," she said, and then to her mother 
 she unfolded her plan of having Dora go home with them 
 immediately. " Pd as soon be in Joppa as to stay here with 
 her for a rival," she said. " Mr. Hastings don't care for me,
 
 THE SPRINGS. 17S 
 
 I know, and I hate that old codger of a Hamilton, with hia 
 sarcastic remarks and prying eyes. I've been here long 
 enough, and I mean to go home." 
 
 To this proposition Mrs. Deane assented willingly ; bu 
 she expressed her doubts concerning her ability to makt 
 Dora accompany them. 
 
 " Of course she'll go," said Eugenia. " Her mother 
 placed her under your control, and she is bound to obey." 
 
 Yielding at last, as she generally did, Mrs. Deane pro 
 mised to see what she could do, and the next day she 
 announced to Mrs. Elliott her intention of taking Dora 
 home with her. " I am grateful for all you have done for 
 her," said she ; " but we need her, and cannot spare her 
 any longer, so, Dora dear," turning to her niece, " pack up 
 your things, and we will start to-morrow morning." 
 
 Had Uncle Nat been there, he would, undoubtedly, have 
 exploded at once ; but he was not present, neither was Mr. 
 Hastings, and it remained for Mrs. Elliott alone to reply, 
 which she did firmly and decidedly. " No, Mrs. Deane, 
 Dora cannot go. She was committed to your care, I know, 
 but you gave her up to me, and I shall not part with her 
 unless I am legally compelled to do so, or she wishes to go. 
 She can answer this last for herself," and she turned towards 
 Dora, who, drawing nearer to her, replied, " I am sorry if 
 disobey you, Aunt Sarah, but I cannot leave Mrs. Elliott." 
 
 Mrs. Deane was not very courageous, and unwilling to 
 press her claim, she turned away and reported her ill-suecesr 
 to Eugenia, who heaped a torrent of abuse upon both Mis 
 Elliott, Dora, the old South American, and Mr. Hastinga 
 who, she declared, were all leagued against them. 
 
 " But I don't care," said she, " old Mr. Grey is quite as 
 wealthy as Mr. Hastings, and by saying the word, I can 
 marry Steve at any time ; and I will do it, too," she con
 
 174 DORA DEANB. 
 
 dnued, " and that proud Mrs. Elliott shall yet be obliged to 
 meet me on terms of equality, for she will not dare to 
 neglect tfie Greys!" 
 
 Somewhat comforted by this thought, she dried her tears, 
 nd signified her willingness to start for home on the 
 morrow, even if Dora did not accompany her. As yet, she 
 had no suspicion whatever of the engagement existing 
 between Mr. Hastings and her cousin. There was nothing 
 in the manner of either to betray it, and when, next morn 
 ing, attired in her travelling dress, she stood with them upon 
 the piazza, she little thought how and where she would next 
 meet them. At her side was Stephen Grey. ]Je had been 
 won over by her gracious smiles the night previous, and 
 was now goin with her as far as Rochester, where, if a 
 favorable opportunity were presented, he intended offering 
 himself for her acceptance. Uncle Nat was not present, 
 and Eugenia was glad that it was so, for there was some 
 thing about him exceedingly annoying to her, and she always 
 felt relieved at his absence. 
 
 " Why do you go so soon ? I thought you were intending 
 to spend the summer," said one of her old admirers ; and with 
 a scornful toss of her head, she replied, " It is getting so 
 insufferably dull here, that I can't endure it any longer." 
 
 Just then the omnibus was announced, and with a hurried 
 good bye, she followed her baggage down the stairs, and 
 amid a cloud of dust was driven rapidly away, while Uncle 
 Nat, from his chamber window, sent after her a not very 
 complimentary or affectionate adieu. Arrived at the hotel 
 in Rochester, where Eugenia had once waited in vain for 
 Mr. Hastings, Stephen Grey managed to hear from her again, 
 that she had well-founded hopes of being one of the heirs of 
 Nathaniel Deane, who, she said, sent them annually a sum 
 of money varying from five to fifteen hundred dollars
 
 TEK SPRINGS. 171 
 
 This was quite a consideration for one whose finances tvere 
 low, and whose father, while threatening to disinherit him, 
 was himself on the verge of bankruptcy, and thinking the 
 annual remittances worth securing, even if the will should 
 fail, Stephen found an opportunity to go down on his knees 
 before her after the most approved fashion, telling her that 
 " she alone could make him happy, and that without her he 
 should be wretched ;" and she, knowing just how much in 
 earnest he was, promised to be his wife, intending the while 
 to break that promise if she saw in Mr. Hastings any signs 
 of renewed interest. So, when Stephen pressed her to uamo 
 an early day, she put him off, telling him she could not think 
 of being married until near the middle of autumn, and at the 
 same time requesting him to keep their engagement a secret, 
 for she did not wish it to be a subject of remark, as engaged 
 people always were. To this, Stephen consented willingly, aa 
 he would thus escape, for a time, his mother's auger. And so 
 when, tired, jaded, cross and dusty, Eugenia Deane reached 
 Locust Grove, she had the satisfaction of knowing that her 
 trip to the Springs had been successful, inasmuch as it pro 
 cured for her " a husband, such, as ht was."
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 
 
 THE Dcancs bad been home about two weeks when Mr. 
 Hastings returned to Rose Hill, accompanied by the " Old 
 y fouth American," who seemed to have taken up his abode 
 there. Being naturally rather reserved, the latter visited 
 't iittle in the village, while at Locust Grove he never 
 v-qV'j'ij and seldom saw Eugenia when he met her in the 
 
 ' ',. Mr. Hastings, too, was unusually cool in his man- 
 tier towards her, and this she imputed wholly to the fact of 
 her having been rude to his friend on the night of her 
 introduction. " He was never so before " she thought, and 
 she redoubled her efforts to be agreeable, to no effect, as he 
 was simply polite to her and nothing more. So after a 
 series of tears and headaches, she gave him up, comforting 
 herself with the belief that he would never marry anybody. 
 After this, she smiled more graciously upon Stephen Grey, 
 who, pretending to be a lawyer, had, greatly to her annoyance, 
 hung out his sign in Dunwood, where his office proper seemed 
 to be in the bar-room, or drinking-saloon, as in one of these 
 ho was always to be found, when not at Locust Grove. 
 
 One evening, towards the last of September, when he 
 flame as usual to see her, he startled her with the news, that 
 there was ere long to be a new bride at Rose Hill ! Start 
 ing involuntarily, Eugenia exclaimed, " A new bride 1 It 
 can't be possible 1 Who is it ?"
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 171 
 
 It was months since Stephen had been in New York, and 
 he knew nothing, except that the lady was from the city, 
 and he mentioned a Miss Morton, with whom he had several 
 times seen Mr. Hastings walking, and who was very inti 
 mate with Mrs. Ellioit. At first Eugenia refused to believe 
 it, but when she had rememberecWiow extensive^ Mr. Hastings 
 was repairing his place, and heard that the house was being 
 entirely refurnished, and fitted up in a princely style, she 
 wept again over her ruined hopes, and experienced many a 
 sharp pang of envy, when from time to time she saw go by 
 loads of elegant furniture, and knew that it. was not for her 
 self, but another. The old South American, too, it waa 
 said, was very lavish of his money, purchasing many costly 
 ornaments, and furnishing entirely the chamber of the bride. 
 For this the fair Eugenia styled him " a silly old fool," won 
 dering " what business it was to him," and " why he need 
 be so much interested in one who, if she had any sense, 
 would, in less than two weeks, turn him from the house, 
 with his heathenish ways." Still, fret as ^he would, she 
 could not in the least retard the progress cf matters, an<? 
 one morning towards the last of October, she heard from 
 Mrs. Leah, whom she met at a store in the village, that the 
 weddiug was to take place at the house of the bride on 
 Tuesday of the next week, and that on Thursday evening fol 
 lowing, there was to be a grand party at Rose Hill, far ex 
 ceeding in splendor and elegance the one given there some 
 years before. 
 
 " Crowds of folks," she said, " are coming from the city 
 n ith the bridal pair, who would start on \\ ednesday, stay 
 in Syracuse all right, and reach Dunwood about thieo 
 o'clock on Thursday afternoon. The invitations for thi 
 village people," she added, " were already witten and were 
 left with her to distribute on Wednesday morning." 
 
 8*
 
 178 DORA DEANE. 
 
 Eugenia would have given much to know if she were in 
 vited, but she was too proud to ask, and assuming an air of 
 indifference she casually inquired the name of the bride. 
 
 With the manner of one in a deep study, Mrs. Leah re 
 plied, " Let me see I It's a very common name. Strange I 
 don't speak it 1" 
 
 " Morton ?" suggested Eugenia, but Mrs. Leah affected 
 not to hear her, and, having completed her purchases; she 
 left the store and walked slowly homeward, dropping more 
 than one tear on the brown paper parcel she held in her 
 hand. 
 
 Crying, however, was of no avail, and mentally chiding 
 herself for her weakness, she resolved to brave it through, 
 comforting herself again with the thought that t/ie Greys were 
 as aristocratic as the Hastings's, and as Stephen's wife she 
 should yet shine in the best society, for in case she married 
 him she was resolved that he should take her at once to 
 Philadelphia, where she would compel his proud mother to 
 notice her. This helped to divert her mind, and in the 
 course of the day she was talking gaily of the party, and 
 wondering if she should be as intimate with the second Mrs. 
 Hastings as she had been with the first ! 
 
 That night, Alice went down to the post-office, from 
 which she soon returned, evideutally much excited ; and 
 rushing into the room where her mother and sister were 
 sitting, she said, as she threw a letter into the lap of the 
 latter, " It's from Uncle Nat, and postmarked New York." 
 
 Turning whiter than ever she was before, Eugenia could 
 scarcely command herself to break the seal, and read the 
 few brief lines which told her that Uncle Nat had, at last, 
 concluded to come home, that a matter of some importance 
 would keep him from Locust Grove for a few days ; but if 
 nothing occurred, he would be with them Dn Saturday
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 171 
 
 ing of next week 1 In the postscript, he added, that " he 
 should expect to find Dora with them, and he hoped her 
 going away to school had been a benefit to her." 
 
 So great was their consternation that for some minutea 
 neither of them uttered a word, but each waited for the 
 other to suggest some way of acting in the present emer 
 gency. As Eugenia's mind was the most active of the threo 
 she was the first to speak. After venting her indignation 
 upon Uncle Nat, for intruding himself where he was not 
 wanted, she continued : " We are in a sad dilemma, but wo 
 must make the best of it, and inasmuch as he is coming, I 
 am glad that Dora is what she is. We can tell him how 
 rapidly she has improved, and how rejoiced we are that it 
 is so. I am glad I have said nothing about her for the last 
 two years, except that she was away at school. I'll write 
 to her to-night, and tell her to meet him here, and come im 
 mediately. You know, she is good-natured, and on my 
 bended knees I'll confess what I have done, and beg of her 
 not to betray me to him, or let him know that we did not 
 pay for her education, and if she refuses, you, mother, must 
 go down on your knees, too, and we'll get up between us 
 such a scene that she will consent, I know if not, why, wo 
 must abide the consequence " and with the look of one 
 about to be martyred, Eugenia sat down and wrote to Dora, 
 beseeching her to " come without delay, as there was some 
 thing they must tell her before meeting Uncle Nat !" 
 
 This was Friday night, and very impatiently she awaited 
 an answer, which, though written on Monday, did not come 
 until the Wednesday following. 
 
 " What does she say ?" cried Mrs. Deane and Alice, 
 crowding around her, while with a rueful face she read that 
 Dora would be delighted to meet Uncle Nat at Locust Grove, 
 but could not come quite so soon as they wished to have her.
 
 180 DORA DEANE. 
 
 " You have undoubtedly heard," she wrote, " of Mr. Hast> 
 ings's approaching marriage, at which I wish to be present. 
 Mrs. Elliott will accompany the bridal party to Rose Hill on 
 Thursday, and she thinks I had better wait and come with 
 her. I shall probably see you at the party. 
 
 " Yours in haste, 
 
 " DORA DEANE." 
 
 On Eugenia's iniiid there was not a shadow of suspicion 
 that Dora Deane, appended to that letter, had ere this 
 ceased to be her cousin's name that Mr. Hastings, who, 
 together with Uncle Nat, had the Saturday previous gone 
 down to New York, had bent fondly over her as she wrote 
 it for the last time, playfully suggesting that she add to it 
 an H, by way of making a commencement, nor yet that 
 Uncle Nat, with an immense degree of satisfaction in his 
 face, had read the short note, saying as he did so, " We'll 
 cheat 'em, darling, won't we ?" 
 
 Neither did she dream that last night's moon shone down 
 on Dora Deane, a beautiful, blushing bride, who, with 
 orange blossoms in her shining hair, and the deep love-light 
 in her eye, stood by Mr. Hastings's side and called him her 
 husband. Nothing of all this she knew, and hastily read 
 ing the letter, she exclaimed, " Plague on her ! a vast deal 
 of difference her being at the wedding would make. But no 
 matter, the old codger will not be here until Saturday night 
 and there'll be time enough to coax her." 
 
 Just then the cards of invitation were left at the door, 
 and in the delightful certainty of knowing that she was 
 really invited, she forgot in a measure everything clso In 
 the evening she was annoyed as usual with a call from 
 Stephen Grey. He had that day received news from home 
 that his father's failure could not long be deferred, and
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 18! 
 
 judging Eugenia by himself, he fancied she would sooner 
 marry liiiu now, than after he was the sou of a bankrupt 
 Accordingly ho urged her to consent to a private marriage 
 at her mother's on Friday evening, the night following the 
 party. 
 
 " There was nothing to be gained by waiting," he said * 
 an opinion in which Eugenia herself concurred, for she fearsd 
 3cst in some way her treachery should be betrayed, and she 
 should lose Stephen Grey, as well as Mr. Hastings. 
 
 Still she could hardly brina* herself to consent until she 
 had seen Dora, and she replied that she would think of it, 
 and answer him at the party. Thursday morning came, 
 and passed, and about half-past two, Eugenia saw Mr. 
 Hastings's carriage pass on its way to the depot, together 
 with two more, which had been hired to convey the guests 
 to Rose Hilt. Seating herself by her chamber window, she 
 waited impatiently for the cars, which came at last, and in 
 a few moments the roll of wheels announced the approach 
 of the bridal party. Very eagerly Eugenia, Alice, and their 
 mother gazed out through the half closed shutters upon the 
 carriage in front, which they knew was Mr. Hastings's. 
 
 " There's Mrs. Elliott looking this way. Don't let her see 
 us," whispered Alice, while her mother singled out old Mrs. 
 Hastings for Dora, wondering >vhy she didn't turn that way. 
 
 But Eugenia had no eye fOJT any one, save the figure 
 seated next to Mr. Hastings, and so closely veiled as entirely 
 to hide her features. 
 
 " I wouldn't keep that old brown thing on my face, nnlesa 
 H was so homely 1 was afraid of having it seen," she said ? 
 Btd hoping the bride of Howard Hastings might prove to bo 
 exceedingly ugly, she repaired to Dora's room, and from the 
 same window where Dora. once had watched the many lights 
 which shone from Rose Hill, she uow watched the traveller*
 
 182 DORA DEANE. 
 
 uutil they disappeared within the house. Then, rejoining hei 
 mother and sister she said, " I don't see why Dora cau'l 
 come over here a little while before the party. There's 
 plenty of time and I do want to have it off nay mind. Be 
 sides that, I might coax her to assist me in dressing, for she 
 has good taste, if nothing more ; I mean to write her a few 
 lines asking her to come. 
 
 The note was accordingly written, and dispatched by the 
 Irish girl, who soon returned, bearing another tiny note, 
 which read as follows : 
 
 " I cannot possibly come, as I have promised to be pre 
 sent at tiie dressing of the bride. DORA.-" 
 
 Forgetting her recent remark, Eugenia muttered some 
 thing about " folks thinking a great deal of her taste," then 
 turning to the servant girl, she asked " how Dora looked, 
 and what she said ?" 
 
 " Sure, I didn't see her," returned the girl ; " Mistress 
 Leah carried your letter to her, and brought hers to me. 
 Not a ha'p'orth of anybody else did I see." And this was all 
 the information which Eugenia could elicit concerning the 
 people of Rose Hill. 
 
 The time for making their toilet came at last, and while 
 Eugenia was missing the little cropped head girl, who, on 
 a similar occasion, had obeyed so meekly her commands, a 
 fair young bride was thinking also of that night, when she 
 bad lain upon her mother's old green trunk, and wept her 
 self t ) sleep. Wishing to be fashionable, Eugenia and her 
 party were the last to arrive. They found the parlors 
 crowded, and the dressing-room vacant, so that neither of 
 them received the slightest intimation of the surprise which 
 awaited them. la removing her veil, Eugenia displaced <:;
 
 TI1E DOUBLE SURFRISE. 181 
 
 x the flowers in her hair, and muttering about Alice's awk 
 wardness, she wished she could see Dora just a minute, and 
 have her arrange the flowers ! 
 
 But Dora was busy elsewhere, and pronouncing herself 
 ready, Eugenia took the arm of Stephen Grey, and followed 
 her mother and sister down stairs. At a little distance from 
 the door was Mr. Hastings, and at his side was Dora, wou< 
 drously beautiful in her costly bridal robes. She had grace 
 fully received the congratulations of her Dunwood friends, 
 who, while expressing their surprise, had also expressed their 
 delight at finding in the new mistress of Rose Hill, the girl 
 who had ever been a favorite in the village. Near her wag 
 Uncle Nat, his face wearing an expression of perfect happi 
 ness and his eye almost constantly upon the door, through 
 which Eugenia must pass. There was a rustle of silk upon 
 the stairs, and drawing nearer to Dora, he awaited the 
 result with breathless interest. 
 
 Mrs. Deane came first, but scarcely had she crossed the 
 threshold, ere she started back, petrified with astonishment, 
 and clutching Alice's dress, whispered softly, " am I deceived, 
 or is if. Dora 1" 
 
 And Alice, with wild staring eyes, could only answer 
 " Dora ;" while Eugenia, wondering at their conduct, strove 
 to push them aside. Failing in this, she raised herself on 
 tiptoe, and looking over their heads, saw what for an 
 instant chilled her blood, and stopped the pulsations of her 
 heart. It was the bride, and fiercely grasping the arm of 
 Stephen Grey to keep herself from falling, she said, in a 
 hoarse, unnatural voice, " Great Heaven it is Dora I 
 DORA DEANK 1" 
 
 Fruitful as she had hitherto been in expedients, she was 
 now utterly powerless to act, and knowing that in her 
 present state of excitement, she could not meet her cousin,
 
 1S4 DORA DEANE. 
 
 she turned back aud fleeing up the stairs, threw herself upon 
 a chair in the dressing-room, where, with her hands clasped 
 firmly together, she sat rigid as marble until the storm of 
 passion had somewhat abated. 
 
 "And she has won him Dora Deane, whom I have so ill- 
 treated," she said at last, starting at the sound of her 
 voice, it was so hollow and strange. Then, as she remem 
 bered the coming of Uncle Nat and the exposure she so 
 much dreaded, she buried her face in her hands, and in the 
 bitterness of her humiliation cried out, " It is more than 1 
 can bear 1" 
 
 Growing ere long more calm, she thought the matter over 
 carefully, and decided at last to brave it through to greet 
 the bride as if nothing had occurred, and never to let Mr. 
 Hastings know how sharp a wound he had inflicted. " It 
 is useless now," she thought, " to throw myself upon the 
 mercy of Dora. She would not, of course, withhold my 
 secret from her husband, and I cannot be despised by him. 
 I have loved him too well for that. And perhaps he'll 
 never know it," she continued, beginning to look upon the 
 brighter side. " Uncle Nat may not prove very inquisi 
 tive may not stay with us long ; or, if he does, as the wife 
 of Stephen Grey, I can bear his displeasure better," and 
 determining that ere another twenty-four hours were g'-me, 
 she would cease to be Eugenia Deane, she arose and sf^)d 
 before the mirror, preparatory to going down. 
 
 The sight of her white, haggard face startled her, a.id 
 for a moment she felt that she could not mingle with the 
 gay throng below, who would wonder at her appearance. 
 But the ordeal must be passed, and summoning all her cour 
 age, she descended to her parlor, just as her mother and 
 Alice, alarmed at her very long absence, were coming in 
 truest of her. Crossing the room mechanically she offered
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. IHI 
 
 her hand to Dora, saying, while a sickly smile played 
 around her bloodless lips, " You have really taken us by sur 
 prise, but T congratulate you ; and you too," bowing rathe! 
 Btiffly to Mr. Hastings, who returned her greeting se 
 phasantly, that she began to feel more at ease, and after a 
 little, was chatting familiarly with Dora, telling her she 
 must be sure and meet, " Uncle Nat," on Saturday evening, 
 and adding in a low tone, " If I've ever treated you badly, 
 I hope you won't tell him." 
 
 "I shall tell him nothing," answered Dora, and comforted 
 with this answer, Eugenia moved away. 
 
 " You are looking very pale and bad to-night. What ig 
 the matter ?" said Uncle Nat, when once he was standing 
 near her. 
 
 " Nothing but a bad headache," she replied, while her 
 black eyes flashed angrily upon him, for she fancied he saw 
 the painful throbbings of her heart, and wished to taant her 
 with it. 
 
 Supper being over, Stephen Grey led her into a little side 
 room, where he claiined the answer to his question. It 
 was in the affirmative, and soon after, complaining of the 
 intense pain in her head, she begged to go home. Alone in 
 her room, with no one present but her mother and Alice, 
 her pent-up feelings gave away, and throwing herself upon 
 the floor she wished that she had died ere she had come to 
 this humiliation. 
 
 " That Dora, a beggar as- it were, should be preferred to 
 me is nothing," she cried, " compared to the way which the 
 whole thing was planned. That old wretch of a Hamilton 
 had something to do with it, I know. How I hate him, 
 with his sneering face 1" 
 
 Becoming at length a little more composed, she told her 
 mother of her expected marriage with Stephen Grey. 
 
 "But why so much haste ?" asked Mrs. Deane, who, a
 
 t 8 DORA DEANE. . 
 
 little proud of the alliance, would rather have given a 
 /arge wedding. 
 
 Sitting upright upon the floor, with her long loose hah 
 falling around her white face, Eugenia answered bitterly ; 
 *' Stephen Grey has no more love for me than I have fof 
 him. He believes that we are rich, or we will be when Un 
 cle Nat is dead. For money he marries me, for money I 
 marry him. I know old Grey is wealthy, and as the wife 
 of his son, I will yet ride over Dora's head. But I must bo 
 quick, or I lose him, for if after Uncle Nat's arrival oar real 
 situation should chance to be disclosed, Steve would not 
 hesitate to leave me. 
 
 ' So to-morrow or never a bride I shall be,' " 
 
 she sang with a gaiety of manner wholly at variance with the 
 worn, suffering expression of her countenance. Eugenia was 
 terribly expiating her sins, and when the next night, in the 
 presence of a few friends, she stood by Stephen Grey, and 
 was made his wife, she felt that her own hands had poured the 
 last drop in the brimming bucket, for; as she had said, there 
 was not in her heart a particle of esteem or love for him who 
 was now her husband. 
 
 " It's my destiny," she thought ; " I'll make the best of 
 it," and her unnatural laugh rang out loud and clear, as 
 she tried to appear gay and happy. 
 
 Striking contrast between the gentle bride at Rose Hill, 
 who felt that in all the world, there was not a happier being 
 than herself and the one at Locust Grove, who with blood 
 shot eyes and livid lips gazed out upon the starry sky, alraotit 
 cursing the day that she was born, and the fate which had 
 made her what she was. Ever and anon, too, there came steal 
 ing on her ear the fearful word retribution, and the wretched 
 girl shuddered as she thought for how much she had to atono
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 181 
 
 Marvelling much at the strange mood of his bride, 
 Stephen Grey, on the morning succeeding his marriage, 
 left her and went down to the village, where he found a 
 letter fr.om his father, telling him the crisis had come, leaving 
 him more than 100,000 dollars in debt I Stephen was not 
 surprised he had expected it, and it affected him less pain 
 fully when he considered that his wife would inherit a por 
 tion of Uncle Nathaniel's wealth. 
 
 " I won't tell her yet," he thought, as he walked back to 
 Locust Grove, where, with an undefined presentiment of ap 
 proaching evil, Eugenia moved listlessly from room to room, 
 counting the hours which dragged heavily, and half wishing 
 that Uncle Nat would hasten his coming, and have it over 1 
 
 The sun went down, and as darkness settled o'er the 
 earth, a heavy load seemed pressing upon Eugenia's spirits. 
 It wanted now but a few minutes of the time when the 
 train was due, and trembling, she scarcely knew why, she 
 Bat alone in her chamber, wondering how she should meet 
 her uncle, or what excuse she should render, if her perfidy 
 were revealed. The door bell rang, and in the hall below 
 she heard the voices of Mr. Hastings and Dora. 
 
 " I must go down, now," she said, and forcing a smile to 
 her face, she descended to the parlor, as the shrill whistle 
 of the engine sounded in the distance. 
 
 She had just time to greet her visitors and enjoy theif 
 surprise at the announcement of her marriage, when her 
 ear caught the sound of heavy, tramping footsteps, coming 
 dp the walk, and a violent ringing of the bell announced 
 another arrival. 
 
 " You go to the door, Stephen," she whispered, while an 
 icy coldness crept over her.
 
 188 DORA DEANE. 
 
 He obeyed, and bending forward in a listeung attitude^ 
 ^he heard him say, " Good evening, Mr. Hamilton." 
 
 Just then, a telegraphic look between Mr. Hastings and 
 Dora caught her eye, and springing to her feet, she ex 
 claimed, " Mr. Hamilton .'" while a suspicion of the truth 
 Gashed like lightning upon her. The next moment be stood 
 before them, Uncle Nat, his glittering black eyes fixed upon 
 Eugenia, who quailed beneath that withering glance. 
 
 ." I promised you I would come topflight," he said, "and 
 Tarn here, Nathaniel Deane ! Are you glad to see me ?" and 
 his eyes never moved from Eugenia, who sat like one petri 
 fied, as did her mother and sister. " Have you no word of 
 welcome ?" he continued. " Your letters were wont to bo 
 kind and affectionate. I have brought them with me, as a 
 passport to your friendship. Shall I show them to you ?" 
 
 His manner was perfectly cool and collected, but Eugenia 
 felt the stiug each word implied, and, starting up, she 
 glared defiantly at him, exclaiming, " Insolent wretch 1 
 What mean you by this ? And what business had you thus 
 to deceive us ?" 
 
 . " The fair Eugenia does not believe in deceit, it seems. 
 Pity her theory and practice do not better accord," he au 
 Bwered, while a scornful smile curled his lips. 
 
 " What proof have you, sir, for what you say ?" demanded 
 Eugenia ; and with the same cold, scornful smile, he replied, 
 "Far better proof than you imagine, fair lady. Would 
 you like to hear it ?" 
 
 Not suspecting how much he knew, and goaded to mad 
 ness by his calm, quiet manner, Eugenia replied, " \ defy 
 you, old man, to prove aught against me." 
 
 "First, then," said he, "let me ask you what use yop 
 made of that fifteen hundred dollars sent to Dora nearly 
 three years ago ? Was not this piano," laying his hand
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 181 
 
 upon the instrument, " bought with a part of that money ? 
 Did Dora ever see it, or the live hundred dollars sent annu 
 ally by me ?" 
 
 Eugenia was confounded. He did know it all, biri how 
 Sad she been betrayed ? It must be through Dora's agency, 
 ahe thought, and turning fiercely towards her, she heaped 
 upon her such a torrent of abuse, that, in thunder-like tones, 
 Uacle Nat, now really excited, bade her keep silent ; while 
 Howard Hastings arose, and confronting the angry woman, 
 explained briefly what he had done, and why he had done 
 it. 
 
 " Then you, too, have acted a traitor's part ?" she hissed ; 
 " but it shall not avail, I will not be trampled down by 
 either you, or this grey haired " 
 
 " Hold 1" cried Uncle Nat, laying his broad palm heav 
 ily upon her shoulder. " I am too old to hear such lan 
 guage from you, young lady. I do not wish to upbraid you 
 farther with what you have done. 'Tis sufficient that I 
 know it all, that henceforth we are strangers ;" and he 
 turned to leave the room, when Mrs. Deane, advancing to 
 wards him, said pleadingly, " Is is thus, Nathaniel, that you 
 return to us, after so many years ? Eugenia may have 
 been tempted to do wrong, but will you not forgive her for 
 her father's sake?'' 
 
 "Never !" he answered fiercely, shaking off the hand she 
 had lain upon his arm. " Towards Alice I bear no ill will ; 
 and you, madam, who suffered this wrong to be done, I 
 may, in time, forgive, but that woman," pointing towards 
 Engenia, " Never .'" And he left the room, while Eugenia, 
 completely overwhelmed with a sense of her detected guilt, 
 burst into a passionate fit of tears, sobbing so bitterly 
 that Dora, touched by her grief, stole softly to her side, 
 and was about to speak, when, thrusting her away, Eugenia
 
 180 DORA DEANE. 
 
 exclaimed, " Leave me, Dora Deane, and never come here 
 again. The sight of you mocking my wretchedness is hate 
 ful and more than I can bear 1" 
 
 There were tears in Dora's eyes, as she turned away, airj 
 offering her hand to her aunt and cousin, she took her hus 
 band's arm, and went out of a house, where she had suf 
 fered so much, and which, while Eugenia remained, she 
 would never enter again. 
 
 Like one in a dream sat Stephen Grey. He had been a 
 silent spectator of the exciting scene, but thought had been 
 busy, and ere it was half over, his own position was clearly 
 defined, and he knew that, even as he had cheated Eugenia 
 Deane, so Eugenia Deane had cheated him. It was an even 
 thing, and unprincipled and selfish as he was, he felt that 
 he had no cause for complaint. Still the disappointment wag 
 not the less severe, and when the bride of a day, looking 
 reproachfully at him through her tears, asked, " why he 
 didn't say to her a word of comfort ?" he coolly replied, 
 ' because I have nothing to say. You have got yourself 
 into a deuced mean scrape, and so have "I I" 
 
 Eugenia did not then understand what he meant, and, 
 when, an hour or two later, she dried her tears, and began 
 to speak of an immediate removal to Philadelphia, where 
 she would be more effectually out of Uncle Nat's way, she 
 was surprised at his asking her, " what she proposed doing 
 in the city, and if she had any means of support." 
 
 " Means of support 1" she repeated. " Why do you ask 
 that question, when your father is worth half a million, arid 
 you are his only son ?" 
 
 With a prolonged whistle, he answered. " Father worth 
 a copper cent and I a precious fool comes nearer the truth !" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" she asked, in unfeigned astonish* 
 ment ; and he replied, "I mean that three days ago father
 
 THE DOUBLE SURPRISE. 191 
 
 ^ to the tune of $100,000, and if you or I have any 
 bread to eat hereafter, one or the other of us must earn it !" 
 
 Eugenia had borne much to-day, and this last announce 
 ment was the one straw too many. Utterly crushed, she 
 buried her face in her hands, and remained silent. She 
 could not reproach her husband, for the deception had been 
 equal, and now, when this last hope had swept away, the 
 world indeed seemed dreary and dark. 
 
 " What shall we do ?" she groaned at last, in a voice so 
 full of despair, that with a feeling akin to pity, Stephen, who 
 had been pacing up and down the room, came to her side, 
 saying, " why can't we stay as we are ? I can average a 
 pettyfogging suit a month, and that'll be better than 
 nothing." 
 
 " I wouldn't remain here on any account after what has 
 happened," said Eugenia ; " and besides that, we couldn't 
 %iay, if we would, for now that Uncle Nat's remittance is 
 withdrawn, mother has nothing in the world to live on." 
 
 " Couldn't you take in sewing," suggested Stephen, " or 
 washing, or mopping ?" 
 
 To the sewing and the washing Eugenia was too indignant 
 to reply, but when it came to the mopping, she lifted up her 
 hands in astonishment, calling him " a fool and a simpleton." 
 
 "Hang me, if I know anything about woman's work," 
 Baid Stephen, resuming his walk, and wondering why the 
 taking in of mopping should be more difficult than anything 
 else. " I have it," he said at length, running his fingers 
 over the keys of the piano. " Can't you teach music ? 
 The piano got you into a fix, and if I were you, I'd make it 
 help me out." 
 
 " I'll use it for kindling-wood first," was her answer, and 
 Stephen resumed his cogitations, which resulted finally in 
 his telling her, that on the prairies of Illinois there were a
 
 198 DORA DEANE. 
 
 few acres of 'land, of which he was the rightful owner 
 There was a house oa it, too, he said, though iu what con 
 dition he did not know, and if they only had a little money 
 with which to start, it would be best for them to go out 
 there at once. This plan struck Eugenia more favorably 
 than any which he had proposed. 
 
 Humbled as she was, she felt that the further she were 
 from Dunwood, the happier she would be, and after a con- 
 sultation with Mrs. Deane, it was decided that the beautiful 
 rosewood piano should be sold, and that with the proceeds, 
 Stephen and Eugenia should bury themselves for a time at 
 the West. Two weeks more found them on their way to 
 their distant home, and when that winter, Dora Hastings, at 
 Rose Hill, pushed aside the heavy damask which shaded her 
 pleasant window, and looked out upon the snow-covered 
 lawn and spacious garden beyond, Eugenia Grey, in her 
 humble cabin, looked through her paper-curtained window 
 upon the snow-clad prairie, which stretched away as far as 
 eye could reach, and shed many bitter tears, as she heard 
 the wind go wailing past her door, and thought of her home, 
 far to the east, towards the rising sun.
 
 CONCLUSION. IN 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 THREK years have passed away, and twice the wintry 
 storms have swept over the two graves, which, on the prai 
 ries of Illinois, were made when the glorious Indian sum 
 mer sun was shining o'er the earth, and the withered 
 leaves of autumn were strewn upon the ground. Stephen 
 and Eugenia are dead he, dying as a drunkard dies she, 
 as a drunkard's wife. Uncle Nat had been to visit the 
 western world, and on his return to Rose Hill, there was a 
 softened light in his eye, and a sadness in the tones of his 
 voice, as, drawing Dora to his side, he whispered; " I have 
 forgiven her forgiven Eugenia Deane." 
 
 Then he told her how an old man in his wanderings came 
 ue day to a lonely cabin, where a wild-eyed woman was 
 raving in delirium, and tearing out handfuls of the long 
 black hair which floated over her shoulders. This she was 
 counting one by one, just as the old East India man had 
 counted the silken tress which was sent to him over the sea, 
 and she laughed with maniacal glee as she said the number 
 ing of all her hairs would atone for the sin she had done. 
 At intervals, too, rocking to and fro, she sang of the fearful 
 night when she had thought to steal the auburn locks con 
 cealed within the old green trunk ; on which the darknesa 
 lay so heavy and so black, that she had turned away in 
 
 9
 
 194 DORA DEAN!. 
 
 terror, and glided from the room. In the old man's heart 
 there was much of bitterness towards that erring woman for 
 the wrong she had done to him and his, but when he found 
 her thus, when he looked on the new-made grave beneath 
 the buckeye tree, and felt that she was dying of starvation 
 and neglect, when he saw how the autumn rains, dripping 
 from a crevice in the roof, had drenched her scanty pillows 
 through and through when he sought in the empty cup 
 board for food or drink in vain, his heart softened towards 
 her, and for many weary days he watched her with the tender- 
 est care, administering to all her wants, and soothing her 
 in her frenzied moods, as he would a little child, and when 
 at last a ray of reason shone for a moment on her darkened 
 mind, and she told him how much she had suffered from tho 
 hands of one who now slept just without the door, and 
 asked him to forgive her ere she died, he laid upon his 
 bosom her aching head, from which in places the long hair 
 had been torn, leaving it spotted and bald, and bending 
 gently over her, he whispered in her ear, " As freely as I 
 hope to be forgiven of Heaven, so freely forgive I you." 
 
 With a look of deep gratitude, the dark eyes glanced at 
 him for a moment, then closed forever, and he was alone 
 with the dead. 
 
 Some women, whose homes were distant two or three 
 miles, had occasionally shared his vigils, and from many a 
 log cabin the people gathered themselves together, and 
 made for the departed a grave, and when the sun was high 
 in the heavens, and not a cloud dimmed the canopy of blue, 
 they buried her beside her husband, where the prairie 
 flowers and the tall rank grass would wave above her head. 
 
 This was the story he told, and Dora listening to it, wept 
 bitterly over the ill-fated Eugenia, whose mother and sister 
 never knew exactly how she died, for Uncle N thaniel would
 
 CONCLUSION. 191 
 
 not tell them, but from the time of his return from the West 
 his manner towards them was changed, and when the New 
 Year came round, one hundred golden guineas found en 
 trance at their door, accompanied with a promise that when 
 the day returned again, the gift should be repeated. 
 ****** 
 
 On the vine-wreathed pillars, and winding walks of Rose 
 Hill, the softened light of the setting sun is shining. April 
 flowers have wakened to life the fair spring blossoms, whose 
 delicate perfume, mingling with the evening air, steals 
 through the open casement, and kisses the bright face of 
 Dora, beautiful now as when she first called him her husband 
 who sits beside her, and who each day blesses her as his 
 choicest treasure. 
 
 On the balcony without, in a large armed willow chair, is 
 seated an old man, and as the fading sunlight falls around 
 him, a bright-haired little girl, not yet two years of age, 
 climbs upon his knee, and winding her chubby arms aroaad 
 his neck, lisps the name of " Grandpa," and the old man, 
 folding her to his bosom, sings to her softly and low of 
 another Fannie, whose eyes of blue were much like those 
 which look so lovingly into his face. Anon darkness steals 
 over all, but the new moon, " hanging like a silver thread 
 in the western sky," shows us where Howard Hastings la 
 Bitting, still with Dora at his side. 
 
 On the balcony, all is silent ; the tremulous voice hag 
 ceased ; the blue-eyed child no longer listens ; old age and 
 infancy sleep sweetly now together ; the song is ended ; the 
 story is done.
 
 MAGGIE MILLER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 OLD HAGAB'S SECKET.
 
 MAGGIE MILLER; 
 
 OLD HAGAR'S SECRET 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL. 
 
 "Mm 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 yeara 
 before our story opens, pent up and impeded in their course, 
 they dashed angrily against their prison walls, and turned 
 the creaking wheel of an old saw mill, with a sullen, rebel 
 lious roar. The mill has gone to decay, and the sturdy 
 men who fed it with the giant oaks of the forest, are sleep 
 ing quietly in the village graveyard. The waters of the 
 inill-poud, too, relieved from their confinement, leap gaily 
 over the ruined dam, tossing for a moment in wanton glee 
 their locks of snow-white foam, and then flowing on, half 
 i earful ly 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 
 below, which, emerging from the darkness, loses
 
 HOC MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 itself at last in the waters of the gracefully winding (Jhico 
 pee, 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 for 
 est trees, that the bright sunlight, dancing merrily midst the 
 rustling leaves above, falls but seldom on the time-stained 
 walls of dark grey stone, where the damp and dews of more 
 than a century have fallen, and where now the green inoss 
 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 festa 1 
 board ; so he chose the only remaining alternative, and 
 went back to his native country, cherishing the hope that 
 he should one day return to the home he loved so well, and 
 listen again to the musical flow of the water-brook, which 
 could be distinctly heard from the door of 'the mansion. 
 But his wish was vain, for when at last America was free, 
 and the British troops recalled, he slept beneath the sod of 
 England, and the old house was for many years deserted. 
 The Englishman had been greatly beloved, and his property 
 was unmolested, while the weeds and grass grew tall and 
 rank in the garden beds, and the birds of heaven built their 
 nests beneath the projecting roof, or held a holiday in the 
 gloomy, silent rooms. 
 
 As time passed on, however, and no one appeared to dis 
 pute their right, different families occupied the house at inter* 
 rals, until at last, vhen nearly fifty years had elapsed, news
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL. 201 
 
 tvas one day received that Madam Conway, a grand-daughter 
 of the old Englishman, having met with reverses at home, 
 had determined to emigrate to the New World, and remem 
 bering the " House by the Mill," of whiclj she had heard so 
 iruch, she wished to know if peaceable possession of it 
 would be allowed her, in case she decided upon removing 
 thither, and making it her future home. To this plan no 
 objection was made, for the aged people of Hillsdale still 
 cherished the memory of the hospitable old man, whose 
 locks were grey while they were yet but children, and the 
 younger portion of the community hoped for a renewal of 
 the gaieties which they had heard were once so common at 
 the old stone house. 
 
 But in this they were disappointed, for Madam Conway 
 was a proud, unsocial woman, desiring no acquaintance what 
 ever 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 improve 
 ment. The Englishman was a man of taste, and Madam 
 Conway's first work was an attempt to restore the grounds 
 to something of their former beauty. The yard and garden 
 were cleared of weeds ; the walks and flower-beds laid out 
 with care, and then the neighbors looked to see her cut 
 away a few of the multitude of trees, which had sprung up 
 around her home. But this she had no intention of doing. 
 <: They shut her out," she said, " from the prying eyes of 
 the vulgar, and , p he would rather it should be so." So the 
 frees remained, throwing their long shadows upon the high, 
 narrow windows, and into the large square rooms, where 
 the morning light and the noon-day heat seldom found 
 entrance, and which seemed like so many cold, silent 
 
 9*
 
 10S MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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, speak 
 ing always softly end low to the household servants, who, 
 having been trained in her service, had followed her across 
 the sea. 
 
 From these, the neighbors learned that Madam Conway 
 had in London a married daughter, Mrs. Miller ; that old 
 Hagar Warren, the strange looking woman, who, more than 
 any one else, shared her mistress's confidence had grown up 
 in the family, receiving a very good education, and had 
 nursed their young mistress, Miss Margaret, which of course 
 entitled her to more respect than was usually bestowed upon 
 menials like her ; that Madam Conway was very aristo 
 cratic, very proud of her high English blood ; that, though 
 fihe lived alone, she attended strictly to all the formalities 
 of high-life, dressing each day with the utmost precision for 
 her solitary dinner ; dining from off a service of solid silver, 
 and presiding with great dignity in her straight, high- 
 backed chair. She was fond, too, of the ruby wine, and her 
 cellar was stored with the choicest liquors, some of which 
 she had brought with her from home, while others, it was 
 said, had belonged to her grandfather, and for half a cen 
 tury, 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 tilings. 
 
 Regularly each day she rode in her ponderous carriage, 
 tometimes alone, and sometimes accompanied by Hester, the 
 laughter of old Hagar, a handsome, intelligent looking girl, 
 ffho, after two or three years of comparative idleness at 
 Mill Farm, went to Meriden, Connecticut, as seamstress in a 
 family, which had advertised for such a person. With her,
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL. 201 
 
 departed the only life of the house, and during the follow 
 ing year there ensued a monotonous quiet, which waa 
 broken at last for Hagar, by the startling announcement 
 that her daughter's young mistress had died four months 
 before, and the husband, a grey-haired, elderly man, had 
 proved conclusively that he was in his dotage, by talking of 
 marriage to Hester, who, ere the letter reached her mother, 
 would probably be the third bride of one, whose reputed 
 wealth was the only possible inducement to a girl liko 
 Hester Warren. 
 
 With au immense degree of satisfaction, Hagar read the 
 letter through, exulting that fortune had favored her at 
 last. Possessed of many sterling qualities, Hagar Warren 
 had one glaring fault which had embittered her whole life. 
 Why others were" rich while she was poor, she could not 
 understand, and her heart rebelled at the fate which had 
 made her what she was. But Hester would be wealthy, 
 nay, would, perhaps, one day rival the haughty Mrs. 
 Miller across the water, who had been her playmate ; there 
 was comfort in that, and she wrote to her daughter express 
 ing her entire approbation, and hinting vaguely of the 
 possibility that she herself might sometime cease to be a 
 servant, and help do the honors of Mr. Hamilton's house ! 
 To this there came no reply, and Hagar was thinking seri 
 ously 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, over 
 whelmed with mortification both at his failure, and the 
 opposition of his friends to his last marriage, had died sud 
 denly, leaving Hester with no home in the wide world, 
 unless Madam Conway received her again into her family.
 
 204 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 "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 
 boen 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 LTester, 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 re 
 moved from him the children, one a step-child and one his 
 own, and how of all his vast fortune there was not left for 
 her a penny, experienced again the old bitterness of feeling, 
 and murmured that fate should thus deal with her and 
 hers. 
 
 With the next day's mail, there came to Madam Conway 
 a letter, bearing a foreign postmark, and bringing the sad 
 news that her son-in-law had been lost in a storm, while 
 crossing the English Channel, and that her daughter Marga 
 ret, utterly crushed and heart-broken, would sail immediately 
 for America, where she wished only to lay her weary head 
 upon her mother's bosom and die. 
 
 " So, there is one person that has no respect for blood, 
 and that is Death," said old Hagar to her mistress, when 
 she heard the news. " He has served us both alike, he haa 
 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 
 lullen silence Hagar withdrew, and for several days worked 
 Half relunctantly in the " north rooms," as Madam Conwaj
 
 THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL. 20 
 
 termed a comparatively pleasant, airy suit of apartments, 
 with a balcony above, which looked out upou the old mill- 
 dam, and the water brook pouring over it. 
 
 " There'll be big doings when my lady comes," said Hagar 
 one day to her daughter. " It'll be Hagar here, and Hagar 
 thore, 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 arid 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 for 
 ward to the future, and what it would probably bring her. 
 Hester Warren and Margaret Conway had been children 
 together, and in spite of the difference of there stations they 
 had loved each other dearly ; and when at last the weary 
 traveller came, with her pale sad face and mourning garb, 
 none gave her so heartfelt a welcome as Hester ; and dur 
 ing 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 omusing 
 the little Theo, a child of two years Hagar, too, softened 
 by her young misstress's sorrow, repented of her harsh 
 words, and watched each night with the invalid, who once 
 when her mind seemed wandering far back in the past, 
 whispered softly, " Tell me the Lord's prayer, dear Hagar, 
 Just as you told it to me years ago when I was a little 
 child." 
 
 It was a long time since Hagar had breathed that prayer, 
 but at Mrs. Miller's request she commenced it, repeating it
 
 206 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 correctlj until she carne to the words, " Give us this daj 
 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 
 as 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 tempta 
 tation ;' you have much need for that prayer." 
 
 A moment more and Margaret Miller slept, while be 
 side her sat Hagar Warren, half shuddering she knew not 
 why, as she thought of her mistress's words, which seemed 
 to her, so much like the spirit of prophecy. 
 
 " Why do / need that prayer more than any one else ?* 
 Bhe said, at last. " I have never been tempted more than 1 
 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 
 Btrange feeling, and as she sat, half dozing in her chair, with 
 the dinrlamplight 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 1
 
 HAGAR'S SECRET. SOt 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 HAQAK'S SECRET. 
 
 THE wintry winds were blowing cold and chill around the 
 old stone house, and the deep untrodden snow lay high piled 
 upon the ground. For many days, the grey., leaden clouds 
 had frowned gloomily down upon the earth below, covering 
 it with a thick veil of white. But the storm was over now, 
 with the setting sun it had gone to rest, and the pale moon 
 light stole softly into the silent chamber, where Madam 
 Couway 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 youug mistress might die, forgot for once to repine at 
 her lot, and did cheerfully whatever was required of her to 
 do. 
 
 There was silence in the rooms below silence in the 
 chambers above silence everywhere for the sick woman 
 seemed fast nearing the deep, dark river, whose waters 
 move onward but never return. 
 
 Almost a week went by, and then, in a room far 
 more humble than that where Margaret Miller lay, another 
 immortal being was given to the world ; and with a soft- 
 wed light in her keen black eyes, old Hagar told to her
 
 208 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Btatciy mistress, when she met her on the stairs, that she, 
 too, was a grandmother. 
 
 " You must not on that account neglect Margaret's 
 child," was Madam Conway's answer, as with a wave of her 
 hand, she passed on ; and this was all she said riot a word 
 of sympathy or congratulation for the peculiar old woman 
 whose heart, so long benumbed, had been roused to a better 
 state of feeling, and who in the first joy of her new-born 
 happiness, had hurried to her mistress, fancying for the mo 
 ment 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 neg 
 lected. All the old bitterness had returned, and as hour 
 after hour went by, and Madam Couway came not near, 
 while the physician and the servants looked in for a mo 
 ment only and then hurried away to the other sick room, 
 where all their services were kept in requisition, she mut 
 tered : " Little would they care if Hester died upon my 
 hands. And she will die too," she continued, as by the 
 fading daylight she saw the palor deepen on her daughter's 
 face. 
 
 And Hagar was right, for Hester's sands were nearer run 
 than those of Mrs. Miller. The utmost care might not, per 
 haps, 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 b6 
 death ?" 
 
 " Yes, Hester, 'tis death," answered Hagar, and her voice 
 was unnaturally calm as she laid her hand on the clammy 
 brow of her dan -liter.
 
 HAGAR'S SECRET. 20 
 
 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. 
 
 " Corne," sho said, "come with me ;" and thinking only of 
 Margaret, Madam Conway arose to follow her. "Not 
 there but tiiis 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 mo 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 wo 
 man, and she answered gently, " I do pity you, Ilagar, 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, 
 Ilugar Warren sat in her silent room, brooding o'er her 
 grief, and looking oft at the plain pine cradle, where lay the 
 little motherless child, her grand-daughter. Occasionally, 
 too, her eye wandered towards the mahogany crib, where 
 another infant slept. Perfect quiet seemed necessary for
 
 J10 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Miller, and Madam Conway had ordered her baby to 
 be removed from the ante-chamber where first it had been 
 kept, so tl.at Hagar had the two children in her own 
 room. 
 
 In the pine cradle there was a rustling sonnd ; 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 reason 
 ing with herself that, " it need not be." Neither the physi 
 cian nor Madam Conway had paid any attention to Marga 
 ret'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 de- 
 cieve her ! Would her daughter, sleeping in her early 
 grave, approve the deed. " No, no," she answered aloud, 
 " she would not ;" and the great drops of perspiration stood 
 thickly upon her dark haggard face, as she arose and laid 
 back in her cradle the child whom she had thought to make 
 an heiress. 
 
 For a time the tempter left her, but returned ere long, 
 and creeping into her heart sung to her beautiful songs of the 
 future which might be, were Hester's baby a lady. And
 
 HAGAR'S SECRET. 2U 
 
 Hagar, listening to that song, fell asleep, dreaming tliat 'h* 
 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 Con 
 ways, who boasted more than one lordly title. With a ner 
 rous 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 differ 
 ence 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 dress 
 ing the infants she should change their clothes for once, just 
 to see how fine cambrics and soft flannel would look upon a 
 grandchild of Hagar Warren 1 " She could easily change 
 them again 'twas only an experiment," she said, as with 
 trembling hands she proceeded to divest the children of 
 their wrappings. But her fingers seemed all thumbs, and 
 more than one sharp pin pierced the tender flesh of her 
 little grandchild, as she fastened together the embroidered 
 Blip, 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 ex 
 changed, and then with a strange, undefined feel'.ng, old 
 Hagar stood back and looked to see how the little usurper 
 became her new position. She became it well, and to 
 Hagar's partial eyes it seemed more mete that she should
 
 ftlS MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 
 paiu at Hagar's heart, and she would perhaps have undone 
 the wrong, had not Madam Conway appeared with inquir 
 ies for the baby's health. Hagar could not face her mistress, 
 so she turned away and pretended to busy, herself with the 
 arrangement of the room, while the lady bending over the 
 cradle, said, "I think she is improving, Hagar ; I never saw 
 her look so well ;" and she pushed back the window curtain 
 to obtain a better view. 
 
 With a wild startled look in her eye, Hagar held her 
 breath to hear what might come next, but her fears were 
 groundless ; for in her anxiety for her daughter, Madam 
 Conway had heretofore scarcely seen her grand-child, and 
 had no suspicion now that the sleeper before her was of 
 plebeian birth, nor yet that the other little one, at whom she 
 did not deign to look, was bone of her bone, and flesh of her 
 flesh. She started to leave the room, but impelled by 
 some sudden impulse turned back and stooped to kiss the 
 child. Involuntarily old Hagar sprang forward to stay tho 
 act, and grasped the lady's arm, but she was to late ; the 
 aristocratic lips had touched the cheek of Hagar Warren's 
 grand-child, and the secret, if now confessed, would never be 
 forgiven. 
 
 " It can't be helped," muttered Hagar, and then, when 
 Mrs. Conway asked an explanation of her conduct, she ans 
 wered. " I was afraid you'd wake her np, and mercy 
 knows I've had worry enough with both the brats." 
 
 Not till then had Madain Couway observed how Laggard 
 and worn was Hagar's face, and instead of reproving her for 
 her bolduess, she said gently, " you have, indeed, been sorely 
 tried. Shall I scud up Bertha to relieve you ?"
 
 HAGAirS SECRET. 218 
 
 " No, no," answered Hagar hurriedly, " I am better 
 alone." 
 
 The next jpoment Madam Conway was moving silently 
 down the narrow hall, while Hagar on her knees was weep 
 ing 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 Diking 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 1" 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. Con- 
 way usually attended, called to see Mrs. Miller, -who sug- 
 jested that both the children should receive the rite of bap 
 tism. Hagar was accordingly bidden to prepare them for 
 the ceremony, and resolving to make one more effort to undo 
 what she had done, she dressed the child, whom she had 
 thought to wrong, in its own clothes, and then anxiously 
 awaited her mistress's coming.
 
 214 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 " Hagar Warren 1 What docs this mean ? Are yot 
 crazy 1" sternly demanded Madam Conway, when th 
 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 possi 
 ble that her mind was partially unsettled ; so she said 
 gently, but firmly, " this is no time for foolishness, Hagar. 
 They are waiting for us in the sick-room ; so make haste 
 and change the baby's dress." 
 
 There was something authoritative in her manner, and 
 Hagar obeyed, whispering incoherently to herself, and thus 
 further confirming her mistress's suspicions that she was 
 partially insane. During the ceremony, she stood tall and 
 erect like some dark, grim statue, her hands firmly locked 
 together, and her eyes fixed upon the face of the little one, 
 who was baptized " Margaret Miller." As the clergyman 
 pronounced that name, she uttered a low, gasping moan, but 
 her face betrayed no emotion, and very calmly she stepped 
 forward with the other child upon her arm. 
 
 " What name ?" asked the minister, and she answered 
 " her mother's ; call her for her mother !" 
 
 " Hester," said Madam Conway, turning to the clergyman, 
 who understood nothing from Hagar's reply. 
 
 So " Hester " .was the name given to the child, in whose 
 feins the blood of English noblemen was flowing ; and ^vhen 
 the ceremony was ended, Hagar bore back to her room 
 " Hester Hamilton," the child defrauded of her birthright^ 
 and " Maggie Miller," the heroine of oar storj.
 
 HESTER AND MAGGIE. ill 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HESTER AND MAGGIE. 
 
 " IT is over now," old Hagar thought, as she laid the 
 children upon their pillows. " The deed is done, and by 
 their own hands too. There is nothing left for me now but 
 a confession, and that I cannot make ;" so with a heavy 
 weight upon her soul, she sat down resolving to keep her 
 own counsel and abide the consequence, whatever it might 
 be. 
 
 But it wore upon her terribly that secret and though 
 it helped in a measure to divert her mind from dwelling too 
 much upon her daughter's death, it haunted her continually, 
 making her a strange, eccentric woman, whom the servants 
 persisted in calling crazy, while even Madam Conway failed 
 to comprehend her. Her face, which was always dark, seemed 
 to have acquired a darker, harder look, while her eyes wore a 
 wild startled expression, as if she were constantly followed 
 by some tormenting fear. At first, Mrs. Miller objected to 
 trusting her with the babe ; but when Madam Couway sug 
 gested that the woman who had charge of little Theo 
 should also take care of Maggie, she fell upon hyr knees 
 and begged mo^t piteously that the child might not be taken 
 from her. Every thing I have ever loved has left me," said 
 ihe, " and I cannot give her up." 
 
 " But they say you are crazy," answered Madam Conway, 
 somewhat surprised that Hagar should manifest so mncb
 
 m MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 afl'cction for a child not at all connected to her. " They 
 say you are crazy, and no one trusts a crazy woman." 
 
 Crazy!" repeated Hagar, half scornfully, "crazy 'tis 
 not craziness 'tis the. trouble the trouble that's killing me. 
 But I'll hide it closer than it's hidden now," she continued, 
 " If you'll let her stay ; and 'fore Heaven, I swear, that 
 sooner than harm one hair of Maggie's head, I'd part with 
 my own life ;" and taking the sleeping child in her arms, she 
 stood like a wild beast at bay. 
 
 Madam Conway did not herself really believe in Hagar's 
 insanity. She had heretofore been perfectly faithful to 
 whatever was committed to her care, so she bade her be 
 quiet, saying they would trust her for a time. 
 
 " It's the talking to myself," said Hagar, when left alone. 
 " It's the talking to myself, which makes them call me 
 crazy ; and though I might talk to many a worse woman 
 than old Hagar Warren, I'll stop it ; I'll be still as the 
 grave, and when next they gossip about me, it shall be of 
 something besides my craziness. 
 
 So Hagar became suddenly silent, and uncommunicative, 
 mingling but little with the servants, but staying all day 
 long in her room, where she watched the children with un 
 tiring care. Especially was she kind to Hester, who as 
 time passed on, proved to be a puny, sickly thing, never 
 noticing any one, but moaning frequently as if in pain. 
 Very tenderly old Hagar nursed her, carrying her often in her 
 arms, until they ached from very weariness, while Madam 
 Conway, who watched her with a vigilant eye, complained 
 4ha,t she neglected little Maggie. 
 
 " And what if I do ?" returned Hagar, somewhat bitterly, 
 ".Ain't there avast difference between the two? S'pose 
 E.ester was your own flesh and blood, would you think I 
 could do too much for the poor thing ?" And she glanced
 
 HESTER AND MAGGIE. 217 
 
 compassionately at the poor wasted form, which lay upon 
 her lap, gasping for breath, and presenting a striking con 
 trast to the little Maggie, who, in her cradle, Avas 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 be 
 tween her and the Couways ; while the grandmother 
 prided herself particularly on the arched eyebrows, and 
 finely cut upper lip, which, she said, were sure marks of 
 high blood, and never found in the lower ranks ! With a 
 most scornful expression on her face, old Hagar would lis 
 ten 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 Hood that makes the difference. Just tell her 
 the truth once, anu she'd quickly change her mind. Hester's 
 blue pinch? j 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 1" 
 
 " 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 
 BO like those now resting in the grave. In the meantime 
 Mrs. Miller, who, since her daughter's birth, had never left 
 ber room, was growing daily weaker, and when Maggie was 
 
 10
 
 MS MAGGIE FILLER. 
 
 nearly nine months old, she died, with the little one folded 
 to her bosom, just as Hester Hamilton had held it, when, 
 Bhe, 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 mo 
 ther, 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 Ma 
 dam 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 per 
 Bisted, and Madam Couway, surprised at her excited man 
 ner, which she attributed in a measure to envy, answered 
 coldly. " Of course not. Still, if God had seen fit to give 
 me a child like Hester, I should try to be reconciled, but I 
 am thankful he has not thus dealt with me." 
 
 " 'Tis enough. I am satisfied," thought Hagar. " She 
 would not thank me for telling her. The secret shall be 
 kept ;" and half exultingly she anticipated the pride she 
 should feel in seeing her grand-daughter grown up a lady, 
 and an heiress. 
 
 Anon, however, there came stealing over her a feeling of 
 remorse, as she reflected that the child defrauded of its birth 
 right would, if it lived, be compelled to serve in the capacity 
 of a servant ; and many a night, when all else was sileut iu
 
 HESTER AND MAGGIE. 1 
 
 the old stone house, she paced up and do\vu the room, hci 
 long hair, now fast turning grey, falling over her shoulders, 
 and her large eyes dimmed with tears, as she thought what 
 ilia future woald 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 piue 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 1 I would willingly have cared 
 for you all my life, but I am glad you are gone to Miss Mar 
 garet, who, it may be, will wonder what little thin-faced 
 augel is calling tier mother I But somebody'll introduce you, 
 somebody '11 tell her who you are, and when she knows how 
 proud her mother is of Maggie, she'll forgive old Hagar 
 Warren I" 
 
 " Gone stark mad 1" was the report carried by the ser 
 vants 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," 
 uud choosing the cambric robe which Hester had worn on 
 the oiorning 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 ema 
 ciated form which rested quietly from all its pain. Hover 
 ing at her side was Hagar, and feeling it her duty to say a 
 word of comfort, the stately lady remarked, that " 'twa?
 
 220 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 best the babe should die ; that were it her grandchi/d, sh 
 Bhould feel relieved ; for had it lived, it would undoubtedly 
 have been physically and intellectually feeble." 
 
 " Thank you 1 I am considerably comforted," was the 
 cool reply cf Hagar, who felt how cruel were the words, and 
 who for a moment was strongly tempted to claim the beauti 
 ful 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 neces 
 sary. To see Maggie grow up into a beautiful, refined and 
 cultivated woman, was now the great object of Hagar's life ; 
 and fearing lest by some inadvertent word or action the 
 secret should be disclosed, she wished to live by herself, 
 where naught but the winds of heaven could listen to her 
 incoherent whisperings, which made her fellow servants 
 accuse her of insanity. 
 
 Down in the deepest shadow of the woods, and distant 
 from the old stone house nearly a mile, was a half-ruined 
 cottage which, years before, had been occupied by miners, 
 who had dug in the hillside for particles of yellow ore, which 
 they fancied to be gold. Long and frequent were the night 
 revels said to have been held in the old hut, which had at last 
 fallen into bad repute and been for years deserted. To one 
 like Hagar, however, there was nothing intimidating in its 
 creaking old floors, its rattling windows and noisome chim 
 ney, where the bats and the swallows built their nests ; and 
 when, one day, Madam Conway proposed giving little Mag
 
 HESTER AND MAGGIE. 22 
 
 gie 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 maj 
 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 con 
 sented readily to her removal to the cottage, which by hrr 
 orders was made comparatively comfortable. For several 
 weeks, when she came, as she did each day to the house, Mad 
 am Conway kept Maggie carefully from her sight, until at 
 last she begged so hard to see her, that her wish was grati 
 fied ; and as she manifested no disposition whatever to molest 
 the child, Madam Conway's fears gradually subsided, and 
 Jlagar 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.
 
 221 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GIRLHOOD. 
 
 FIFTEEN years have passed away, and around the old stone 
 house there is outwardly no change. The moss Still clinga 
 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 Hagwr Warren breathed 
 that prayer, " Lead us not into temptation." Madam Con- 
 way, 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 mov 
 ing stealthily and slow, as if following in a funeral train, but 
 dancing down the stairs, tripping through the halls, skip 
 ping 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 beauti 
 ful is Maggie Miller now, with her bright sunny face, her 
 soft, dark eyes and raven hair, so glossy and smooth, that
 
 GIRLHOOD. 223 
 
 her sister, the p?k f* .f*J, blue-eyed Theo, likens it to a piece 
 of shining patin. Now, as ever, the pet and darling of the 
 household, she moves amoag them like a raj of sunshine ; 
 and the servants, when they hear her bird-like voice waking 
 the echoes of the weird old place, pause in their work to 
 listen, blessing Miss Margaret for the joy and gladness her 
 presence has brought to them. 
 
 Old Hagar, in her cottage by the mine, has kept her 
 secret well, whispering it only to the rushing wind and the 
 running brook, which have told no tales to the gay, light- 
 hearted girl, save to murniur in her ear that a life, untram- 
 meled 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 prac 
 tised in the old world. She has taught them how to sit and 
 how to stand, how to eat and how to drink, as became young 
 ladies of Conway blood and birth. And Madam Conway, 
 through her golden spectacles, looks each day to see some 
 good, from all this teaching, come to the bold, dashing, 
 untamable Maggie, who, spurning alike both birth and blood, 
 laughs at form and etiquette as taught by Mrs. Jeffrey, and 
 winding her arms around her grandmother's neck, crumples 
 her rich lace ruffle with a most unladyltte hug, and then 
 bounds away to the stables, pretending not to hear the dis 
 tressed Mrs. Jeffrey calling after her " not to run, 'twas so 
 Yankeefied and vulgar ;" or if she did hear, answering back, 
 " I am a Yankee, native born, and shall run for all Johnny 
 Bull." 
 
 Greatly horrified at this evidence of total depravity, Mrs
 
 S24 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Jeffrey brushes down her black silk apron and goes back to 
 Theo, her more tractable pupil ; while Maggie, emerging 
 ere long from the stable, clears the fence with one leap of 
 her high-mettled pony, which John, the coachman, had 
 bought at an enormous price, of a travelling circus, on pur<> 
 pose for his young mistress, who complained that "grand 
 ma's horses were all too lazy and aristocratic in their move 
 ments for her." 
 
 In perfect amazement Madam Con way looked out when 
 first " Gritty," as the pony was called, was led up to tho 
 door, prancing, pawing, chafing at the bit and impatient 
 to be off. " Margaret should never mount that animal," 
 she said ; but Margaret had ruled for sixteen years, and 
 now, at a sign from John, she sprang gaily upon the back of 
 the fiery steed, who, feeling instinctively that the rider he 
 carried \*as a stranger to fear, became under her training 
 perfectly gentle, obeying her slightest command, and follow 
 ing 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 dis 
 appeared in the shadow of the trees. " She'll break her 
 neck some day ;" and thinking some one must be in fault, 
 her eyes would turn reprovingly upon Mrs. Jeffrey for 
 having failed in subduing Maggie, whom the old governess 
 pronounced the " veriest mad-cap in the world ; there waa 
 nothing like her in all England," she said, "and her low bred 
 ways must be the result of her having been born on Ameri 
 can soil." 
 
 If Maggie was to be censured, Ma Jam 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
 
 GIRLHOOD. 221 
 
 Margai 3t. She's a little wild, I admit, but no one with my 
 blood in their veins can be low-bred- ;" and in her indigna 
 tion at the governess, Madam would usually forget to 
 reprove her grand-daughter when she came back from her 
 ride, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shiniug 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, grand' 
 ma ?" 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 Mag 
 gie, 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 
 Eurrounding 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. 
 
 10*
 
 226 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 At no great distance from this spot, was another grnre 
 where the grass grew tall and green, and where the head- 
 Btoue, half sunken in the earth, betokened that she who 
 rested there was of humble origin. Here Maggie seldom 
 tarried long. The place had no attraction for her, for rarely 
 now was the name of Hester Hamilton heard at the old 
 stone house, and all, save one, seemed to have forgotten 
 that such as she had ever lived. This was Hagar Warren, 
 who in her cottage by the mine has grown older, and more 
 crazy -like since last we saw her. Her hair, once so much 
 like that which Madame Con way likens to her own, has 
 bleached as white as snow, and her tall form is shrivelled 
 now, and bent. The secret is wearing her life away, and yet 
 she does not regret what she has done. She cannot, when 
 she looks upon the beautiful girl, who comes each day to 
 her lonely hut, and whom she worships with a species of 
 wild idolatry. Maggie knows not why it is, and yet to hef 
 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 hori 
 zon, 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 lis 
 tens, while her hands work nervously together, and her 
 whole body trembles with the longing, intense desire she 
 feels, to clasp the young girl to her bosom, and claim her as 
 hor own. But this she dare not do, for Madame Conway's 
 training has had its effect, and in Maggie's bearing there n
 
 GIRLEOOD. '2<:1 
 
 ever a degree of pride which forbids anything like aacfue 
 familiarity. And it was this very pride which llagar 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 I" answered Maggie. You never talked to 
 me of her. Tell me of her now, I did not suppose I wrs 
 like her, in anything." 
 
 "Yes, in everything," said old Hagar, "the same daik 
 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 re 
 joined 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, pro 
 vided 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 eyea 
 opening wide at the strange question. " I wouldn't for the 
 whole world be anybody but Maggie Miller, just who I am
 
 j 28 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 > 
 
 To be sure I get awfully out of patience with grandma, and 
 Mrs. Jeffrey, for talking so much about birth and Hood 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 
 rourself. 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 contin 
 ued : 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 rest 
 ing on Hagar's face ; " I'll help you to keep it, and we'll 
 have such grand times talking it over. Did it concern your- 
 Belf ?" 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 
 uight shadows were falling, and whose winding path she 
 must tiavcrse alone, on her homeward route. "Was it 
 then so dreadful ?" 
 
 "Yes, dreadful, dreadful ; and yet, Maggie, I have some* 
 times wished you knew it. You would forgive me, perhaps, 
 if you knew how I was tempted," said Hagar, a,nd her voice 
 was full of yearning tenderness, while her bony fingers 
 parted lovingly the shining hair from off the white tvwv
 
 GIRLHOOD. 229 
 
 of the young girl, who plead again, "Tell it to me, 
 Hagar." 
 
 There was a fierce struggle in Hagar's bosom, but the 
 flight wind, moving through the hemlock boughs, seemed 
 to say, " Not yet not yet," and remembering her vow, 
 5ln 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 
 Hood ; for what, save this, could thus affect old Hagar ? 
 Her road home led near the little burying-grouud, and 
 impelled by something she could not resist, she paused at 
 her mother's grave. The moonlight was falling softly upon 
 it, and seating herself within the shadow of the monument, 
 she sat a long time, thinking, not of the dead, but of Hagar 
 and the strange words she had uttered. Suddenly, from 
 the opposite side of the graveyard, there came a sound 
 as of some one walking, and looking up, Maggie saw- 
 approaching her the bent figure of the old woman, who 
 seemed unusually excited. Her first impulse was to fly, but 
 knowing how improbable it was that Hagar should seek to 
 do her harm, and thinking sne might discover some clue to 
 the mystery, if she remained, she sat still, while kneeling on 
 Hester's grave, old Hagar wept bitterly, talking the while, 
 but so incoherently that Maggie could distinguish nothing, 
 lave the words, " You, Hester, have forgiven me." 
 
 ' Can it be that she has killed her own child !" thought 
 Mag, and starting to her feet she stood face to face with 
 Hagar, who screamed, " You here, Maggie Miller ! Here 
 with the others who know my secret. But you shan't wring
 
 230 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 t 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 
 bands F 
 
 With a short gasping moan, Hagar staggered backward 
 a pace or two, and then standing far more erect than Mar 
 garet had ever seen her before, she answered, " No, Maggie 
 Miller, no ; murder is not my secret. These hands," and she 
 tossed in the air her shrivelled arms, " these hands are as 
 free from blood as yours. And now go. Leave me alone 
 with my dead, and see that you tell no tales. You like 
 secrets, you say. Let what you have heard to-night, be your 
 secret. Go." 
 
 Maggie obeyed, and walked slowly homeward, feeling 
 greatly relieved that her suspicion was false, and experi 
 encing a degree of satisfaction in thinking that she, too, had 
 a secret, which she would guard most carefully from her 
 g-andmother and Theo. " She would never tell them what 
 she had seen and heard never !" 
 
 Seated upon the piazza was Madam Couway and Theo, 
 the former of whom eluded 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 grand 
 mother's feet, and asked, " how long Hagar had been crazy ? 
 Bid it come upon her when her daughter died ?" she in 
 ; juired ; 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."
 
 GIRLHOOD. 281 
 
 For a moment Maggie sat wrapt in thought then clap 
 ping her hands together, she exclaimed--" I have it ; I know 
 now what ails her. She felt so badly to see you happy with 
 me, that she tried to poison me. She said she was sorely 
 tempted and that's the secret which is killing her." 
 
 " Secret ! What secret ?" cried Theo ; and womanlike, 
 forgetting her resolution not to tell, Mag told what she had 
 seen and heard, adding as her firm belief that Hagar had 
 made an attempt upon her life. 
 
 " I would advise you for the future to keep away from 
 her, then," said Madam Conway, to whom the suggestion 
 seemed a very probable one. 
 
 But Maggie knew full well that whatever Hagar might 
 ouce have thought to do, there was no danger to be appre 
 hended 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 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 se 
 cret 1 H'jw? where? Have the dead come back to tell? 
 Did any ^rdy ce me do it ?" 
 
 " Why, no," answered Mag, beginning again to grow a 
 little mystified. " The dead have nothing to do with it. 
 You tried to poison me when I was a baby, and that's what 
 makes you crazy. Isn't it so ? Grandma thought it was, 
 when 1 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 f,;ud : "I didn't mean to tell indeed I didn't, 
 but I forgot j.ll about your charge. Forgive me, llugui;
 
 232 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 do," at.d, sinking on the floor, she looked up in Hagar's fa< 
 BO pleadingly that the old woman was softened, and ans 
 wered gently, " You are like the rest of your sex, Marga 
 ret. No woman but Hagar Warren ever kept a secret ; 
 and it's killing her, you see." 
 
 " Don't keep it then," said Mag. " Tell it to me. Confess 
 that you tried to poison me because you envied grandma," 
 and the soft eyes looked with an anxious, expectant express 
 ion 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," per 
 sisted Mag, her curiosity each moment increasing. 
 
 " Maggie Miller," said old Hagar, and the knitting drop 
 ped from her fingers, which moved slowly on till they 
 reached and touched the little snow-flake of a hand, resting 
 on her knee ; " Maggie Miller, if you knew that the telling of 
 that secret would make you perfectly wretched, would you 
 wish to hear it ?" 
 
 For a moment Mag was silent, and then, half laughingly, 
 she replied, " I'd risk it, Hagar, for I never wanted to know 
 anything half so bad in all my life. Tell it to me, won't 
 you ?'' 
 
 Very beautiful looked Maggie Miller then. Her straw 
 flat sat jauntily on one side of her head, her glossy hair 
 combed smoothly back, her soft lustrous eyes shining with 
 eager curiosity, and her cheeks flushed with excitement. 
 Very, very beautiful she seemed to the old woman, who, in 
 her intense longing to take the bright creature to her bosom, 
 was, for an instant sorely tempted. 
 
 " Margaret /" she began, and at the sound of her voi-30
 
 GIRLHOOD. 2,S 
 
 the young girl shuddered involuntarily. " Margaret 1" 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 1" 
 
 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 fore 
 head and lips, which were white as ashes. Wearied at last, 
 Mag gave it up for the time being, but her curiosity was 
 thoroughly aroused, and for many days she persisted in her 
 importunity, until at last, in self defence, old Hagar, when 
 she saw her coming, would steal away to the low roofed 
 chamber, and hiding behind a pile of rubbish, would listen 
 breathlessly, while Margaret hunted for her in vain. Then 
 when she was gone, she would crawl out from her hiding- 
 place, covered with cobwebs and dust, and muttering to 
 herself, " I never expected this, and it's more than I can 
 bear. Why will she torment me so, when a knowledge of 
 the secret would drive her mad !" 
 
 This, however, Maggie Miller did not know. Blessed 
 with an uncommon degree of curiosity, which increased each 
 time she saw old Hagar, she resolved to solve the mystery, 
 which she felt sure was connected with herself, though in 
 what manner, she could not guess. "But I will know," 
 she would say to herself, when returning from a fruitless
 
 234 MA.GGIE MILLER. 
 
 quizzing of old Hagar, whose hiding-place she had at last 
 discovered ; " I will know what ; tis about rne. I Bhali 
 never be quilt 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, 
 won enough.
 
 TRIFLES. 285 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TRIFLES. 
 
 VERT rapidly the winter passed away, and one morning, 
 early in March, Mag went down to the cottage with the 
 news that Madam Conway was intending to start immedi 
 ately for England, where she had business which would 
 probably detain her until fall. 
 
 " Oh, won't I have fun in her absence 1" she cried. " I'll 
 visit every family in the neighborhood. Here she's kept 
 Theo and me, caged up like two wild animals, and now I 
 am going to see a little of the world. I don't mean to 
 study a bit, and instead of visiting you once a day, I shall 
 come at least three, times." 
 
 " The Lord help me 1" 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 ?" 
 
 " Li/ce you, Maggie Miller ! like you," repeated old Ilagar. 
 and iu the tones of her voice there was a world of tender 
 ness and love. "There is nothing on earth- 1 love as I do 
 you But you worry me to death sometimes." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know," answered Mag ; ' but I'm not going 
 to tease you awhile. I shall have so much else to do when 
 grandma is gone, that I shall forget it. I wish she wasn't
 
 186 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 BO 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 hero in the woods like two 
 young savages. Why, as true as you live, Hagar, I have 
 never been anywhere in my life, except to church Sundays, 
 once to Douglas's store, in Worcester, once to Patty Thomp 
 son'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 grand 
 mother 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. 7. wouldn't live in England 
 for anything." 
 
 " Why don't your gr?' Another take you with her ?" 
 asked Hagar, who in r measure sympathized with Maggie 
 for being thus isolated. 
 
 " She says we are too young to go into society," answered 
 Mag. " It will be time enough two years hence, when I'm 
 eighteen and Theo twenty. Then I believe she intends tak 
 ing us to London, where we can show off qur accomplish 
 ments, and practise that wonderful courtesy which Mrs. 
 Jeffrey has taught us. I daresay the queen will be aston 
 ished at our qualifications ;" and with a merry laugh, as she 
 thought of the appearance she should make at the Court ;f 
 St. James, Mag leaped on Gritty's back and bounded away, 
 while llagar looked wistfully after her, saying as she viped 
 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."
 
 TRIFLES. 887 
 
 As Maggie had said, Madam Conway was going to Eng 
 land. At first, she thought of taking the young ladies with 
 her, but, thinking they were hardly old enough yet to be 
 emancipated from the school-room, she decided to leave 
 ihsni under the supervision of Mrs. Jeffrey, whose niece she 
 promised to bring with her on her return from America. 
 Upon her departure she bade Theo and Mag a most affection 
 ate 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 iu love was quite as pre 
 posterous as to themselves. 
 
 " Fall in love 1" repeated Maggie, when her tears were 
 dried, and she with Theo was driving slowly home. " What 
 could grandma mean ! I wonder who there is for us to 
 love, unless it be John the coachman, or Bill the gardener. 
 I 'most wish we could get in love though, just to see how 
 'twould seem, don't you ?" she continued. 
 
 " Not with anybody here," answered Theo, her nose slight 
 ly elevated at the thoughts of people whom she had been 
 educated to despise. 
 
 " Why not here as well as elsewhere ?" asked Maggie. 
 "I don't see any difference. But grandma needn't be trou 
 bled, for such things as men's boots never came near our 
 house I think it's a shame though," she continued, " that 
 we don't know anybody, either male or female. Let's go 
 down to Worcester, some day, and get acquainted. Don't 
 yon remember the two handsome young men whom we saw 
 five years ago, iu Douglas's store, and how they winked at 
 each other when grandma ran down their goods, and said 
 there were not any darning needles fit to use, this side oi 
 the water 1"
 
 238 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 On most subjects, Theo's memory w as treacherous, but 
 she remembered perfectly well the two young men, particu 
 larly 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 goiug to Worcester did not strike her favorably. 
 " She wished Worcester would come to them," she said, 
 " but she should not dare to go there. They would surely 
 get lost. Grandma would not like it, and Mrs. Jeffrey 
 would not let them go, even if they wished." 
 
 " A fig for Mrs. Jeffrey," said Maggie. " I shan't mind 
 her much. I'm going to have a real good time, doing as I 
 please, and if you are wise, you'll have one too." 
 
 " I suppose I shall do what you tell me to I always do," 
 answered Theo, submissively, and there the conversation 
 ceased. 
 
 Arrived at home they found dinner awaiting them, and 
 Maggie, when seated, suggested to Mrs. Jeffrey that she 
 should give them a vacation of a few weeks, just long enough 
 for them to get rested and visit the neighbors. But this 
 Mrs. Jeffrey refused to do. 
 
 "She had her orders to keep them at their books," she 
 said, and " study was healthful ;" at the same time she bade 
 them be in the school-room on the morrow. There was a 
 wicked look in Maggie's eyes, but her tongue told no tales, 
 and when next morning she went with Theo, demurely to 
 the school-room, she seemed surprised at hearing from Mrs. 
 Jeffrey that every book had disappeared from the desk, 
 where they were usually kept ; and though the greatly dis 
 turbed and astonished lady had sought for them nearly an 
 hour, they were not to be found. 
 
 41 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
 
 TRIFLES. SSt 
 
 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 Couway 
 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 neigh 
 bors, 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 con 
 tinued 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.
 
 40 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 
 
 ONE afternoon towards the middle of April, when Mag 
 gie a*s 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 
 than, by way of tantalizing her pursuer, she paused for a 
 moment until he had almost readied her, when at a peculiar 
 whistle Gritty sprang forward, while Maggie's mocking 
 laugh was borne back to the discomfited young man, whose
 
 THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 241 
 
 interest in the daring girl increased each moment. It was 
 a long, long chase she led him, over hills, across the plains, 
 and through the grassy valley, until she stopped at last 
 within a hundred yards of the deep, narrow gorge, through 
 which the millstreaui ran. 
 
 " I have you now," thought the stranger, who knew by 
 the dull, roaring sound of the water, that a chasm lay be 
 tween 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 
 browM locks and handsome dark eyes were plainly discerni 
 ble, 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 ncaring the bank, when the young man, 
 suspecting her design, shrieked out, " Stop, lady, stop I 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 AV'arner was beaten 
 by a school-girl," muttered the stranger. "If she can clear 
 that, I can, bad rider as I am !" and burying his spurs deep 
 in the sides of his horse, he pressed on while Maggie held 
 her breath in fear, for she knew that without practice no 
 one could do what she had done. 
 
 11
 
 l MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 There was a partially downward plunge a fierce strug- 
 gle on the shelving bank, where the animal had struck a 
 few feet from the top, then the steed stood panting ou 
 terra firma, while a piercing hriek 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 1" cried Maggie. " 'Twas my 
 own foolishness which killed him," and springing from Grit- 
 ty's back she gathered up her long riding skirt, and glided 
 ewiftly down the bank, until she came to a wide, projecting 
 rock, where the stranger lay, motionless and still, his white 
 face upturned to the sunlight, which came stealing down 
 through the overhanging boughs. In an instant she was 
 at his side, and his head was restng on hor 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 pule 
 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 
 ber tasteful velvet cap in the brook, whose sparkling foam 
 had never before been disturbed by the touch of a hand as
 
 THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 241 
 
 Soft and fair as hers. To ascend was not so easy a matter ; 
 but chamois-like, Maggie's feet trod safely the dangerou? 
 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 faint 
 est sound, heard him utter the name of " Rose." In Mag 
 gie'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 yon, and if her very life depended 
 upon it, she would never dare leap that gorge." 
 
 The young man intended no reproof ; but Maggie look 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 
 boauty, wishing that she herself was like her, instead of the 
 wild mad-cap she was. Then thinking her conduct required 
 some apology, she answered, as none save one as fresh and
 
 84* MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 ingenuous as Maggie Miller would have answered, " I don't 
 know any better than to behave as I do. I've always lived 
 in the woods have never been to school a day in my life 
 never been anywhere except to camp meeting, and once to 
 Douglas's store in Worcester I" 
 
 This was entirely a new phase of character to the man ol 
 the world, who laughed aloud, and at the mention of Doug 
 las's store, started so quickly, that a spasm of pain distorted 
 his features, causing Maggie to ask if he were badly hurt. 
 
 "Nothing but a broken leg," he answered ; and Maggie 
 to whose mind broken bones conveyed a world of pain and 
 Buffering, replied. " Oh, I am so sorry for you, and it's my 
 fault, too. Will you forgive me ?" and her little chubby 
 hands clasped his so pleadingly, that raising himself upon 
 his elbow, so as to obtain a better view of her bright face, 
 he answered ; " I'd willingly break a hundred bones for the 
 sake of meeting a girl like you, Maggie Miller." 
 
 Maggie was unused to flattery, save as it came from her 
 grandmother, Theo, or old Hagar, and now paying no heed 
 to his remark, she said, " Can you stay here alon^, while I 
 go for help ? our house is not far away." 
 
 " I'd rather you would remain with me," he replied ; " but 
 as you cannot do both, I suppose you must go." 
 
 " I shan't be gone long," said Maggie, " and I'll send 
 old Hagar to keep you company ;" so saying, she climbed 
 the bank, and mounting Gritty, who stood quietly awaiting 
 her, ' she seized the other horse by the bridle, and rode 
 swiftly away, leaving the young man to meditate upon the 
 novel situation in which he had so suddenly been placed. 
 
 " Ain't I in a pretty predicament ?" said he, as he tried in 
 vain to move his swollen limb, which was broken in two 
 places, but which being partially benumbed, uid not now 
 pain him much. "But it serves me right for chasing- a
 
 THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 24fl 
 
 harum-scarum thing, when I ought to have been minding in* 
 own ousiness, and collecting bills for Douglas & Co. And 
 she says she's been there, too. I wonder who she is, the 
 handsome sprite. I believe I made her more than half 
 jealous, talking of my golden-haired Rose ; but she is far 
 more beautiful than Rose, more beautiful than any one I 
 ever saw. I wish she'd come back again," and shutting hia 
 eyes, he tried to recall the bright, animated face, which had 
 BO 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 
 gaw before him the bent form of Hagar Warren, at whose 
 door Maggie had paused for a moment, while she told of the 
 accident, and begged of Hagar to hasten. 
 
 Accordingly, equipped with a blanket and pillow, a brandy 
 bottle and the camphor, old Hagar had come, but when she 
 offered the latter for the young man's acceptance, he pushed 
 it from him, saying, " Camphor was his detestation, but he 
 shouldn't object particularly to smelling of the other bot 
 tle 1" 
 
 "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 comfort 
 able by placing a pillow beneath his head, and then think 
 ing possibly, that ttiis, 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
 
 248 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 tasted ; but he needed something to relieve the deathlike 
 faintness which occasionally came over him, and which old 
 Hagar, looking only at his mischievous eyes, failed to 
 observe. Only those who knew Henry Warner intimately 
 gave him credit for the many admirable qualities he really 
 possessed ; so full was he of fun. It was in his merry eyes, 
 and about his quizzically-shaped mouth, that the principal 
 difficulty lay ; and most persons, seeing him for the first 
 time, fancied that, in some way, he was making sport of 
 them. This was old Hagar's impression, as she sat there in 
 dignified silence, rather enjoying, than otherwise, the occa 
 sional 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 com 
 panion. " Confound ,that leg 1" he continued, as a fierce 
 twinge gave him warning not to try many experiments. " I 
 know her name is Maggie Miller, and I supposed she lived 
 in a house ; but who is she, any way, and what is she ?" 
 
 " If you mean is she anybody, I can answer that question 
 quick," returned Hagar. " She calls Madam Con way her 
 grandmother, and Madam Conway came from one of the 
 best families in England that's who she is ; and as to what 
 flhe 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 I" 
 
 " Confound my mouth 1 It's always getting me into 
 trouble," thought the stranger, trying in vaiu to smooth
 
 THE JUXIOR PARTNER. 247 
 
 down the corners of the offending organ, which in- spke of 
 him would curve with what Hagar called a sn~>eY, 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 1 beg your pardon, Mrs. Hagar," ho 
 
 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 1" 
 
 This time there was something in the tone of his voice 
 which prompted Hagar to draw near, and she was abouU to 
 offer him the brandy, when Maggie appeared, together 
 with three men, bearing a litter, or small cot-bed. The 
 Bight 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 1" 
 
 Arrived at Hagar's cottage, the old woman suggested 
 that he be carried in there, saying as she met Maggie'a 
 questioning glance, " I can take care of him better thac 
 any one else."
 
 248 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 The pain by this time was intolerable, and scarcely know- 
 ing what he said, the stranger whispered, " Yes, yes, leave 
 me here." 
 
 For a moment the bearers paused, while Maggio, bending 
 over the wounded man, said softly. " Can't you bear it a 
 little longer, until our house is reached ? You'll be more 
 somfortable there. Grandma has gone to England, and I'll 
 take care of you myself 1" 
 
 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 signi 
 fied 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 tho 
 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 appear 
 ance. 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
 
 THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 44* 
 
 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 tl.e 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 ju 
 nior partner of the firm of Douglas & Co., Worcester, and 
 his object in visiting the Hillsdale neighborhood was to col 
 lect several bills which for a long time had been due. He 
 had left the cars at the depot, and hiring a livery horse was 
 taking the shortest route from the east side of town to the 
 west, when he came accidentally upon Maggie Miller, and 
 as we have seen, brought his ride to a sudden close. All 
 this he told to her on the morning following the accident, 
 retaining until the last the name of the firm of which he 
 was a member. 
 
 " And you were once there at our store," he said. " How 
 long ago ?" 
 
 " Five years " answered Maggie, " when I was eleven, 
 and Tbeo 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 It one 
 
 11*
 
 ?BO MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 br< ke 
 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 yester 
 day 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 undefina- 
 ble emotion she had once before experienced. But the ques 
 tion 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 under 
 stand 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 them- 
 Belves upon Maggie, to see how she would bear the compli 
 ment. 
 
 But she scarcely heeded it, so intent was she upon know, 
 ing something more of the mysterious Rose. " She is beauti 
 ful, you say. Will you tell me how she looks ?" she con 
 tinued ; and Henry Warner answered, " she is a frail, deli
 
 THfi JUNIOR PARTNER. 351 
 
 
 
 cate little creature, almost dwarfish in size, bat perfect ia 
 form and feature." 
 
 Involuntarily Maggie shrunk back in her vbair, wishing 
 her own queeuly form had been a very trifle shorter, whilo 
 Mr. Warner continued, " She has a sweet, angel face, Mag 
 gie, 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 pil 
 lows 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 aftl she felt. She was unused to the 
 world. He was the first young gentleman whose acquaint- 
 fihe 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 with 
 holding from her, for a time, a knowledge of the relation ex 
 isting between him and the Rose of whom he had talked so 
 much. The ruse was successful, for during the remaindci 
 of the day, thoughts of the golden-haired Rose were run 
 ning 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
 
 f52 MAGGIE MILLEK. 
 
 she cared particularly," she tried to persuade herself ; " bnl 
 she would like to be at ease upon that subject." 
 
 To Theo she had communicated the fact, that their guest 
 was a partner of Douglas & Co.' and this tended greatly to 
 raise the young man in the estimation of a young lady like 
 Theo Miller. Next to rank and station money was with her 
 the one thing necessary to make a person somebody. Doug 
 las, she had heard, was an immensely wealthy man; possibly 
 the junior partner was wealthy, too ; and if so, the parlor 
 chamber, to which she had at first objected, was none too 
 good for his aristocratic bones. She would go herself and 
 see him in the morning. 
 
 Accordingly, on the morning of the second day she went 
 with Maggie to the sick room, speaking to the stranger for 
 the first time ; but keeping still at a respectful distance, 
 until she should know something definite concerning him. 
 
 " We have met before, it seems," he said, after the first 
 interchange of civilities was over ; "but I did not think our 
 acquaintance would be renewed in this manner." 
 
 No answer from Theo, who, like many others, had taken 
 a dislike to his mouth, and felt puzzled to know whether he 
 intended ridiculing her or not. 
 
 " I have a distinct recollection of your grandmother," he 
 continued, " and now I think of it, I believe Douglas has 
 once or twice mentioned the elder of the two girls. That 
 must be you ?" and he looked at Theo, whose face bright 
 ened 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. " Georgs 
 Doug/as, the senior partner of the firm, said by some to bo 
 worth two hundred thousand dollars, and only twenty-eight
 
 THE JUNIOR PAATIfER. 251 
 
 fears 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, 
 aud when, after a little further conversation, Mr. Warner 
 expressed a wish to write to his partner, she brought her 
 t?wn rose-wood writing-desk for him to use, and then seat 
 ing herself by the window, waited until the letter was 
 written. 
 
 " What shall I say for you, Miss Theo ?" he a.>ked, 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 ,o 
 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 sugges 
 tion." 
 
 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
 
 254 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 down morels of love, for the gentle Eose. 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 to 
 ward him, Margaret answered, " Tell her I love her, though 
 1 don't know who she is 1" 
 
 " 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 mo 
 tion of her face was visible to him. 
 
 The letter was as follows : 
 
 " MY DARLING LITTLE ROSE t 
 
 " 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 te 
 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. 
 
 ' A.S you probably know, I left Worcester on Tuesday 
 morning for the purpose of collecting some bills in this 
 Neighborhood. Arrived at Hillsdalo I procured a horse, 
 and was sauntering leisurely through the woods, whoa 
 I came suddenly upon a. flying witch in the shape of a beau 
 tiful young girl. She was the finest rider I ever saw, and 
 Buch a chase as she led me, until at last, to my dismay, sho 
 leaped across a chasm, down which a nervous little creature
 
 THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 26fl 
 
 fike you would be afraid to look. Not wishing to be out 
 done, 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 mo 
 ment, 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 sin 
 gle 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 Mag 
 gie 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 shocker 1 , at such 
 perfect frankness, which meant no more than their own 
 studied airs. 
 
 "You are a good girl, Maggie," he said, at last, " and I 
 would not for the world deceive you ; Rose is my step-sister. 
 We are in no way connected save by a marriage, still I love 
 her all the same. We were brought ap together by a lady 
 who is aunt to both, and Rose seems to me like an own 
 Jear sister. She has saved me from almost everything. I
 
 25e MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 once loved the wine cup ; but her kindly words and getitle 
 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 ia 
 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 Ilenry 
 answered, " No, in Lcominster, which is not far distant. I 
 go home once a mouth, and I fancy I can see Rose now, just 
 as she looks when she comes tripping down the walk to 
 meet me, her blue eyes shining like stars, and her golden 
 curls blowing over her pale forehead. She is very, very 
 frail : and sometimes when I look upon her, the dread fear 
 steals over me, that there will come a time, ere long, when I 
 shall have no sister." 
 
 There were tears in Maggie's eyes, tears for the fair young 
 girl whom she had never seen, and she felt a yearning desire 
 to look once on the beautiful face of her whom Henry War 
 ner 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 daguerreo 
 type 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 waa 
 seated on Gritty's back, with the two letters clasped firmly 
 in her hand. At one of these, the one bearing the name of 
 Rose Warner, she looked often and wistfully ; " 'twas a most 
 beautiful nauvj," she thought, " and she who bore it was
 
 JUNIOR PARTNER. * 
 
 beautiful too." And then there arose within her a wish, 
 shadowy aud undefined to herself, it is true but still a wish 
 that she, Maggie Miller, might one day call that geutlo 
 Hose her sister. " 1 shall see her sometimes, any way, she 
 thought, " aud this George Douglas, too. I wish they'd 
 ?isit us together," and having by this time reached the 
 post office, she deposited the letters, and galloped rapidly 
 toward home.
 
 258 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER VIC. 
 
 THE SENIOR PARTNER. 
 
 THE large establishment of Douglas & Co. was closed foi 
 the night. The clerks had gone each to his own place ; 
 old Safford, the poor relation, the man of all work, who 
 attended faithfully to everything, groaning often and pray 
 ing 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 
 corne 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 thau 
 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 
 hi which it oc ;urred, Warner continued : 
 
 " They say 'tis a mighty bad wind which blows no one 
 my 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 
 fece of Maggie Miller, I feel that I would not exchange this 
 high old bed, to enter which, needs a short ladder, even for 
 ft seat by you on that three-legged stool, behind the old
 
 THE SENIOR PARTNER. 25 
 
 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 clone. I've told her a dozen times at least that she 
 was beautiful, and she didn't mind it any more than Eoso 
 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 slily disarrange on pur 
 pose) I feel the blood tingle to the ends of my toes, and 
 still I dare not hint such a thing to her. 'T would 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 sprung from a high 
 family, that there is no one in America worthy of her lady 
 ship's notice, unless indeed they chance to have money. Yon 
 ought to have seen how her eyes lighted up when I told her 
 you were said to be worth $200,000. 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 Saf
 
 280 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 ford 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 
 luty, and warn you not to meddle with Maggie. She is ray 
 own exclusive property, and altogether too good foi a 
 worldly fellow like you. T/ieo 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 remem 
 ber 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 girla 
 in fiats, one of whom seemed so much distressed at her 
 grandmother's remarks. S/ie, 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 aud possessing the 
 kindest heart in the world. If you wish to know more of 
 her, conie and see for yourself, but again I warn you, handa 
 off ; nobody is to flirt with her but myself, and it is very 
 doubtful whether even I can do it peaceably, for that oltf 
 Ilagar, who by the way is a curious specimen, gave me to 
 understand when I lay or* the rock, with her sitting by aa 
 n sort of ogress, that so long as she lived no city chap witb 
 strapped pauts (do, pray, bring me a pair, George, without 
 straps !) and sneering mouth was going to fool with Mar 
 garet Miller. 
 
 " So you see my mouth is at fault again. Hang it all, 1
 
 THE SENIOR PARTNER. 86\ 
 
 can't imagine what ails it that everybody should think I'm 
 making fun of them. Even old Safford mutters about my 
 making months at him when I haven't thought of him ir a 
 month ! Present my compliments to the old gentleman, 
 and tell him one of ' the boys ' thinks seriously of following 
 fais 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 
 wrapt in thought, then bursting into a laugh as he thought 
 now 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 him 
 self with thinking that at some time not far distant he would 
 visit the old stone house would see for himself this won 
 derful 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 
 Ros-3, blooming so sweetly in her bird's-nest of a home 'mong 
 the tall old trees of Leominster. 
 
 " But he need not fear," he said somewhat bitterly, " he 
 Deed not fear for her, for it is over now. She has refused 
 jae, 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
 
 202 MAGGIE MILIER. 
 
 there is no tie of blood between them. I'd far rather it 
 would be thus, than something nearer ;" and slowly rising 
 np, George Douglas retired to dream of a calm, almost hea 
 venly face, which but the day before had been bathed in 
 tears as he told to Kose 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 in 
 clination 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 un 
 fortunately fallen into the error of thinking that almost 
 any one whom he should select would take him for hia 
 money. And when Rose Warner, sitting by his side in the 
 shadowy twilight, had said, " I cannot be your wife," tho 
 chock was sndden and hard to bear. But the first keen bit. 
 terness 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 Hills
 
 THE SENIOR PARTNER. 2l 
 
 dale, where he intended to remain until after the 4th. To End 
 the old house was an easy matter, for almost every one in 
 town was familiar with its locality, and towards the close 
 of the afternoon, he found himself upon its broad steps ap 
 plying vigorous strokes to the ponderous brass knocker, and 
 half hoping the summons would be answered by Maggie her 
 self. But it was not, and in the bent, white-haired woman 
 who came with measured footsteps we recognize old Hagar, 
 tfho 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 watch 
 ing the stranger. 
 
 " Just the old witch one would expect to find in this out 
 of the way place," thought Mr. Douglas, while at the same 
 time he asked " if this were Madam Conway's residence, and 
 if a young man by the name of Warner were staying here ?" 
 
 " Another city beau !" muttered Hagar, as she answered 
 in the affirmative, and ushered him into the parlor. " Ano 
 ther 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 address 
 ing himself. 
 
 " I wasn't speaking to you. I was talking to a likelier 
 person," answered old Hagar, in an under tone, as she 
 shuffled away in quest of Henry Warner, who by this time 
 was able to walk with the help of a cane. 
 
 The meeting between the young men was a joyful one, 
 for though George Douglas was a little sore on the subject 
 of Rose, he would not suffer a matter like that to come be 
 tween him and Henry Warner, whom he had known and 
 liked from boyhood. Henry's first inquiries were naturally
 
 264 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 of a business character, and then George Douglas spoke of 
 the young ladies, saying he was only anxious to see Mag, 
 for he knew of course, he should dislike the other. 
 
 Such, however, is wayward human nature, that the fair, 
 pule face, and quiet, dignified manner of Theo Miller had 
 greater attractions for a person of George Douglas's peculiar 
 temperament than had the dashing, brilliant Mag. There 
 was a resemblance, he imagined, between Thco 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 author 
 ity, telling her quondam pupils it was time they were asleep, 
 Theo did not, as usual, heed the warning, but sat very still 
 beneath the vine-wreathed portico, listening while George 
 Douglas told her of the world which she had never seen. 
 She was not proud towards him, for he possessed the charm 
 of money, and as he looked down upon her, conversing with 
 him so familiarly, he wondered how Henry could have called 
 her cold and haughty she was merely dignified, high-bred, he 
 thought, and George Douglas liked anything which savored 
 of aristocracy. 
 
 Meanwhile, Henry and Mag had wandered to a little 
 cummer-house, where, with the bright moonlight falling upon 
 them, they sat together, but not exactly as of old, for 
 Magg : -c 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. Tlieo 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.
 
 THE SENIOR PARTNER. 265 
 
 Faithfully and well had Hagar studied Henry Warner, to 
 Bee if there were aught in him of evil ; and though he was 
 not what she would have chosen for the queenly Mug, she 
 was satisfied if Margaret loved him and he loved Margaret. 
 " But did he ? He had never told her so ;" and in Hagar 
 Warren's wild black eyes, there was a savage gleam, as she 
 thought, " he'll rue the day that he dares trifle with Maggie 
 Miller." 
 
 But Henry Warner was not trifling with her. He was 
 only waiting a favorable opportunity for telling her the 
 story of his love ; and now, as they sit together in the 
 moonlight, with the musical flow of the millstream falling 
 on his ear, he essays to speak to tell how she has grown 
 into his heart ; to ask her to go with him where he goes ; 
 to make his home her home, and so be with him always ; 
 but ere the first word was uttered, Maggie asked if Mr. 
 Douglas had brought the picture of his sister. 
 
 " Why, yes," he answered, " I had forgotten it entirely. 
 Here it is ;" and taking it from his pocket, he passed it to her. 
 
 It was a face of almost ethereal loveliness, which through 
 the moonlight looked up to Maggie Miller, and again she 
 experienced the same uudeSnable 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 sho 
 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 1" 
 
 12
 
 266 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 1" 
 
 That night, in Maggie's dreams, there was a strange com 
 mingling of thought. Thoughts of Henry Warner, as he 
 told her of his love thoughts of the gentle girl whose eyes 
 of blue had looked so lovingly up to her, as if between them 
 there was indeed a common bond of sympathy and 
 stranger far than all, thoughts of the little grave beneath 
 the pine, where slept the so-called child of Hester Hamilton 
 the child defrauded of its birth-right, and who, in the mis 
 ty vagaries of dreamland, seemed alone to stand between her 
 and the beautiful Rose Warner I
 
 STARS AND STRIPES. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 STARS AND STRIPES. 
 
 ON the rude bench by her cabin door, sat Hagar War 
 ren, her black eyes peering out into the woods, and her 
 quick ear turned to catch the first sound of bounding foot 
 steps, which came at last, and Maggie Miller was sitting by 
 her side. 
 
 " What is it, darling ?" Hagar asked, and her shrivelled 
 hand smoothed, caressingly, the silken hair, as she looked 
 into the glowing face of the young girl and half guessed 
 what was written there. 
 
 To Theo, Mag had whispered the words, " I am engaged," 
 and Theo had coldly answered, " Pshaw ? Grandma will 
 quickly break that up. Why, Henry Warner is compara 
 tively poor. Mr. Douglas told me so, or rather I quizzed 
 him until I found it out. He says, though, that Henry has 
 rare business talents, and he could not do without him." 
 
 To the latter part of Theo's remark, Maggie paid little 
 heed ; but the mention of her grandmother troubled her. 
 She would oppose it, Mag was sure of that, and it was to 
 talk on this very subject she had come to Hagar's cottage. 
 
 " Just the way I s'posed it would end," said Hagar, when 
 Mag, with blushing, half-averted face, told the story of her 
 engagement; "Just the way I s'posed 'twould end, but 1 
 uidu't think 'twould be so quick."
 
 268 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 " Two months aud a half is a great while, and then wo 
 have been together so much," replied Maggie, at the 
 same time asking if LTagar did not approve her choice. 
 
 " Henry Warner's well enough," answered Hagar. " I've 
 watched him close and see no evil in him ; but be 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 de^ 
 utruction, 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 1" cried 
 Mag, a little indignantly. " You do not know me, if you 
 think I'll ever tire of him ; and then, too, did I tell you 
 grandma keeps writing to me about a Mr. Cairollton, who 
 she says is wealthy, fine looking, highly educated, and very 
 aristocratic, and that last makes me hate him 1 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 
 Eet upon it, I know, aud she thinks of course he would marry 
 me says he is delighted with my daguerreotype that aw 
 ful one, too, with the staring eyes. In grandma's last let 
 ter, he sent me a note. 'Twas beautifully written, and I 
 dare say he is a fine young man, at least he talks common 
 tense, but I shan't answer it ; and if you'll believe me, I used 
 part of it in lighting Henry's cigar, and with the rest I shall 
 light fire-era diers on the 4th of July ; Henry has bought a
 
 STAES AND STRIPES. 2ft* 
 
 lot of them, and we're going to have fun. How grandma 
 would scold ! but I shall marry Henry Warner, any way. 
 Do yoo think she will oppose me, when she sees how deter 
 mined I am ?" 
 
 " Of course she will," answered Hagar, " I know these 
 Carrolltons ; they are a haughty race, and if your grand 
 mother has one of them in view she'll turn you from her 
 door sooner than see you married to another, and an Ameri 
 can, too." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then with an unna 
 tural gleam in her eye, old Hagar turned towards Mag, and 
 grasping her shoulder, said, " If she does this thing, Maggie 
 Miller if she casts you off, will you take me for your grand 
 mother ? Will you let me live with you ? I'll be your 
 drudge, your slave ; say, Maggie, may I go with you ? 
 Will you call me grandmother ? I'd willingly die if only 
 once I could hear you speak to me thus, and know it was in 
 love." 
 
 For a moment Mag looked at her in astonishment ; then 
 thinking to herself, " She surely is half-crazed," she ans 
 wered 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 
 vo 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 Douglaa
 
 f|- MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 and Theo, coming slowly down the shaded pathway, wliicfo 
 led past Hagar's door. Old Hagar saw them, too, and, 
 whispering to Maggie, said, " there's another marriage brew 
 ing, or the signs do not tell true, arid madam will sanction 
 this one, too, for there's mouey there, and gold can purify 
 any blood." 
 
 Ere Maggie could reply, Theo called out, " you here, 
 Mag, as usual ?" adding, aside, to her companion, " she haa 
 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 i n 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 sun 
 burnt 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 Mil 
 ler should not know how democratic had been his early 
 training. So he made no answer, but, addressing himself 
 to Mag, asked " how she could find it in her heart to leave 
 her patient so long ?" 
 
 " I'm going back directly," she said, and donning her flat, 
 she started for home, thinking she had gained but little 
 satisfaction from Hagar, who, as Douglas and Theo passed 
 on, resumed her seat by the door, and listening to the sound 
 of Margaret's retreating footsteps, muttered, " the old 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, 
 Bud I only hope this Warner is worthy of her, but he ain't
 
 STARS AND STRIPES. 271 
 
 He's toe wild too full of what Hagar Warren calls bedevil' 
 ment. And Mag does everything he tells her to do. Not 
 content with tearing down his bed-curtains, which have hung 
 there full twenty years, she's set things all cornerwise, 
 because the folks do so in Worcester, and has turned the 
 parlor into a smoking room, till all the air of Hillsdale can't 
 take away that tobacco scent. Why, it almost knocks me 
 down 1" and the old lady groaned aloud, as she recounted 
 to herself the recent innovations upon the time-honored 
 habits of her mistress's house. 
 
 Henry Warner was, indeed, rather a fast young man, but 
 it needed the suggestive presence of George Douglas to 
 bring out his true character ; and for the four days succeed 
 ing the arrival of the latter, there were rare doings at the 
 old stone house, where the astonished and rather delighted 
 servants looked on in amazement, while the young men sang 
 their jovial songs and drank of the rare old wine, which Mag, 
 utterly fearless of what her grandmother might say, brought 
 from the cellar below. But when, on the morning of the 
 4th, Henry Warner suggested that they have a celebration, 
 or, at least, hang out the American flag by way of showing 
 their patriotism, there were signs of rebellion in the kitchen, 
 while even Mrs. Jeffrey, who had long since ceased to inter 
 fere, felt it her duty to remonstrate. Accordingly, she 
 descended to the parlor, where she found George Douglas 
 and Mag dancing to the tune of Yankee Doodle, which 
 Theo played upon the piano, while Henry Warner whistled 
 a most stirring accompaniment ! To be heard above that 
 din was impossible, and involuntarily patting her own slip 
 pered 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 Couway did not know. She was three
 
 27 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 thousand miles away, arid with this distance between them, 
 Maggie dared do anything ; so when the flag was again 
 mentioned, she answered apologetically, as if it were some 
 thing of which they ought to be ashamed : " We never had 
 any, but we can soon make one, I know. 'Twill be fun to 
 see it float from the house-top 1" and, flying up the staira 
 to the dusty garret, she drew from a huge oaken chest, a 
 scarlet coat, which had belonged to the former owner of the 
 place, who little thought, as he sat in state, that his 
 favorite coat would one day furnish materials for the 
 emblem of American freedom ! 
 
 No such thought as this, however, obtruded itself upon 
 Mag, as she bent over the chest. "The coat is of no use," she 
 said, and gathering it up, she ran back to the parlor, where, 
 throwing it across Henry's lap, she told how it had be 
 longed to her great-great-grandfather, who, at the time of 
 the Revolution, went home to England. The young men 
 exchanged a meaning look, and then burst into a laugh, but 
 the cause of their merriment they did not explain, lest the 
 prejudices of the girls should be aroused. 
 
 "This is just the thing," said Henry, entering heart and 
 soul into the spirit of the fun. " This is grand. Can't 
 you find some blue for the ground-work of the stars ?" 
 
 Mag thought a moment, and then exclaimed, " Oh, yes, 
 I have it, grandma has a blue satin bodice, which she wore 
 when she was a young lady. She once gave me a part of 
 the back for my dolly's dress, , She won't care if I cut up 
 the rest for a banner." 
 
 " Of course not," answered George Douglas. " She'll be 
 glad to have it used for such a laudable purpose," and walk- 
 ing to the window, he laughed heartily as hf> saw in fancy 
 the wrath of the proud English woman, when she learned 
 the use to which her satin bodice had been appropriated.
 
 STARS AND STRIPES. 273 
 
 The waist was brought in a twinkling, and then, when 
 Henry asked for some white, Mag cried, " A sheet will bo 
 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 cheat 
 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 bail- 
 ner, 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 nation 
 ality was in any way affected, for what George Douglas sanc 
 tioned was by this time right with her ; but she felt some mis 
 giving as to what hjer grandmother might say ; and thinking 
 if she did nothing but look on and laugh, the blame would 
 fall on Mag, she stood aloof, making occasionally a sugges 
 tion, and seeming as pleased as any one, when, at last, 
 the flag was done. A quilting frame served as a flag-staff, 
 and Mag was chosen to plant it upon the top of the house, 
 where was a cupola, or miniature tower, overlooking the 
 surrounding country. Leading to this tower was a narrow 
 staircase, and up these stairs Mag bore the flag, assisted by 
 one of the servant girls, whose birth-place was green Erin, 
 and whose broad, good-humored face shone with delight, 
 as she fastened the pole securely in its place, and then shook 
 aloft her checked apron, in answer to the cheer which came 
 tip from below, when first the American banner waved ovef 
 the old stone house. 
 
 Attracted by the noise, and wondering what fresh mis 
 chief they were doing, Mrs. Jeffrey went out into the yard 
 
 12*
 
 274 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 just in time to see the flag of freedom as it shook itself out 
 in the summer breeze. 
 
 " Heaven help me !" she ejaculated ; " Stars and Stripes, 
 on Madam Conway's house I" 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 retir- 
 ing to her room, wrote to Madam Conway an exaggerated 
 account of the proceedings, bidding her hasten home, or 
 Mag and Theo would be ruined. 
 
 The letter being written, the good lady felt better so 
 much better, indeed, that after an hour's deliberation she 
 concluded not to send it, inasmuch as it contained many 
 complaints against the young lady Margaret, who she knew 
 was sure in the end to find favor in her grandmother's eyes. 
 This was the first time Mrs. Jeffrey had attempted a letter 
 to her employer, for Maggie had been the chosen correS' 
 pondent, Theo affecting to dislike anything like letter-writ 
 ing. On the day previous to Henry Warner's arrival at the 
 stone house, Mag had written to her grandmother, and ere 
 the time came for her to write again, she had concluded to 
 keep his presence there a secret : so Madam Conway was, 
 as yet, ignorant of his existence ; and while in the homes of 
 the English nobility, she bore herself like a royal princess, 
 talking to young Arthur Carrollton of her beautiful gran- 
 daughter, she little dreamed of the real state of affairs at 
 home. 
 
 But it was not for Mrs. Jeffrey to enlighten her, and tear 
 ing 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 Doug 
 las and Warner, were to leave on the morrow. This last 
 act of theirs, the hoisting of the banner, had been the cul 
 minating point, and too indignant to sit with them at tte
 
 STARS AND STRIPES. 27 
 
 same table, she resolutely kept her room throughout the 
 entire day, poring intently over " Baxter's Saiut's Rest," 
 her favorite volume when at all flurried or excited. Occasion 
 ally, too, she would stop her ears with jeweller's cotton, tc 
 shut out the sound of Hail Columbia as it came up to hey 
 from the parlor below, where the young men were doing 
 their best to show their patriotism. 
 
 Towards evening, alarmed by a whizzing sound, which 
 seemed to be often repeated, and wishing to know the cause, 
 she stole half way down the stairs, when the mischievous 
 Mag greeted her with a serpent, which hissing beneath her 
 feet, sent her quickly back to her room, from which she did 
 not venture again. Mrs. Jeffrey was very good natured, 
 and reflecting that " young folks must have fun," she became 
 at last comparatively calm, and at an early hour sought her 
 pillow. But thoughts of " stars and stripes " waving directly 
 over her head, as she knew they were, made her nervous, 
 and the long clock struck the hour of two, while she waa 
 yet restless and wakeful. 
 
 " Maybe the Saint's Rest will quiet me a trifle," she 
 thought, and striking a light, she attempted to read ; but in 
 vain, for every word was a star, every line a stripe, and 
 every leaf a flag. Shutting the book and hurriedly pacing 
 the floor, she exclaimed, " It's of no use trying to sleep, or 
 meditate either. Baxter himself couldn't do it with that 
 thing over his head, and I mean to take it down. It's a 
 duty I owe to King George's memory, and to Madam Con- 
 way ;" 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 clevef 
 enough device," she said, gazing rather "admiringly at it. 
 " And I'd let it be if I s'posed I eould sleep a wink ; but /
 
 27fl MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 ;" 
 BO 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 ner 
 vous and weak. It is not strange, then, that Maggie, who 
 slept at no great distance, was awakened by a tremendous 
 crash, as of some one felling the entire length of the tower 
 stairs, while a Toice, frightened and faint, called out, " Help 
 me, Margaret, do ! I am dead ! I know I am 1" 
 
 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 I careful ! 
 It's broken short off !" she screamed, as Maggie tried to re 
 lease her foot from the rent in the linen sheet, a rent which 
 the frightened woma-) persisted in saying, " she could dara 
 as good. as new," while at the same time she implored of 
 Maggie to handle carefully her ankle, which bad beer 
 sprained by the fall.
 
 STARS AND STRIPES. 271 
 
 Maggie's recent experience in broken bones had made bef 
 quite an adept, and taking the slight form of Mrs. Jeffrey it 
 her arms, she carried her back to her room, where growing 
 more quiet, the old lady told her how she happened to fall, 
 eaying, " 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 aa 
 comfortable as possible, and then staid with her until morn 
 ing, when, leaving her in charge of a servant, she went be 
 low to say farewell to her guests. Between George Pong- 
 las 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 Eose 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 Tlillsdale. 
 
 Meanwhile, between Henry Warner and Maggie there 
 was a far more affectionate farewell, he whispering to her 
 of a time not far distant, when he would claim her as his 
 own, and she should go with him. He would write to her 
 every week, he said, and Rose should write, too. He would 
 see her in a few days, and tell her of his engagement, which 
 be 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
 
 278 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 Mag 
 gie seated herself upou the stairs and cried 1
 
 ROSE WARNER. S7 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ROSE WARNER. 
 
 among the tall old trees which skirt the borders 
 of Loniinster 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 sum 
 mers old, and fair as the white poud 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 iiorth wind should 
 blow too rudely on the golden curls, which shaded her child 
 ish brow. Very, very beautiful was little Rose, and yet 
 few ever looked upon her without a feeling of saduess ; 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 Doug 
 las, 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
 
 880 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to 
 his bosom, as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow, 
 he thought of her only as a brother thinks of a beautiful 
 and idolized sister. It had heretofore been some consolation 
 to know that his affections were untrammelled with thoughts 
 of another, that she alone was the object of his Jove, 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 bit 
 terness, 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 cele 
 bration, as she sat in a small arbor so thickly overgrown with 
 the Michigan rose as to render her invisible at a little dis 
 tance, she was startled by hearing him call her name, as he 
 came in quest of her down the garden walk. The next mo 
 ment 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 
 bad taken away her breath, and as he saw a faint blush 
 stealing over her face, he continued, " Can it be my little 
 Bister has been falling in love during my absence ?" 
 
 Never before had he spoken to her thus ; but a change
 
 had coine 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. 
 
 " T am so lonely, Henry, when you are gone and do not 
 (\rite to me I" 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 hia 
 bosom, where it had often lain, and smoothing her goldea 
 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, hs 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 forc 
 ing back the tears which moistened her long eyelashes, list 
 ened 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.
 
 282 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 ex 
 claimed. " What is it, darling ? What troubles you ?" 
 And lifting up her head, Rose Warren answered, "I waa 
 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. " Mag 
 gie 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 M 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 awaken 
 ing within her a germ of the deep, undying love, she was 
 yet to feel for her who had traced those words, and aske<] 
 to be her sister, " I will do right," she thought, " I will
 
 ROSE WARXER. 283 
 
 conquer this foolish heart of mine, or break it in the strag 
 gle, aud Henry Warner shall never know how sorely it was 
 wrung." 
 
 The resolution gave her strength, and rising up, she too 
 Bought 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, " aud 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, aud no shadow come between you and the 
 one you have chosen for your husband. To rny partial eyea 
 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 'Ro3E.'" 
 
 The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother, 
 who, after its perusal, kissed her saying, " It is right, my
 
 284 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 darling. I will send it to-morrow with mine ; and now foi 
 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, 
 6he sought her bed, where for many weeks she hovered be 
 tween 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 voico 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 I
 
 EXPECTED GUESTS. S8S 
 
 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 sym 
 pathizing with her pupils in their happiness, and half re 
 gretting the cause of that happiness, which was the expect 
 ed arrival of George Douglas and Henry Warner, who, 
 true to their promise, were coming again " to try for a 
 week the Hillsdale air, and retrieve their character as fast 
 young men." So, at least, they told Mrs. Jeffrey, who, 
 mindful of her exploit with the banner and wishing to make 
 some amends, met them alone on the threshold, Maggie hav- 
 ing at the last moment ran away, while Theo sat in a state 
 of dignified perturbation upon the sofa.
 
 286 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 waa 
 again clear to the young men, who, forgetting to retrieve 
 their characters, fairly outdid all they had done before. The 
 weather \v as remarkably clear and bracing, and the greater 
 part of each day was spent in the open air, either in fishing, 
 riding, or hunting ; Maggie teaching Henry Warner how to 
 ride and leap, while he in turn taught her to shoot a bird 
 upon the wing, until the pupil was equal to her master ! In 
 these out-door excursions George Douglas and Theo did 
 not always join, for he had something to say, which he 
 would rather tell her in the silent parlor, and which, when 
 told, furnished food for many a quiet conversation ; so 
 Henry and Maggie rode oftentimes alone ; and old Hagar, 
 when she saw them dashing past her door, Maggie usually 
 taking the lead, would shake her head and mutter to herself 
 ' 'Twill never do that match. He ought to hold her back, 
 instead of leading her on. I wish Madam Couway would 
 come home and end it." 
 
 Mrs. Jeffrey wished so too, as night after night her slum 
 bers were disturbed by the sounds of merriment which came 
 up to her from the parlor below, where the young people 
 were " enjoying themselves," as Maggie said, when reproved 
 for the noisy revel. The day previous to the one set for 
 their departure chanced to be Henry Warner's twenty-seventh 
 birth-day, and this Maggie resolved to honor with an extra 
 supper, which was served at an unusually late hour in the 
 dining-room, the door of which opened out upon a closely 
 latticed piazza. 
 
 " 1 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
 
 EXPECTED GUESTS. 887 
 
 light was burning dimly ; sheexclaimed, " Why can't we 
 get up tableaux ? There are heaps of the queerest clothes in 
 the big oaken chest in the garret. The servants can be 
 audience, and they need some recreation I" 
 
 The suggestion was at once approved, and in half an 
 hour's time the floor was strewn with garments of every con- 
 conceivable fashion, from long stockings and small-clothes 
 tc scarlet cloaks and gored skirts, the latter of which were 
 immediately donned by Henry Warner, to the infinite de 
 light of the servants, who enjoyed seeing the grotesque cos 
 tumes, 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 per 
 formance, 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 grand 
 mother'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 fyee ! 
 
 Henry Warner rarely tasted wine, for though miles away 
 from Rose, her influence was around him so, filling hia 
 glass with water, he, too, drank to the wish that " the lady 
 across the sea would remain there yet awhile, or at all events 
 not stumble upon us to-night I" 
 
 " 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 dis 
 may, 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
 
 5S8 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 flap 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 
 tight robes, with streaming candle in hand, had more than 
 a dozen times leaned over the banister, wondering " if the 
 carouse would ever end." 
 
 It did end at last, and tired and sleepy, Theo went 
 directly to her chamber, while Maggie staid below, thinking 
 to arrange matters a little, for their guests were to leave on 
 the first train, and she had ordered an early breakfast. 
 But it was a hopeless task, the putting of that room to 
 rights ; and trusting much to the good nature of the house 
 keeper, she finally gave it up and went to bed, forgetting in 
 her drowsiness to fasten the outer door, or yet to extinguish 
 the lamp which burned upon the side-board.
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 289 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 
 
 AT the delightful country seat of Arthur Carroll ton, Ma 
 <?aru 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 
 Couway 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 exceed 
 ingly 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 presenti 
 ment, 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 
 
 13
 
 S90 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Boston was it sight. Immediately after landing, she made 
 inquiries as to when the next train parsing Hillsdale station 
 would leave the city, and though it was midnight, sho 
 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 vehi 
 cle 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 Couvvay saw through the darkness the light which 
 Maggie had inadvertently left within the dining-room ! 
 
 There was no longer a shadow of uncertainty ; " Marga 
 ret was dead," and the lank Tim was ordered to drive 
 faster, or the excited woman, perched on one of her travel 
 ling trunks, would be obliged to foot it 1 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, acd bit 
 terlv- denouncing American drivers and Yankee roads 1 To
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 291 
 
 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 
 seo.t in the wagon, which was this time driven in safety to 
 her door. Giving orders for her numerous boxes to be 
 Bafely bestowed, she hastened forward and soon stood npou 
 the threshold. 
 
 " Great Heaven!" she exclaimed, starting backward so 
 suddenly that she trod upon the foot of Lottie, who again 
 sent forth an outcry, which Anna Jeffrey managed to choke 
 down. " Is this bedlam or what ?" and stepping out upon 
 the piazza, she looked to see if the blundering driver had 
 made a mistake. But no, it was the same old grey stone 
 housD she had left some months before ; and again pressing 
 boldly forward, she took the lamp from the side-board and 
 commenced to reconnoitre. " My mother's wedding dress, 
 as I live 1 and her scarlet broadcloth, too !" she cried, hold 
 ing to view the garments which Henry Warner had thrown 
 upon the arm of the long settee. A turban or cushion, 
 which she recognized as belonging to her grandmother, next 
 caught her view, together with the small-clothes of her sire. 
 
 " The entire contents of the oaken chest," she continued, in a 
 tone far from being calm and cool. " What can have hap 
 pened ! It's some of that crazy Hagar's work, I know. 
 
 I'll have her put in the " but whatever the evil wa3 
 
 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 1" 
 she cried, " I've been rolled ;" 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 1" she almost
 
 292 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 screamed, as tbe full blaze of the lamp fell upon the flag, 
 revealing the truth at once, aud partially stopping her 
 breath. 
 
 Robbery was nothing to iusult, and forgetting entirely the 
 wine, she gasped, " stars and stripes in this house ! In the 
 house of my grandfather, as loyal a subject as King George 
 ever boasted ! What can Margaret be doing to suffer a 
 thing like this ?" 
 
 A few steps further on, and Margaret herself might have 
 been seen peering out into the darkened upper hall, and 
 listening anxiously to her grandmother's voice. The sound 
 of the rattling old wagon had aroused her, and curious to 
 know who was stirring at this early hour, she had cautiously 
 opened her window, which overlooked the piazza, and to her 
 great dismay, had recognized her grandmother as she gave 
 orders concerning her baggage. Flying back to her room, 
 she awoke her sister, who, springing up in bed, whispered 
 faintly, " Will she kill us dead, Maggie ? Will she kill ua 
 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 I" 
 
 By this time the old lady was ascending the stairs, and 
 closing the door, Maggie applied her eye to the key-hole, 
 listening breathlessly for what might follow. George Doug 
 las 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! loots! Yes, 
 wen's boots, as I'm a living woman ! The like was never 
 seen by me before in this hall. Another pair !" she contin 
 ued, as her eye fell on those of Henry Warner. " Anothei 

 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 291 
 
 pair, and in the best chamber, too ! What will come next ?' ; 
 A.nd setting down her light, she wiped the drops of perspira 
 tion 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 handker 
 chief over her cap, had taken her scissors, the only weapon 
 of defence she could find, and thus equipped for battle, she 
 had sallied forth. She was prepared for burglars nay, she 
 would not have been disappointed, had she found the 
 young men busily engaged in removing the ponderous 
 furniture from their rooms ; but the sight of Madam Con- 
 way, at that unseasonable hour, was wholly unexpected, 
 and in her fright she dropped the lamp which she had light 
 ed in place of her candle, and which was broken in frag 
 ments, deluging the carpet with oil, and eliciting a fresh 
 groan from Madam Couway. 
 
 "Jeffrey, Jeffrey .'" she gasped, " what have you done ?" 
 
 " Great goodness 1" 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 Con 
 way 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 hav
 
 294 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 turned the house topsy-turvey, with their tableaux, their 
 Revolution celebration, their banner, and carousing gene 
 rally," said Mrs. Jeffrey, rather pleased than otherwise at 
 being the first to tell the news. 
 
 " Young men /" repeated Madam Conway, " what young 
 me: ? Where did they come from, and why are they here ?'' 
 
 " They are Douglas <$* Warner," said Mrs. Jeffrey, " two 
 as big scapegraces as there are this side of Old Bailey 
 that's what they are. They came from Worcester, and if 
 I've any discernment, they are after your girts, and your 
 girls are after them}' 
 
 " After my girls ! After Maggie, ! It can't be possible 1" 
 gasped Madam Conway, thinking of Arthur Carrollton. 
 
 " It's the very truth, though," returned Mrs. Jeffrey. 
 " Henry Warner, who, in my opinion, is the worst of the 
 two, got to chasing Margaret in the woods, as long ago as 
 last April ; she jumped Gritty across the gorge, and he, 
 like a fool, jumped after, breaking his leg " 
 
 " Pity it hadn't been his neck," interrupted Madam 
 Conway, and Mrs. Jeffrey continued, " Of course he waa 
 brought here, and Margaret took care of him. After a 
 while, his comrade Douglas came out, and of all the carou 
 sals you ever thought of, I reckon they had the worst 
 7 Twas the 4th of July, and if you'll believe it, they made a 
 banner, and Maggie planted it herself on the housetop. 
 They went off next morning ; but now they've come again, 
 and last night the row beat all. I never got a wink of 
 Bleep till after two o'clock." 
 
 llere, 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.
 
 [^EXPECTED GUESTS. 29* 
 
 " Pin 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 gov 
 erness, 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 un 
 doubtedly 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 Couway 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 rcstT'
 
 *6 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 This last word was opportune and -uiggestivp. If rest 
 could not be found in Baxter's Saints' Rest, it was not by her 
 to be found at all ; and sitting down by the window in the 
 grey dawn of the morning, she strove to draw comfort frcm 
 the words of the good divine, but in vain. Tt had never 
 failed her before ; but never before had she been so deeply 
 injured, and closing the volume at last, she paced the floor iu 
 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. Jeff 
 rey told you how Mr. Warner broke his leg, and was brought 
 here. He is a real nice young man, and so is Mr. Douglas, 
 who came out to see him. They are partners in the firm of 
 Douglas & Co. Worcester." 
 
 " Henry Warner is nothing but the Co. though, Mr. 
 Douglas owns the store, .and is worth two hundred thousand 
 dollars !" cried a smothered voice from under the bed ; and 
 Theo emerged into view, with a feather or two ornamenting 
 her hair, and herself looking a little uneasy and fright* 
 eaed. 
 
 The 200,000 dollars produced a magical effect upon the 
 old lady, exonerating George Douglas at on^e from all 
 blame. But towards Henry Warner she was not thus 
 lenient ; for, cowardlike, Theo charged him with having sug
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 291 
 
 gested everything, even to the cutting up of the led coat 
 for a banner I 
 
 " What I" 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 1" 
 
 " Yes, he did," said Theo, " and Maggie cut up your blue 
 satin bodice for stars, and took one of your fine linen sheeta 
 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 ! y 
 
 " 'Twas I, grandma 'twas I," interrupted Maggie, look 
 ing reproachfully at Theo. " 'Twas I, who cut up the bod 
 ice. I, who brought down the scarlet coat." 
 
 "And / 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." 
 
 " 1 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 Con way'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 break 
 fast, saying, though, that " they should decamp immediate 
 ly 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 aristo 
 cratic 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 
 
 13*
 
 BD8 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 her manner was far more gracious towards George Douglas 
 than it was towards Henry Warner, to whom she merely 
 nodded, deigning no answer whatever to his polite apology 
 for having made himself so much at home in her house. 
 The expression of his mouth was as usual against him, and 
 fancying he intended adding insult to injury by laughing in 
 her face, she coolly turned her back upon him ere he had 
 finished speaking, and walked down stairs, leaving him to 
 wind up his speech with " an old she dragon .'" 
 
 By this time both the sun and the servants had arisen, 
 the former shining into the disorderly dining-room, and dis 
 closing to the latter the weary jaded Anna, who, whilfl 
 Madam Conway was exploring the house, had thrown her 
 self upon the lounge, and had fallen asleep. 
 
 " Who is she, and where did she come from ?" was anx 
 iously inquired, and they were about going in quest of Mar 
 garet, when their mistress appeared suddenly in their midst,, 
 and their noisy demonstrations of joyful surprise awoke the 
 sleeping girl, who, rubbing her red eyelids, asked for her 
 aunt, and why she did not come to meet her. 
 
 " She has been a little excited, and forgot you, perhaps," 
 answered Madam Conway, at the same time bidding one 
 of the servants to show the young lady to Mrs. Jeffrey's 
 room. 
 
 The good lady had recovered her composure somewhat, 
 and was just wondering why her niece did not come with 
 Madam Conway as had been arranged, when Anna appear 
 ed, and in her delight at once more beholding a child of her 
 Only sister, and her husband's brother, she forgot in a mea 
 sure 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 Madara 
 Conway face to face, they both remained in their room,
 
 [JNEXPECTED GUESTS. 299 
 
 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 icicla 
 was the lady who sat where the merry Maggie had hereto 
 fore presided. Scarcely a jvord was spoken by any one ; 
 but in the laughing eyes of Maggie there was a world of fun, 
 to which the mischievous mouth of Henry Warner responded, 
 by a curl exceedingly annoying to his stately hostess, who, 
 in passing him his coffee, turned her head in another direc 
 tion lust 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 con 
 duct." 
 
 Madam Conway was at first too much astonished to speak. 
 Had it been Maggie for whom he asked, the matter would 
 have been decided at once, for Maggie was her pet, her pride, 
 the intended bride of Arthur Carrollton ; but Theo was a 
 different creature altogether, and though the Conway Hood 
 flowing in her veins entitled her to much consideration, she 
 was neither showy nor brilliant, and if she could marry 
 200,000 dollars, even though it were American coin, she 
 would perhaps be doing quite as well as could be expected ! 
 So Madam Couway replied at last, that " she would COD-
 
 300 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 sider the matter, and if she found that Theo's feelings were 
 fully enlisted, she would perhaps return a favorable an?wer 
 " 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," interrup 
 ted 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 dis 
 cernment in this case, passed through his mind. 
 
 Not thus lenient would Madam Conway have been to 
 wards Henry Warner, had he presumed to ask her that 
 morning for Maggie, but he knew better than to broach the 
 subject then. " He would write to her," he said, immedi 
 ately 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 con 
 ceived 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 suspicious were now 
 confirmed, and rapidly crossing the floor, she confronted 
 him, saying, " let my grand-daughter alone, young man, both 
 now, and forever." 
 
 Something of Hagar's fiery spirit flashed from Maggie's
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. SOI 
 
 dark eyes, but forcing down her anger, she answered half 
 earnestly, half playfully, " I am nearly old en jugh, 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 car 
 riage at that moment been announced- Wringing Maggie's 
 Land, Henry arose and left the room, followed by the indig- 
 nai/t lady, who would willingly have suffered him to walk, 
 but thinking 200,000 dollars quite too much money to go 
 011 foot, she had ordered her carriage, and both the senior 
 and junior partner of Douglas & Co. were ere long riding a 
 necond time away from the old house by the mill.
 
 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED. 
 
 " GRANDMA wishes to see you, Maggie, in her room," said 
 Theo to her sister one moruiug, three days after the depar 
 ture 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 Carrol ton !" repeated Maggie. " Much good it 
 will do her to talk to me of him. I hate the very sound ol 
 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 Valencien 
 nes border of her cap shading but not concealing the de 
 termined 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 : 
 
 41 1 have just received a letter from that Warner, asking 
 me to sanction an engagement which he says exists between 
 twself and you. Is it true ? Are you engaged to him?" 
 
 4 I am," answered Maggie, playing nervously with tb
 
 TUB WATERS ARE TROUBLED. J>0 
 
 tassel of her wrapper, and wondering why Henry luul written 
 so soon, before she had prepared the way by a little judi 
 cious 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 lam" answered Maggie, and in the same cold, decid 
 ed manner, her grandmother continued : " Then nothing 
 remains for me, but to forbid your having any communica 
 tion 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 grand 
 mother, made answer : "You must not, in my presence, 
 speak thus of Henry Warner. He is neither low, mean, vul 
 gar, nor impertinent. You are prejudiced against him, be 
 cause 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 
 Aliller 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 upoc 
 the coals ; arid when next her eyes met those of her grand 
 mother, there was in them a fierce, determined look, which 
 prompted that lady at once to change her tactics, and trj
 
 304 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 the power of persuasion, rather than of force. Feigning a 
 emile, she said, " What ails you, child ? You look to me 
 like Hagar. It was wrong in me, perhaps, to turn 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 
 i'avorable 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. Carrolltou, was an intimate 
 friend of my husband," said Madam Con way, " and wishes 
 our families to be more closely united, by a marriage be 
 tween 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. Bat 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 Lim 
 to America. Of course he will visit here, and with a little 
 tact on your part, you can, I'm sure, secure one of the best 
 matches in England. He is fine looking, too. I have his 
 daguerreotype," and opening her work-box, she drew it 
 forth, and held it before Maggie, who resolutely shut her 
 eyes, lest she should see the face of one she was so deter 
 mined to dislike
 
 THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED. 301 
 
 "What do you think of him?" asked Madam Con way, 
 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 Lira because he is an Englishman. I hate him because 
 lie is aristocratic. I hate him for everything, and before I 
 marry him I'll run away 1" 
 
 Here, wholly overcome, Maggie burst into tears, and pre 
 cipitately left the room. An hour later, and Ilagar, sitting 
 by her fire, which the coolness of the day rendered neces 
 sary, was startled by the abrupt entrance of Maggie, who, 
 throwing herself upon the floor, and burying her face in the 
 old woman's lap, sobbed bitterly. 
 
 " What is it, child ? What is it, darling ?" asked Hagar ; 
 and in a few words Maggie explained the whole. " She 
 was persecuted, dreadfully persecuted. Nobody before ever 
 had so much trouble as she. Grandma had burned a letter 
 from Henry Warner, and would not give it to her. Grand 
 ma said, too, she should never marry him, should never 
 write to him, nor see anything he might send to her. Oh, 
 Hagar, Hagar, isn't it cruel ?" and the eyes, whose wrath 
 ful, defiant expression was now quenched in tears, looked 
 up in Hagar's face for sympathy. 
 
 The right chord was touched, and much as Hagar might 
 have disliked Henry Warner, she was his fast friend now. 
 Her mistress's opposition and Maggie's tears had wrought a 
 change, and henceforth all her energies should be given to 
 the advancement of the young couple's cause. 
 
 " I can manage it," she said, smoothing the long silkeu 
 tresses which lay in disorder upon her lap. " Richland post 
 office is only four miles from here : I can walk double that 
 distance easy. Your grandmother never thinks of going 
 there, neither am I known to- any one in that neighborhood
 
 806 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Write your letter to Henry Warner, and before the sun 
 goes down, it shall be safe in the letter box. He can writo 
 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 Convvay was deter 
 mined, and would not listen. 
 
 " It grieved her sorely," she said, " thus to cross her favor 
 ite child, whom she loved better than her life ; but 'twas for 
 her good, and must be done." 
 
 So she wrote a cold, and rather insulting letter to Henry 
 Warner, bidding him, as she had once done before, " let her 
 grand-daughter alone," and saying " it was useless for him 
 to attempt anything secret, for Maggie would be closely 
 watclled, the moment there were indications of a clandes 
 tine correspondence." 
 
 This letter, which was read to Magaret, destroyed all 
 hope, and still she wavered, uncertain whether it would be 
 right to deceive her grandmother. But while she was yet 
 undecided, Hagar's fingers, of late unused to the pen, traced 
 a few lines to Henry Warner, who acting at once upon her 
 suggestion, wrote to Margaret a letter, which he directed to 
 " Hagar Warren, Richland." 
 
 In it he urged so many reasons why Maggie should avail 
 herself of this opportunity for communicating with him, that 
 she yielded at last, and regularly each week, old Hagar 
 toiled through sunshine and through storm to the Richland 
 post office, feeling amply repaid for her trouble, when she saw 
 the bright expectant face which almost always greeted her 
 return. Occasionally, by way of lulling the suspicious of
 
 THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED. 301 
 
 Madam Con way, Henry would direct a letter to Ilillsdale, 
 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 oui 
 story, may perhaps deserve a brief notice Older than 
 either Theo or Margaret, she was neither remarkable for 
 beauty or talent. Dark haired, dark eyed, dark browed, 
 and as the servants said, "dark in her disposition," she was 
 naturally envious of those whose rank in life entitled them 
 to more attention than she was herself accustomed to re 
 ceive. For this reason, Maggie Miller had from the first 
 been to her an object of dislike, and she was well pleased 
 when Madam Conway, after enjoining upon her the strict 
 est 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 pro 
 mised to be faithful to her trust, and for a time she became 
 literally Maggie Miller's shadow, following her here, follow 
 ing her there, and following her everywhere, until Maggie 
 complained so bitterly of the annoyance, that Madam Con- 
 way at last, feeling tolerably sure that no counterplot 
 was intended, revoked her orders, and bade Anna Jeffrey 
 leave Margaret free to do as she pleased. 
 
 Thus relieved from espionage, Maggie became a little 
 more like herself, though a sense of the injustice done her 
 by her grandmother, together with the deception she knew 
 she was practising, wore upon her ; and the servants at 
 their work listened in vain for the merry laugh they had 
 loved so well to hear. In the present state of Margaret's 
 feelings, Madam Conway deemed it prudent to say nothing 
 of Arthur Carr )llton, whose name was never mentioned
 
 SOS MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 save by Theo aud Anna, the latter of whom had seen him in 
 England, and was never so well pleased as when talking of 
 his fine country seat, his splendid park, his handsome horses, 
 and last, though not least, of himself. " He was," she said, 
 " without exception, the most elegant and aristocratic young 
 man she had ever seen ;" and then for more than an hour, she 
 would entertain Theo with a repetition of the many agree 
 able things he had said to her during the one day she had 
 spent at his house, while Madam Couway was visiting 
 there. 
 
 In perfect indifference, Maggie, who was frequently pres 
 ent, would listen to these stories, sometimes listlessly tarn- 
 ing the leaves of a book, and again smiling scornfully as she 
 thought how impossible it was that the fastidious Arthur 
 Carrollton should have been at all pleased with a girl like 
 Anna Jeffrey ; and positive as Maggie was that she hated 
 him, she insensibly began to feel a very slight degree of in 
 terest 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 wero 
 eo 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 I" she exclaimed, at last, 
 restoring the picture to its place, " If Henry were only a 
 little taller, and had as handsome eyes, he'd be a great deal 
 better looking. Any way, I like him, and I hate, Arthur 
 Carrollton, who I know is domineering, and would try to 
 make me mind. He has asked for my daguerreotype, 
 grandma says, one which looks as I do now. I'll send it
 
 THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED. SM 
 
 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 Tras surprised at Maggie's proposing that Theo and her- 
 eelf should have their likenesses taken for Arthur Carroll- 
 tor.. 
 
 " 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 lat 
 ter 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 lack to the instrument 1 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 enow white hair, 
 which Maggie had coaxed from the old lady, and unknown 
 to her grandmother, placed in the casing at the last mo 
 ment. 
 
 Several weeks passed away, and then there came an answer 
 a letter so full of wit and humor that Maggie confessed 
 to herself that he must be very clever to write so many 
 shrewd things, and be withal so perfectly refined. Accom 
 panying the package, was a small rosewood box, containing 
 u most exquisite little pin made of Ha gars frosty hair, and
 
 810 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 richly ornamented with gold. Not a word was written con 
 cerning it, and as Maggie kept her own counsel, both Thea 
 and her grandmother marvelled greatly, admiring its beauty 
 and wondering for whom it was intended. 
 
 " For me, of course," said Madam Conway. "The hair 
 is Lady Carrollton's, Arthur's grandmother. I know it by it? 
 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, bring 
 ing 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 deli 
 cately traced lines to her lips, " how near she seems to me I 
 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'a 
 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 !
 
 THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED 81; 
 
 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 
 netting, thought he was not to be equalled by any one ia 
 America. " So gentlemanly," she said, " and so modest, 
 too," basing her last conclusion upon his evident unwilling 
 ness to say very much of himself or his family. Concerning 
 the latter she had questioned him in vain, eliciting nothing 
 save the fact that they lived in the country several miles 
 from Worcester, that his father always staid at home, and 
 consequently his mother went but little into society. 
 
 " Despises the vulgar herd, I dare say," thought Madam 
 Conway, contemplating the pleasure she should undoubtedly 
 derive from an acquaintance with Mrs. Douglas, senior 1 
 
 " There was a sister, too," he said, and at this announce 
 ment 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 add 
 ing playfully, as he caressed Theo's smooth, round cheek, 
 " wives do not usually like their husband's sisters." 
 
 "But I shall like her, I know," said Theo. " She has a 
 beautiful name, Jenny Douglas much prettier than Rose 
 Warner, about whom Maggie talks to me so much." 
 
 A gathering frown on her grandmother's face warned 
 Theo that she had touched upon a forbidden subject, and 
 as Mr. Douglas manifested no desire to continue the conver 
 sation, it ceased for a time, Theo wishing " she could see 
 Jenny Douglas," and George wondering what she would 
 pay 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 stepa 
 alone with Madam Conway, she said, " I think I can rely
 
 812 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 upon you, Mr. Douglas, not to carry either letter, note, 01 
 message from Maggie to that young Warner. I've forbid 
 den him my house, and I mean what I say." 
 
 " I assure you madam, she has not asked me to carry 
 either," answered George ; who, though he knew perfectly 
 well of the secret correspondence, had kept it to himself. 
 " You mistake Mr. Warner, I think," he continued, after 
 a moment. "I have known him long and esteem him 
 highly." 
 
 " Tastes differ," returned Madam Conway, coldly. "No 
 man of good breeding would presume to cut up my grand 
 father's coat, or drink up my best wine." 
 
 " He interred no disrespect, I'm sure," answered George. 
 " He only wanted a little fun with the stars and stripes." 
 
 " It was fun for which he will pay most dearly though," 
 answered Madam Conway, as she bade Mr. Douglas good 
 bye ; then walking back to the parlor, she continued speak 
 ing 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 Carroll ton, asking if he really intended visitirg 
 America, and when.
 
 SOCIETY, 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SOCIETV. 
 
 DURING the remainder of the spring, matters at the old 
 stone house proceeded about as usual, Mag writing regular 
 ly to Henry, who as regularly answered, while old Hagar 
 managed so adroitly, that no one suspected the secret corres 
 pondence, and Madam Conway began to hope her grand 
 daughter had forgotten the foolish fancy. Arthur Carroll ton 
 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 Thco had expected. As the young couple 
 were not to keep house for a time, a most elegant suite of 
 rooms had beeu selected in a fashionable hotel ; and deter 
 mining that Theo should not, in point of dress, be rivalled 
 by any of her fellow-boarders, Madam Conway spared 
 neither time nor money in making the outfit perfect. So, 
 for weeks, the old stone house presented a scene of grea.t 
 confusion. Chairs, tables, lounges and piano, were piled 
 with finery, on which Anna Jeffrey worked industriously, 
 assisted sometimes by her aunt, whom Madam Couway pro 
 
 14
 
 114 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 notmced altogether too superannuated for a governess, and 
 who, though really an excellent scholar, was herself far bet 
 ter pleased with muslin robes and satin bows, than with 
 French idioms and Latin verbs. Perfectly delighted, Mag 
 joined in the general excitement, wondering occasionally 
 -when, and where her own bridal would be. Once she veir 
 tared to ask if Henry Warner and his sister might be 
 invited to Theo's wedding ; but Madam Conway answered 
 BO decidedly in the negative, that she gave it up, consoling 
 herself with thinking that she would sometime visit her sis 
 ter, and see Henry, m spite of her grandmother. 
 
 The marriage was very quiet, for Madam Conway had no 
 acquaintance, and the family alone witnessed the ceremony. 
 At first Madam Conway had hoped that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Douglas, senior, together with their daughter Jenny, would 
 be present, and she had accordingly requested George to 
 invite them, feeling greatly disappointed when she learned 
 that they could not come. 
 
 " I wanted so much to see them," she said to Mag, " and 
 know whether they are worthy to be related to the Conways 
 but of course they are, as much so as any American 
 family. George has every appearance of refinement and 
 high-breeding." 
 
 " But his family, for all that, may be as ignorant as 
 farmer Canfield's," answered Mag ; to which her grand 
 mother replied, " you needn't tell me that, for Pm not to be 
 deceived in such matters. I can tell at a glance if a person 
 is low-bojn, no matter what their education or advantages 
 may have been, Who's that?" she added, quickly and 
 turning round she saw old Hagar, her eyes lighted up, and 
 her lips moving with an incoherent sound, not easily under 
 stood , 
 
 Hagar had come up to the wedding, and had readied the
 
 SOCIETY. S16 
 
 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 ahs 
 glanced proudly at Mag, who, in her simple robe of white 
 was far more beautiful than the bride. 
 
 And still Theo, in her handsome travelling dress, was very 
 fair to look upon, and George Douglas felt proud, that she 
 was his, resolving, as he kissed away the tears she shed at 
 parting, that the vow he had just made should never be bro 
 ken. A few weeks of pleasant travel westward, and then 
 the newly-wedded pair came back to what, for a time, was 
 to be their homo. 
 
 George Douglas was highly respected in Worcester, both 
 as a mac of honor and a man of wealth ; consequently, 
 every possible attention was paid to Theo, who was petted 
 and admired, until she began to wonder why neither Mag, 
 nor yet her all-discerning grandmother, had discovered how 
 charming and faultless she was ! 
 
 Among George's acquaintance, was a Mrs. Morton, a dash 
 ing, fashionable woman, who determined to honor the bride 
 with a party, to which all the elite of Worcester were in 
 vited, together with many of the Bostonians Madam 
 Conway and Mag were of course upon the list, and as time 
 ly notice was given them by Theo, Madam Conway went 
 twice to Springfield in quest of a suitable dress for Mag. 
 " She wanted something becoming," she said, and a delicate 
 rose-colored satin, with a handsome overskirt of lace, was, 
 at last, decided upon. 
 
 " She must have some pearls for her hair,' 1 thought 
 Madam Conway, and when next Maggie, who, girl-like, 
 tried the effect of her Grst party dress at least a dozen times,
 
 816 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 stood before the glass to see " if it were exactly the right 
 length," she was presented with the pearls, which Anna Jef 
 frey, with a feeling of envy at her heart, arranged in the 
 shining braids of her hair. 
 
 " Oh, isn't it perfectly splendid !" cried Mag, herself half 
 inclined to compliment the beautiful image reflected in the 
 mirror. 
 
 " You ought to see Arthur Carrollton's sister, when she 
 is dressed, if you think you look handsome," answered 
 Anna, adding that " diamonds were much more fashionable 
 than pearls." 
 
 " You have attended a great many parties and seen a 
 great deal of fashion, so I dare say you are right," Mag 
 answered, ironically ; and then, as through the open window 
 she saw Hagar approaching, she ran out upon the piazza to 
 Bee what the old woman would say. 
 
 Hagar had never seen her thus before, and now, throwing 
 up her hands in astonishment, she involuntarily dropped 
 upon her knees, and while the tears rained over her time- 
 worn face, whispered, " Hester's child my grand-daughter 
 heaven be praised !" 
 
 " Do I look pretty ?" Margaret asked ; and Hagar ans 
 wered, " More beautiful than any one I ever saw. I wish 
 your mother could see you now." 
 
 Involuntarily Maggie glanced at the tall marble gleaming 
 through the distant trees, while Hagar's thoughts were 
 down in that other grave the grave beneath the pine. 
 The next day was the party, and at an early hour. Madam 
 Conway was ready. Her rich purple satin and Valenciennes 
 laces, with which she hoped to impress Mrs. Douglas senior, 
 were carefully packed up together with Maggie's dress ; and 
 then, shawled and bonneted, she waited impatiently for her 
 carriage, which she preferred to the cars. It came at last,
 
 SOCIETY. 317 
 
 but in place of John, the usual coachman, Mike, a rathei 
 wild yonth of twenty, was mounted upon the box. His 
 fa t her, he said, had been taken suddenly ill, and had depu 
 ted 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 mem 
 orable 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. 
 Msrdam Conway asked, " 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, 
 cither ?" 
 
 " 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 instrtK 
 ment, 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,
 
 818 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 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 aud more thoughtful for others ; for once that after 
 noon, on returning to her room after a brief absence, shy 
 whispered to Mag that " some one in the parlor below wished 
 to see her." 
 
 Then seating herself at her grandmother's feet, she enter 
 tained her so well with a description of her travels, that 
 the good lady failed to observe the absence of Mag, who, 
 face to face with llenry Warner, was making amends for 
 their long separation. Much they talked of the past, and 
 then Henry spoke of the future ; but of this Mag was less 
 hopeful. Her grandmother would never consent to their 
 marriage, she knew the stars and stripes had decided that 
 matter, even though there were no Arthur Carrollton across 
 the sea, and Mag sighed despondingly as she thought of the 
 long years of single-blessedness in store for her. 
 
 " There is but one alternative left then," said Henry. 
 " If your grandmother refuses her consent altogether, I must 
 take you without her consent." 
 
 " I shan't run away," said Mag ; " I shall live an old 
 maid, and you must live an old bachelor, until grandma" 
 
 She did not have time to finish the sentence ere Henry 
 commenced unfolding the following plan : ' 
 
 " It was necessary," he said, " for either him or Mr. Doug 
 las to go to Cuba ; and, as Eose's health made a change of 
 slimate advisable for her, George had proposed to him to 
 go, and take his sister there for the winter. And, Maggie,* 
 he continued, "will you go, too ? We are to sail the middle 
 of October, stopping for a few weeks in Florida, until the 
 unhealthy season in Havana is passed. I will see your 
 grandmother to-morrow morning will once more honorably
 
 SOCIETY. 3 It 
 
 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. Eose 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 grand 
 mother. Do you approve my plan, Maggie, darling ? Will 
 you go." 
 
 Maggie could not answer him then, for an elopement was 
 something from which she instinctively shrunk, and with a 
 faint hope that her grandmother might consent, she went 
 back to her sister's room, where she had not yet been 
 missed. Very rapidly the remainder of the afternoon passed 
 away, and at an early hour, wishing to know " exactly how 
 she was going to look," Mag commenced her toilet. Theo, 
 too>, desirous of displaying her white satin as long as possible, 
 began to dress; while Madam Con way, in no haste to don 
 her purple satin, which was uncomfortably tight, amused 
 herself by watching the passers by, nodding at intervals, in 
 her chair. 
 
 While thus occupied, a perfumed note was brought to her, 
 the contents of which elicited from her an exclamation of 
 surprise. 
 
 " Can it 'be possible!" she said; and thrusting the note into 
 h< r pocket, she hastily left the room. 
 
 She was gone a long, long time ; and when at last she re 
 turned, she was evidently much excited, paying no attention 
 whatever to Theo, who, in her bridal robes, looked charm 
 ingly, but minutely inspecting Mag, to see if in her adorn- 
 ings there was aught out of its place. Her dress was fault 
 less, and she looked so radiantly beautiful, as she stood before 
 her grand mother, that the old lady kissed her fondly.
 
 20 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 whispering, as she did so, " Yon are indeed beautiful." It 
 was a long time ere Madam Conway commenced her own 
 toilet, and then she proceeded so slowly that George 
 Donglas became impatient, and she finally suggested that he 
 and Theo should go without her, sending the carriage back 
 for herself and Mag. Tc this proposition he at last yield- 
 rd ; and when they were left alone, Madam Conway greatly 
 Hccelerated her movements, dressing herself in a few moments, 
 and then, much to Mag's surprise, going below without a 
 word of explanation. A few moments only clasped ere a 
 servant was ?ent to Mag saying that her presence was de 
 sired at No. 40, a small private parlor, adjoining the public 
 d ra wi n <r-r ooms. 
 
 " What can it mean 1 Is it possible that Henry is there?' 
 Mag, asked herself, as with a beating heart she descended 
 the stairs. 
 
 A moment more, and Mag stood on the threshold of No. 
 40. Seated up on the sofa was Madam Conway, her purple 
 satin seeming to have taken a wide sweep, and her face be 
 tokening the immense degree of satisfaction she felt in being 
 there thus with the stylish, elegant looking stranger who 
 stood at her side, with his deep, expressive eyes fixed upon 
 the door expectantly. Maggie knew him in a moment- 
 knew it was Arthur Carrollton ; and, turning pale, she start 
 ed backward, while he advanced forward and offering her 
 his hand, 'looked down upon her with a winning smile, saying, 
 as he did so, " Excuse my familiarity. You are Maggie 
 Miller, I am sure." 
 
 For an instant Mag could not reply, but soon recovering 
 nor composure, she received the stranger gracefully, and 
 then taking the chair he politely brought her, she listened 
 while her grandmother told that "he had arrived at Mon 
 treal two weeks before ; that he had reached Hillsdale that
 
 SOCIETY. 821 
 
 morning, an hour or two after their departure, and learning 
 their destination, had followed them in the cars ; that she 
 had taken the liberty of informing Mrs. Morton of his 
 arrival, and that lady had of course extended to him an 
 invitation to be present at her party." 
 
 " Which invitation 1 accept, provided Miss Maggie allows 
 ine to be her escort," said the young man, and again his 
 large, black eyes rested admiringly upon her. 
 
 Mag had anticipated a long, quiet talk with Henry War 
 ner, and, wishing the Englishman anywhere but there, she 
 answered coldly, " I cannot well decline your escort, Mr. 
 Carrollton, so of course I accept it." 
 
 Madam Conway bit her lip, but Mr. Carrollton, who waa 
 prepared for anything from Maggie Miller, was not in the 
 least displeased, and, consulting his diamond-set watch, 
 which pointed to nearly ten, he asked " if it were not time to 
 go." 
 
 " Certainly," said Madam Conway. " You remain here* 
 Maggie ; I will bring down your shawl," and she glided 
 from the room, leaving them purposely alone. 
 
 Mag was a good deal astonished, slightly embarrassed 
 and a little provoked, all of which Arthur Carrollton readily 
 saw ; but this did not prevent his talking to her, and during 
 the few minutes of Madam Conway's absence, he decided 
 that neither Margaret's beauty, nor yet her originality, had 
 been overrated by her partial grandmother, while Mag, on 
 her part, mentally pronounced him " the finest looking, tho 
 most refined, the most gentlemanly, the proudest, and the 
 'itef idlest man she had ever seen V 
 
 Wholly unconscious of her cogitation, he wrapped her 
 shawl very carefully about her, taking care to cover her 
 white shoulders from the night air ; then offering his arm 
 to her grandmother, he led the w%y to the carriage, whither 
 
 14*
 
 822 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Bhc followed him, wondering if Henry would be jealous, and 
 thinking her first act would be to tell him " how she hated 
 Arthur Carrollton, and always should .'" 
 
 It was a gay, brilliant scene which Mrs. Morton's draw 
 ing-rootns presented, and as yet the centre of attraction, 
 Theo, near the door, was bowing to the many strangers who 
 sought her acquaintance. Greatly she marvelled at the long 
 delay of her grandmother and Maggie, and she had just sug 
 gested to Henry that he should go in quest of them, when 
 she saw her sister ascending the stairs. 
 
 On a sofa across the room, sat a pale, young girl, arrayed 
 in white, her silken curls falling around her neck like a 
 golden shower, and her mournful eyes of blue, scanning 
 eagerly each new comer, then with a look of disappointment 
 drooping beneath the long lashes which rested wearily upon 
 her colorless cheek. It was Rose Warner, and the face she 
 sought was Maggie Miller's. She had seen no semblance of 
 it yet, for Henry had no daguerreotype. Still, she felt sure 
 she would know it, and when at last, in all her queenly 
 beauty, Maggie came, leaning on Arthur Carrollton's arm, 
 Rose's heart made ready answer to the oft repeated question, 
 " who is she ?" 
 
 "Beautiful, gloriously beautiful," she whispered softly, 
 while, from the grave of her buried hopes, there came one 
 wild heart-throb, one sudden burst of pain caused by the 
 first sight of her rival, and then Rose Warner grew calm 
 again, and those who saw the pressure of her hand upon 
 her side, dreamed not of the fierce pang within. She had 
 asked her brother not to tell Maggie she was to be there. 
 She would rather watch her awhile, herself unknown ; and
 
 SOCIETY. 323 
 
 now with eager, curious eyes, she followed Maggie, who was 
 quickly surrounded by a host of admirers. 
 
 It was Maggie's first introduction iuto society, and yet, so 
 perfect was her intuition of what was proper, that neither 
 by word or deed did she do aught to shock tho most fastid 
 ious. It is true her merry laugh more than once rang out 
 above the din of voices ; but it was so joyous that no one 
 objected, particularly when they looked iu her bright and 
 almost childish face. Arthur Carroll ton, too, acting as her 
 escort, aided her materially, for it was soon whispered 
 around that he was a wealthy Euglishman, and many were 
 the comments made upon the handsome couple, who seemed 
 singularly adapted to each other. A glance had convinced 
 Arthur Carrollton, that Maggie was by far the most beauti 
 ful lady present, and feeling that on this, her first introduc 
 tion into society, she needed some one to shield her, as it 
 were, from the many foolish, flattering speeches which were 
 sure to be made in her hearing, he kept her at his side, 
 where she was nothing loth to stay ; for notwithstanding 
 that she " hated him so" there was about him a fascination 
 she did not try to resist. 
 
 " They are a splendid couple," thought Eose, and then she 
 looked to see how Heury was affected by the attentions of 
 the handsome foreigner. 
 
 But Henry was not jealous, and standing a little aloof, he 
 felt more pleasure than pain in watching Maggie as she re 
 ceived the homage of the gay throng. Thoughts similar to 
 those of Rose, however, forced themselves upon him as he 
 aaw the dignified bearing of Mr. Carrollton, and for the first 
 time in his life he was conscious of an uncomfortable feeling 
 tf inferiority to something or somebody, he hardly knew what. 
 This feeling, however, passed away when Maggie came at 
 last to his side, with her winning smile, and playful words
 
 824 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Very closely Madam Conway watched her now ; but 
 Maggie did not heed it, and leaning on Henry's arm, sht 
 seemed oblivious to all save him. After a time, he led her 
 out upon a side piazza, where they would be comparative!; 
 alone. Observing that she seemed a little chilly, he left 
 her for a moment, while he went in quest of her sh&wl. 
 Scarcely was he gone when a slight, fairy form came flitting 
 through the moonlight to where Maggie sat, and twining ita 
 snow white arms around her neck, looked lovingly into her 
 eyes, whispering soft and low, " My sister." 
 
 ''My sister!" How Maggie's blood bounded at tho 
 sound of that name, which even the night wind, signing 
 through the trees, seemed to take up and repeat, " My sis 
 ter !" What was there in those words thus to affect her ? 
 Was that fair young creature, who hung so fondly over her, 
 naught to her save a common stranger ? Was there no tie 
 oetween them, no bond of sympathy and love ? We ask 
 this of you, our reader, and not of Maggie Miller, for to 
 her there came no questioning like this. She only knew 
 that every pulsation of her heart responded to the name of 
 sister, when breathed by sweet Rose Warner, and folding 
 her arms about her, she pillowed the golden head upon her 
 bosom, and pushing back the clustering curls, gazed long 
 and earnestly into a face which seemed so heavenly and 
 pure. 
 
 Few were the words they uttered at first, for the myste 
 rious, invisible something which prompted each to look into 
 the other's eyes, to clasp the other's hands, to kiss the 
 other's lips, and whisper the other's name. 
 
 " I have wished so much to see you, to know if you are 
 worthy of iny noble brother," said Rose at last, thinkirg 
 she must say something on the subject uppermost in boJi 
 their minds
 
 SOCIETY. 828 
 
 " And am I worthy ?" asked Maggie, the bright blushes 
 stealing over her cheek. " Will you let me be your sister?'' 
 
 *' My heart would claim you for that, even though I had 
 ao brother," answered Hose, and again her lips touched 
 'hose of Maggie. 
 
 Seeing them thus together, Heury tarried purposely a 
 long time, and when at last he rejoined them, he proposed 
 returning to the drawing-room, where many inquiries were 
 making for Maggie. 
 
 " I have looked for you a long time, Miss Maggie," said 
 Mr. Carrollton. " I wish to hear you play," and taking her 
 arm in his, he led her to the piano. 
 
 From the moment of her first introduction to him, Maggie 
 had felt that there was something commanding in his man 
 ner, something she could not disobey ; and now, though she 
 fancied it was impossible to play before that multitude, she 
 seated herself mechanically, and while the keys swam before 
 her eyes, went through with a difficult piece, which she had 
 never but once before executed correctly. 
 
 " You have done well, much better than I anticipated," 
 said Mr. Carrollton, again offering her his arm ; and though 
 a little vexed, those few words of commendation were worth 
 more to Maggie than the most flattering speech which 
 Henry Warner had ever made to her. 
 
 Soon after leaving the piano, a young man approached, 
 and invited her to waltz. This was something in which 
 Maggie excelled ; for two winters before, Madam Couway 
 had hired a teacher to instruct her grand-daughters in danc 
 ing, and she was about to accept the invitation, when, 
 drawing her arm still closer within his own, Mr. Canollton 
 looked down upon her, saying softly, " I wouldn't." 
 
 Maggie had often waltzed with Henry at home. He saw no 
 harm in it, and now when Arthur Carrollton objected, she
 
 o2tf MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 was provoked, while at the same time she felt constrained to 
 decline. 
 
 " Sometime, when I know you better, I will explain to 
 you why I do not think it proper for young girls to waltz 
 vith every one," said Mr. Carroll ton; and leading her from 
 she drawiug-room, he devoted himself to her for the re 
 mainder of the evening, making himself so perfectly agree 
 able, that Maggie forgot everything, even Henry Warner, 
 who in the meantime had tried to recognize Madam Conway 
 as an acquaintance. 
 
 A cool nod, however, was all the token of recognition she 
 had to give him. This state of feeling augured ill for the 
 success of his suit; but when at a late hour that night, in 
 spite of grandmother or Englishman, he handed Maggie to 
 the carriage, he whispered to her softly, "I will see her to. 
 morrow morning, and know the worst." 
 
 The words caught the quick ear of Madame Conway ; 
 but not wishing Mr. Carrollton to know there was anything par 
 ticular between her grand-daughter and Ileury Warner, she 
 said nothing, and when arrived at last at the hotel, she asked 
 an explanation, Maggie, who hurried off to bed, was too 
 sluepy to give her any answer. 
 
 "I shall know before long, any way, if he sees me in the 
 morning," she thought, as she heard a distant clock strike 
 two, and settling her face into the withering frown with 
 which she intended to annihilate Henry Warner, the old 
 lady was herself, ere long, much faster asleep than the young 
 girl at her side, who was thinking of Henry Warner, wish- 
 Ing he was three inches taller, or herself three inches shorter, 
 and wondering if his square shoulders would not be some 
 what improved by braces! 
 
 " I never noticed how short and crooked he was," she 
 thought, " until I saw him standing by the side of Mr
 
 SOCIETY, 887 
 
 Parrollton, who is such a splendid figure, so tall .and straight; 
 but big, overgrown girls like me, always get short hus 
 bands, they say," and satisfied with this conclusion, she fell 
 asleep.
 
 228 MAGGIE MILLEfi. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS. 
 
 AT a comparatively early hour Madam Conway arose, 
 and going to the parlor, found there Arthur Carrollton, who 
 asked if Margaret were not yet np. " Say that I wish 
 her to ride with me on horseback," said he. " The morning 
 air will do her good;" and quite delighted, Madam Conway 
 carried the message to her grand-daughter. 
 
 " Tell him I shan't do it," answered the sleepy Maggie, 
 adjusting herself for another nap. Then, as she thought 
 how his eyes probably looked as he said, " I wish her to 
 ride," she felt impelled to obey, and greatly to her grand 
 mother's surprise, she commenced dressing. 
 
 Tlieo's riding dress was borrowed, and though it did not 
 lit her exactly, she looked unusually well, when she met Mr 
 Carrollton in the lower hall, and once mounted upon the gay 
 fcteed, and galloping away into the country, she felt more 
 than repaid for the loss of her morning slumber. 
 
 " You ride well," said Mr. Carrollton, when at last they 
 paused upon the brow of a hill, overlooking the town, "but 
 Vou have some faults, which, with your permission I will 
 correct," and in the most polite and gentlemanly manner, he 
 proceded to speak of a few points wherein her riding might 
 be improved. 
 
 Among other things, he said she rode too fast for a lady ;
 
 MADAM COXWAY'S DISASTERS. 329 
 
 and biting her lip, Maggie thought, " If I only had Gritty 
 here, I'd lead him such a race as would either break hia 
 bunts or his iieck t I'm not particular which." 
 
 Still, she followed his directions implicitly, and when, ere 
 they reached home, he told her that she excelled many who 
 had been for years to riding schools, she felt repaid for his 
 criticisms, which she knew were just, even if they were not 
 agreeable. Breakfast being over, he announced his iuten- 
 tention of going down to Boston, telling Maggie he should 
 probably return that evening and go with her to Hillsdale 
 on the morrow. 
 
 Scarcely had he gone when Henry Warner appeared, ask 
 ing an interview with Madam Conway, who haughtily led 
 the way into a private room. Very candidly and honorably 
 Henry made known to her his wishes, whereupon a most 
 stormy scene ensued, the lady so far forgetting herself as to 
 raise her voice several notes above its usual pitch, while 
 Henry, angered by her insulting words, bade her take the 
 consequences of her refusal, hinting that girls had been 
 known to marry without their guardian's consent. 
 
 " A.n elopement, hey ? He threatens me with an elope 
 ment, does he ?" said Madam Conway, as the door closed 
 after him. " I am glad he warned me in time," and then 
 trembling in every limb lest Maggie should be spirited away 
 before her very eyes, she determined upon going home im 
 mediately, and leaving Arthur Carrollton to follow in the 
 cars 
 
 A cordingly Maggie was bidden to pack her things at 
 once, the excited old lady keeping her eye constantly upon 
 her to see that she did not disappear through the window 
 or some other improbable place. In silence Maggie obeyed, 
 pouting the while a very little, partly because she should 
 not again see Henry, partly because she had confidertly ex
 
 330 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 pected to ride home with Mr. Carrollton 1 and partly be> 
 cause she wished to stay to the firemen's muster, which had 
 long been talked about, and was to take place on the mor- 
 ro x. They were ready at last, and then in a very perturbed 
 state of feeling, Madam Conway waited for her carriage, 
 which was not forthcoming, and upon inquiry, George Doug 
 las learned that, having counted upon another day in the 
 city, Mike was now going through with a series of plunge 
 bat/is, by way of sobering himself ere appearing before his 
 mistress. This, however George kept from Madam Conway, 
 not wishing to alarm her ; and when, after a time, Mike ap 
 peared, sitting bolt upright upon the box, with the lines 
 grasped firmly in his hands, she did not suspect the truth, 
 nor know that he, too, was angry for being thus compelled 
 to go home before he saw the firemen. 
 
 Thinking v him sober enough to be perfectly safe, George 
 Douglas felt no fear, and bowing to his new relatives, went 
 back to comfort Theo, who, as a matter of course cried a 
 little when the carriage drove away. Worcester was left 
 behind, and they were far out in the country ere a word 
 was exchanged between Madam Conway and Maggie ; for 
 while the latter was pouting behind her veil, the former 
 was wondering what possessed Mike to drive into every rut 
 and over every stone. 
 
 " You, Mike," she exclaimed at last leaning from the win 
 dow. " What ails you ?" 
 
 " Nothing, as I'm a living man," answered Mike, halting 
 BO suddenly as to jerk the lady backwards and mash the 
 crown of her bonnet. 
 
 Straightening herself up, and trying in vain to smooth 
 the jam, Madam Conway continued, " lu liquor, I know 
 I wish I had staid at home ;" but Mike loudly denied the 
 charge, declaring " he had spent the blessed night at a
 
 MADAM COXWAY'S DISASTERS. 381 
 
 meeting of the Sons, where they passed round nothing 
 stronger than lemons and water, and if the horses chose to 
 run off the track, 'twasiv't his fault he couldn't help it," 
 and with :he air of one deeply injured, he again started for 
 ward, turning off ere long into a cross road, which, as they 
 advanced, grew more stony and rough, while the farm- 
 1'ouses, as a general thing, presented a far less respectable 
 appearance than those on the Hillsdale route 
 
 " Mike, you villain !" ejaculated the lady, as they ran 
 d >wn into a ditch, and she sprang to one side to keep the 
 cr rriage from going over. 
 
 But ere she had time for anything further, one of the axle- 
 ti ?es snapped asunder, and to proceed further in their 
 pi eseut condition was impossible. Alighting from the car 
 riage, and setting her little feet upon the ground with a 
 vengeance, Madam Conway first scolded Mike unmercifully 
 for his carelessness, and next chided Maggie for manifesting 
 no more concern. 
 
 "You'd as lief go to destruction as not, I do believe !" 
 said she, looking carefully after the bandbox containing her 
 purple satin. 
 
 " I'd rather go there first," answered Maggie, pointing to 
 a brown, old-fashioned farmhouse, about a quarter of a 
 mile away. 
 
 At first, Madam Conway objected, saying she preferred 
 Bitting on the bank to intruding herself upon strangers ; but 
 as it- was now noon-day, and the warm September suu 
 poured fiercely down upon her, she finally concluded to fol 
 low Maggie's advice, and gathering up her box and parasol 
 started for the house, which, with its tansy patch on the 
 right, and its single poplar tree in front, presented rather 
 an uninviting appearance. 
 
 "Some vulgar creatures live there, I know. Just heal
 
 538 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 that uld tin horn," she exclaimed, as a blast, loud and shrill 
 blown by practised lips, told to the men in a distant field 
 that dinner was ready. 
 
 A nearer approach disclosed to view a slanting roofed 
 farm-honse, such as is often found in New England, with 
 high, narrow windows, small panes of glass, and the most 
 indispensable paper curtains of blue, closely shading the win 
 dows of what was probably " the best room." In the apart 
 ment opposite, however, they were rolled up, so as to show 
 the old-fashioned drapery of dimity, bordered with a netted 
 fringe. Half a dozen broken pitchers and pots held gerani 
 ums, verbenas and other plants, while the well kept beds of 
 hollyhocks, sunflowers and poppies, indicated a taste for 
 flowers in some one. Everything about the house was 
 faultlessly neat. The door-sill was scrubbed to a chalky- 
 white, while the uncovered floor wore the same polished hue. 
 
 All this Madam Conway saw at a glance, but it did not 
 prevent her from holding high her aristocratic skirts, lest 
 they should be contaminated, and when, in answer to her 
 knock, an odd-looking, peculiarly dressed woman appeared, 
 she uttered an exclamation of disgust, and turning to Mag 
 gie, said, " You talk I can't 1" 
 
 But the woman did not stand at all upon ceremony. 
 For the last ten minutes she had been watching the stran 
 gers as they toiled over the sandy road, and when sure they 
 were coming there, had retreated into her bed-room, donning 
 a flaming red calico, which, guiltless of hoops, clung to her 
 tenaciously, showing her form to good advantage, and rous 
 ing at once the risibles of Maggie. A black lace cap, orna 
 mented with ribbons of the same fanciful color as the dress., 
 adorned her head ; and with a dozen or more pins in her 
 mouth, she now appeared, hooking her sleeve and smooth 
 lug down the black collar upon her neck.
 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS. 388 
 
 In a few words, Maggie explained to her their misfortune, 
 and asked permission to tarry there until the carriage wa? 
 repaired. 
 
 " Certing, certing," answered the woman, courtesying 
 almost to the floor. " Walk right in, if you can git in. It's 
 my cheese day, or I should have been cleared away sooner. 
 Here Betsey Jane, you have prinked long enough ; come 
 and hist the winders in t'other room, and wing 'em off, so 
 the ladies can set in there out of this dirty place," then 
 turning to Madam Conway, who was industriously freeing 
 her French kids from the sand they had accumulated dur 
 ing her walk, she continued. "Have some of my shoes to 
 rest your feet a spell ;" and diving into a recess or closet she 
 brought forth a pair of slippers large enough to hold both of 
 Madam Con way's feet at once. 
 
 With a haughty frown the lady declined the offer, while 
 Maggie looked on in delight, pleased with an adventure which 
 promised so much fun. After a moment, Betsey Jane ap 
 peared, attired in a dress similar to that of her mother, for 
 whose lank appearance she made ample amends in the won 
 derful expansion of her robes, which minus gather or fold at 
 the bottom, set out like a miniature tent, upsetting at once 
 the hand-box which Madam Conway had placed upon a 
 chair, and which, with its contents, rolled promiscuously 
 over the floor ! 
 
 " Betsey June. ! How can you wear them abominable 
 things 1" exclaimed the distressed woman, stooping to pick 
 op the purple satin which had tumbled out. 
 
 A look from the more fashionable daughter, as with a 
 swinging sweep she passed on into the parlor, silenced the 
 mother on the subject of hoops, and thinking her guests must 
 necessarily be thirsty after their walk, she brought them a 
 pitcher of water, asking if " they'd chuse it clear, or with a
 
 834 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 little ginger and molasses," at the same time calling to Bet> 
 sey Jane to know if them windows was wung off 1 
 
 The answer was in the affirmative, whereupon the ladies 
 were invited to enter, which they did the more willingly, as 
 through the open door they had caught glimpses of what 
 proved to be a very handsome Brussels carpet, which in 
 that room seemed a little out of place, as did the sofa, and 
 handsome hair-cloth rocking chair. In this last Madam 
 Conway seated herself, while Maggie reclined upon a lounge, 
 wondering at the difference in the various articles of furni 
 ture, some of which were quite expensive, while others were 
 of the most common kind. 
 
 " W.ho can they be ? She looks like some one I have 
 seen," said Maggie as Betsey Jane left the room. " I mean 
 to ask their names ;" but this her grandmother would not suf 
 fer. " It was too much like familiarity," she said, " and 
 she did not believe in putting one's self on a level with such 
 people." 
 
 Another loud blast from the horn was blown, for the bust 
 ling woman of the house was evidently getting uneasy, and 
 ere long three or four men appeared, washing themselves 
 from the spout of 'the pump, and wiping upon a coarse towel, 
 which hung upon a roller near the back door. 
 
 " I shan't eat at the same table with those creatures," 
 said Madam Conway, feeling intuitively that she would be 
 invited to dinner. 
 
 " Why, grandma, yes you will, if she asks you to," an 
 swered Maggie. " Only think how kind they are to us per 
 feet strangers 1" 
 
 What else she might have said was prevented by the en 
 trance of Betsey Jane, who informed them that " dinner waa 
 ready ;" and with a mental groan, as she thought how she 
 was about to be martyred, Madam Couway followed her to
 
 MADAM COXWAY'S DISASTERS. 885 
 
 the dining-room, where a plain substantial farmer's ineal 
 was spread. Standing at the head of the table, with her 
 good-humored face all in a glow, was the hostess, who 
 pointing Madam Coriway to a chair, said, " Now set right 
 by, and make yourselves to hum. Mebby I orto have set the 
 table over, and I guess I should if I had anything fit to eat. 
 Be you fond of biled victuals ?" and taking it for granted 
 they were, she loaded both Madam Conway's and Maggie's 
 plate with every variety of vegetables used in the prepara 
 tion of the dish known everywhere as " boiled victuals." 
 
 By this time the men had ranged themselves in respect 
 ful silence upon the opposite side of the table, each stealing 
 an admiring though modest glance at Maggie ; for the mas 
 culine heart, whether it beat beneath a homespun frock or 
 coat of finest cloth, is alike susceptible to glowing, youthful 
 beauty like that of Maggie Miller. The head of the house 
 was absent "had gone to town with a load of wood," so 
 his spouse informed the ladies, at the same time pouring out 
 a cup of tea, which she said she had tried to*make strong 
 enough to bear up an egg. " Betsey Jane," she continued, 
 casting a deprecating glance, first o,t the blue sugar bowl 
 and then at her daughter, " what possessed you to put on 
 this brown sugar, when I told you to get crush ? Have 
 some of the apple sass ? it's new made this morning. 
 Dew have some," she continued as Madam Conway shook 
 her head. " Mebby it's- better than it looks. Seem's ef you 
 wasn't goin' to eat nothin'. Betsey Jane, now you're up 
 after the crush, fetch them china sassers for the cowcurn- 
 bers. Like enough she'll eat some of them." 
 
 Bat atfecting a headache, Madam Conway declined every 
 thing, save the green tea and a Boston cracker, which, at 
 the first mention of headache, the distressed woman had 
 brought her. Suddenly remembering Mike, who having
 
 836 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 fixed the carriage, was fast asleep on a wheelbarrow 
 under the wood-shed, she exclaimed, " For the land of 
 massy, if I hain't forgot that young gentleman ! Go, Wil- 
 liam and call him this minute. Are you sick at your sto 
 mach ?" she asked, turning to Madam Conway, who, at the 
 tb oughts of eating with her drunken coachman, had uttered 
 Rn exclamation of disgust. " Go, Betsey Jane, and fetch 
 the camphire, quick !" 
 
 But Madam Conway did not need the camphor, and so 
 she said, adding that Mike was better where he was. Mike 
 thought so too, and refused to come, whereupon the woman 
 insisted that he must. " There was room enough," she 
 said, " and no kind of sense in Betsey Jane's taking up tho 
 hull side of the table with them ratans. She could set 
 nearer the young lady." 
 
 " Certainly," answered Maggie, anxious to see how the 
 ratans would manage to squeeze in between herself and the 
 table-leg, as they would have to do if they came an inch 
 nearer. 
 
 This feat could not be done, and in attempting it Bet 
 sey Jane upset Maggie's tea upon her handsome travelling 
 dress, eliciting from her mother the exclamation, " Betsey 
 Jane Douglas, you all us was the blunderin'est girl 1" 
 
 This little accident diverted the woman's mind from Mike, 
 while Madam Conway, starting at the name of Douglas, 
 thought to herself, " Douglas ! Douglas 1 I did not sup 
 pose 'twas so common a name. But then it don't hurt 
 fieorge any, having these creatures bear his name." 
 
 Dinner being over, Madam Conway and Maggie returned 
 to the parlor, where, while the former resumed her chair, 
 the latter amused herself by examining the books and odd- 
 looking daguerreotypes which lay upon the table. 
 
 " Oh, grandmother /" she almost screamed, bounding t
 
 MADAME CONWAY'S DISASTERS. 837 
 
 that lady's side, " as I live, here's a picture of Theo and- 
 George Douglas taken together," and she held up a hand 
 some casiug before the astonished old lady, who donning her 
 golden spectacles in a twinkling saw for herself that what 
 Maggie said was true. 
 
 " They stole it," she gasped. " We are in a den of thieves! 
 Who knows what they'll take from my bandbox ?" and she 
 was about to leave the room, when Maggie, whose quick 
 mind saw farther ahead, bade her stop. 
 
 " I may discover something more," said she, and taking a 
 handsomely bound volume of Lauib, she turned to the fly 
 leaf, and read, " Jenny Douglas, from her brother George, 
 Worcester, Jan. 8th." 
 
 It was plain to her now; but any mortification she might 
 otherwise have experienced was lost in the one absorbing 
 thought, " What will grandma say ?" 
 
 " Grandmother," said she, showing the book, " don't you 
 remember the mother of that girl called her Betsey Jane. 
 Douglas ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," gasped Madam Conway, raising both hands, 
 while an expression of deep, intense anxiety was visible 
 upon her face. 
 
 " And don't you know, too," continued Maggie, " that 
 
 George always seemed inclined to say as little as possible 
 
 f his parents ? Now, in this country, it is not unusual for 
 
 ae sons of just such people as those to be among the most 
 
 rcalthy and respectable citizens." 
 
 " Maggie, Maggie," hoarsely whispered Madam Conway, 
 grasping Maggie's arm, "do you mean to insinuate am I 
 to understand that you believe that odious woman and 
 hideous girl to be the mother and sister of George Doug 
 las?" 
 
 " I haven't a doubt of it," answered Maggie. " 'Twas the 
 15
 
 MS MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 resemblance between Betsey Jane and George, wnich I 
 observed at first." 
 
 Out of her chair to the floor tumbled Madam Conway, 
 fainting entirely away, while Maggie, stepping to the door, 
 called for help. 
 
 " I mistrusted she was awful sick at dinner," said Mra. 
 Douglas, taking her hands from the dishwater, and running 
 to the parlor. " I wish she'd smelt of the camphor, as I 
 wanted her to. Does she have such spells often ?" 
 
 By this time Betsey Jane had brought a basin of water, 
 which she dashed in the face of the unconscious woman, who 
 soon began to revive. 
 
 " Pennyryal tea'll settle her stomach quicker'u anything 
 else," said Mrs. Douglas. " I'll clap a little right on the 
 stove;" and helping Madam Conway to the sofa, she left the 
 room, 
 
 " There may possibly be a mistake, after all," thought 
 Maggie. " I'll question the girl," and turning to Betsey 
 Jane, she said, taking up the book which had before 
 attracted her attention, " Is this, Jenny Douglas, intended 
 for you ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," answered the girl, coloring slightly. 
 " Brother George calls me Jenny, because he thinks Betsey 
 so old fashioned." 
 
 An audible groan from the sofa, and Maggie continued, 
 " Where does your brother live ?" 
 
 " In Worcester, ma'am. He keeps a store there," 
 answered Betsey, who was going to say more, when her 
 mother reentering the room, took up the conversation by 
 saying, " Was you tellin' 'em about George Washington ? 
 Wai, he's a boy no mother need to be ashamed on, though 
 my old man sometimes says he's ashamed of us, we are so 
 different. But then he orto consider the advantages he's
 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS. SW 
 
 had. We only brung him up till he was ten years old, and 
 then an uncle he was named after took him, and gin him a 
 college schoolia', and then put him into his store in Wor 
 cester. Your head aches wus, don't it ? Poor thing ! -The 
 pennyryal will be steeped directly," she added, in an aside 
 to Madau Conway, who had groaned aloud as if in pain, 
 Then resuming her story, she continued, "Better'n six year 
 tgo, Uncle George, who was a bachelder, died, leaving the 
 heft of his property, seventy-five thousand dollars, or more, 
 co my son, who is now top of the heap in the store, and 
 worth $100,000, I presume ; some say, $200,000 : but 
 that's the way some folks have of agitatin' things." 
 
 " Is he married ?" asked Maggie, and Mrs. Douglas, mis 
 taking the motive which prompted the question, answered, 
 " Yes, dear, he is. If he wan't, I know of no darter-in-law 
 I'd as soon have as you. I don't believe in finding fault 
 witti my son's wife ; but there's a proud look in her face, I 
 don't like. This is her picter," and she passed to Maggie 
 the daguerreotype of Theo. 
 
 " I've looked at it before," said Maggie, and the good 
 woman proceeded. " I hain't seen her yet ; but he's goiu' 
 to bring her to Charlton bimeby. He's a good boy, George 
 is, free as water ; gave me this carpet, the sofy and chair, 
 and has paid Betsey Jane's schoolin' one winter at Leicester. 
 But Betsey don't take to books much. She's more like me, 
 her father says. They had a big party for George last 
 night, but I wasn't invited. Shouldn't a' gone if I had been; 
 but for all that, a body don't wan't to be slighted, even if 
 hey don't belong to the quality. If I'm good enough to bo 
 George's mother I'm good enough to go to a party with his 
 wife. But she wan't to blame, and I shan't lay it up against 
 bcr. I shall see ker to-morrow, pretty likely, for Sara 
 Babbit's wife and I are goiu' down to the firemen's muster
 
 840 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 You've heard on't, I s'pose. The different engines are goia' 
 to see which will shute water the highest over a 180 foot 
 pole. I wouldn't miss goiu' for anything, and of course I 
 shall call on T/ieodoshy. I calkerlate to like her, and when 
 they go to housekeeping I've got a hull chest full of sheets, 
 and piller-biers, and towels I'm goin' to give her, besides 
 three or four bed quilts I pieced myself, two in herrin'-bone 
 pattern, and one in risin' sun. I'll show 'em to you," and 
 leaving the room, she soon returned with three patch-work 
 quilts, wherein were all possible shades of color, red and 
 yellow predominating, and in one the " rising sun" forming a 
 huge centre piece. 
 
 " Heavens I" faintly articulated Madam Conway, press 
 ing her hands upon her head, which was supposed to be 
 aching dreadfully. The thought of Thco reposing beneath 
 the " risiii' sun," or yet the " herrin'-bone," was intolerable ; 
 and looking beseechingly at Maggie, she whispered, "Do see 
 if Mike is ready." 
 
 " If it's the carriage you mean," chimed in Mrs. Douglas, 
 " it's been waiting quite a spell, but I thought you warn't 
 fit to ride yet, so I didn't tell you." 
 
 Starting to her feet, Madam Conway's bonnet went on 
 in a trice, and taking her shawl in her hand, she walked out 
 doors, barely expressing her thanks to Mrs. Douglas, who, 
 greatly distressed at her abrupt departure, ran for the herb 
 tea, and taking the tin cup in her hand, followed her guest 
 to the carriage, urging her to " take a swaller just to keep 
 from vomiting." 
 
 " She's better without it," said Maggie. " She seldom 
 lakes medicine," and politely expressing her gratitude to Mrs. 
 Douglas for her kindness, she bade Mike drive on. 
 
 " Some crazy critter just out of the Asyluir, I'll bet," said 
 Mrs Douglas, walking back to the house with her peimyro) H)
 
 MADAM COXWAY'S DIS ASTERS. 841 
 
 tea. " How queer she acted 1 but that girl's a lady, everj 
 inch of her, and so handsome, too, I wonder who she is ?" 
 
 " Don't you believe the old woman felt a little above us T 
 suggested Betsey Jane, who had more discernment than her 
 mother. 
 
 " Like enough she did, though I never thought on't. But 
 she needn't. I'm as good as she is, and I'll warrant as much 
 thought on, where I'm known;" and quite satisfied with her 
 own position, Mrs. Douglas went back to her dishwashing, 
 while Betsey Jane stole away up stairs to try the experiment 
 of arranging her hair after the fashion in which Margaret 
 wore hers. 
 
 In the meantime, Mike, perfectly sobered, had turned hia 
 horses' heads in the direction of Hillsdale, when Madame 
 Coiiway called out, " To Worcester, Mike to Worcester, 
 as fast as you can drive." 
 
 "To Worcester ! For what?" asked Maggie, and the excit 
 ed woman answered. " To stop it. To forbid the. bans. I 
 should think you'd ask for what ?" 
 
 " To stop it," repeated Maggie. "I'd like to see you stop 
 it, when they've been married two months !" 
 
 " So they have, so tJiey have," said Madam Conway, wring 
 ing her hands in her despair, and crying out, " that a Con- 
 way should be so disgraced. What shall I do ? What 
 shall I do ?" 
 
 " Make the best of it, of course," answered Maggie. " I 
 don't see as George is any worse for his parentage. He ia 
 evidently greatly respected in Worcester, where his family 
 are undoubtedly known. lie is educated and refined, if they 
 are not. Theo loves him, and that is sufficient, unless I add 
 that he has money." 
 
 ' But not as much as I supposed," moaned Madam Con- 
 wa) " Theo told me $200,000 ; but that woman said owe
 
 348 MAGGIE MILLEK. 
 
 Oh what will become of me ? Give me the hartshorn, Mag 
 gie. I feel $0 faint !" 
 
 The hartshorn was handed her, but it could not quiet her 
 distress.' Her family pride was sorely wounded, and had 
 Theo been dead, she would hardly have felt worse than she 
 did. 
 
 "How will she bear it when it comes to her knowledge, 
 as it necessarily must ? It will kill her, I know," she ex 
 claimed, after Maggie had exhausted all her powers of rea 
 soning in vain ; then, as she remembered the woman's 
 avowed intention of visiting her daughter-in-law on the mor 
 row, she felt that she must turn back ; she must see Thco 
 and break it to her gently, or " the first sight of that odious 
 creature, claiming her for a daughter, might be of incalcula 
 ble injury." 
 
 " Stop, Mike," she was about to say ; but ere the words 
 passed her lips, she reflected that to take Maggie back to 
 Worcester, was to throw her again in Henry Warner's way, 
 and this she could not do. There was then but one alterna 
 tive. She could stop at the Charlton depot, not far distant, 
 and wait for the downward train, while Mike drove Maggie 
 home, and this she resolved to do. Mike was accordingly 
 bidden to take her at once to the depot, which he did, while 
 she explained to Maggie, her reason for returning. 
 
 " Theo is much better alone, and George will not thank 
 you for interfering," said Maggie, not at all pleased witQ 
 her grandmother's proceedings. 
 
 But the old lady was determined. " It was her duty," 
 ihe said, " to stand by Theo in trouble, and if a visit frcm 
 that hcrrid creature wasn't trouble, she could not well define 
 it." 
 
 " When will you come home ?" asked Maggie, 
 
 4 Not before to-morrow night. Now I have undertaken
 
 MADAM COJfWAY'S DISASTERS. 348 
 
 the matter, I intend to see it through," said Madam Conway, 
 referring to the expected visit of " Mrs. Douglas, senior." 
 
 But Mike did not thus understand it, and thinking her 
 only object in turning back was, " to see the doin's," as ho 
 designated the " Fireman's Muster," he muttered long and 
 loud about " being thus sent home, while his madam went to 
 see the fun." 
 
 In the meantime, on a hard settee, at the rather uncom 
 fortable depot, Madam Conway awaited the arrival of the 
 train, which came at last, and in a short time, she found 
 herself again in Worcester Once in a carriage, and on her 
 way to the " Bay State," she began to feel a little nervous, 
 half-wishing she had followed Maggie's advice, and left Theo 
 alone. But it could not now be helped, and while trying to 
 think what she should say to her astonished grand-daughter, 
 she was set down at the door of the hotel, slightly be 
 wildered, and a good deal perplexed, a feeling which was 
 by no means diminished when she learned that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Douglas were both out of town. 
 
 " Where have they gone, and when will they return ?" 
 she gasped, untying her bonnet strings for an easier respira 
 tion. 
 
 To these queries the clerk replied, that he believed Mr. 
 Douglas had gone to Boston on business, that he might be 
 at home that night ; at all events, he would probably return 
 in the morning ; she could find Mr. Warner, who would tell 
 her all about it. " Shall I send for him ?" he continued, as 
 he saw the scowl upon her face. 
 
 " Certainly not," she answered, and taking the key, which 
 had been left in his charge, she repaired to Theo's rooms, 
 and sinking into a large easy-chair, fanned herself furiously, 
 wondering if they would return that night, and what they 
 would say when they found her there. " But I don't we/
 
 344 MAGGIE MILLER 
 
 she continued, speaking aloud and shaking- her head very 
 decidedly at the excited woman whose image was reflected 
 by the mirror opposite, and who shook her head as decidedly 
 in return ! " George Douglas has deceived us shame 
 fully, and I'll tell him so, too. I wish he'd come this 
 minute !" 
 
 But George Douglas knew well what he was doing. 
 Very gradually was he imparting to Theo a knowledge of 
 his parents, and Theo, who really loved her husband, was 
 learning to prize him for himself and not for his family. 
 Feeling certain that the firemen's muster would bring his 
 mother to town, and knowing that Theo was not yet pre 
 pared to see her, he was greatly relieved at Madam Con- 
 way's sudden departure, and had himself purposely left 
 home, with the intention of staying away until Friday night. 
 This, however, Madam Coiiway did not know, and very 
 impatiently she awaited his coming, until the lateness of the 
 hour precluded the possibility of his arrival, and she retired 
 to bed, but not to sleep, for the city was full of firemen, and 
 one company, failing of finding lodgings elsewhere, had 
 taken refuge in an empty carriage shop near by. The hard, 
 bare floor was not the most comfortable bed imaginable, 
 and preferring the bright moonlight and open air, they made 
 the night hideous with their noisy shouts, which the watch 
 men tried in vain to hush. To sleep in that neighborhood 
 was impossible, and all night long Madam Couway vibrated 
 between her bed and the window, from which latter point 
 she frowned wrathfully down upon the red coats below, who, 
 scoffing alike at law and order as dispensed by the police ' 
 kept up their noisy revel, shouting lustily for " Chelsea, X&, 
 4," and " Washington, No. 2," until the dawn of day. 
 
 " 1 wish to mercy I'd gone home, !" sighed Madam Con- 
 way, as weak and faint she crepi down to the breakfast
 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS. 
 
 tab.e, doing but little justice to anything, and returning to 
 her room, pale, haggard and weary. 
 
 Ere long, however, she became interested in watching the 
 crowds of people, who at an early hour filled the streets ; 
 and when at last the different fire companies of the State 
 paraded the town in a seemingly never ending procession, 
 she forgot in a measure her trouble, and drawing her chair 
 to the window, sat down to enjoy the brilliant scene, 
 involuntarily nodding her head to the stirring music, a 
 troop after troop passed by. Up and down the street, as 
 far as the eye could reach, the sidewalks were crowded with 
 men, women and children, all eager to see the sight. There 
 were people from the city and people from the country, the 
 latter of whom, having anticipated the day for weeks and 
 months, were now unquestionably enjoying it. 
 
 Conspucious among these was a middle aged woman, who 
 elicited remarks from all who beheld her, both from the 
 peculiarity of her dress, and the huge, blue cotton umbrella 
 she persisted in hoisting, to the great annoyance of those in 
 whose faces it was thrust, and who forgot in a measure their 
 vexation when they read the novel device it bore. Like 
 many other people who can sympathize with the good woman, 
 she was always losing her umbrella, and at last, in self- 
 defence, had embroidered upon the blue in letters of white : 
 
 " Steal me not, for fear of shame, 
 For here you see my owner's name. 
 
 " CHARITY DOUGLAS." 
 
 As the lettering was small aud not very distinct, it re 
 quired a close observation to decipher it ; but the plan waa 
 s successful one, nevertheless, and for four long years the 
 blue umbrella had done good service to its mistress, shield 
 ing lier alike from sunshine and from storm, aud now in the 
 
 15*
 
 84b MAGGIE MILLER 
 
 crowded city it performed a double part, preventing its 
 nearest neighbors from seeing, while at the same time it kept 
 the dust from settling on the thick green veil and leghorn 
 bonnet of its owner. At Betsey Jane's suggestion she wore 
 a hoop to-day on Theo's account, and that she was painfully 
 conscious of the fact, was proved by the many anxioua 
 glances she cast al her chocolate colored muslin, through the 
 thin folds of which it was plainly visible. 
 
 " I wish I hud left the pesky thing to hum," she thought, 
 feeling greatly relieved when at last, as the crowd became 
 greater, it was broken in several pieces and ceased to do its 
 duty. 
 
 From her seat near the window, Madam Conway caught 
 sight of the umbrella as it swayed up and down amid the 
 multitude, but she had no suspicion that she who bore it 
 thus aloft had even a better right than herself to sit where 
 she was sitting. lu her excitement she had forgotten Mrs. 
 Douglas's intended visit, to prepare Theo for which she had 
 returned to Worcester, but it came to her at length, when 
 as the last fire company passed, the blue umbrella was 
 closed, and the leghorn bonnet turned in the direction of the 
 hotel. There was no mistaking the broad good-humored 
 face which looked so eagerly up at " George's window," 
 and involuntarily Madam Conway glanced under the bed 
 with the view of fleeing thither for refuge ! 
 
 " What shall I do ?" she cried, as she heard the umbrella 
 on the stairs. " I'll lock her out," she continued; and in an 
 instant the key was in her pocket, while, trembling in every 
 limb, she awaited the result. 
 
 Nearer and nearer the footsteps came ; there was a 
 knock upon the door, succeeded by a louder one, and then, as 
 both these failed to elicit a response, the handle of the um 
 brella was vigorously applied. But all in vain, and Madaiw
 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS. 847 
 
 Conway beard the discomfited outsider say, " They told me 
 Theodoshy's grandmarm was here, but I guess she's in the 
 street. I'll come agin bime-by," and Mrs. Douglas senior 
 walked disconsolately down the stairs, while Madam Con 
 way th jught it doubtful whether she gained access to the 
 room that day, come as often as she might. 
 
 Not long after, the gong sounded for dinner, and unlock 
 ing the door, Madam Conway was about descending to the 
 dining-room, when the thought burst upon, " What if she 
 should be at the table ? It's just like her." 
 
 The very idea was overwhelming, taking from her at once 
 all desire for dinner ; and returning to her room, she tried, 
 by looking over the books, and examining the carpet, to 
 forget how hungry and faint she was. Whether she would 
 have succeeded is doubtful, had not an hour or two later 
 brought another knock from the umbrella, and driven all 
 thoughts of eating from her mind. In grim silence she 
 waited until her tormentor was gone, and then wondering 
 if it was not time for the train, she consulted her watch. 
 But alas ! 'twas only four ; the cars did not leave until six, 
 and so another weary hour went by. At the end of that 
 time, however, thinking the depot preferable to being a 
 prisoner there, she resolved to go ; and leaving the key with 
 the clerk, she called a carriage and was soon on her way to 
 the cars. 
 
 As she approached the depot, she observed an immense 
 crowd of people, gathered together, among which the red 
 coats of the firemen were conspicuous. A fight was evidently 
 in progress, and as the horses began to grow restive, she 
 begged of the driver to let her alight, saying she could 
 easily walk the remainder of the way. Scarcely, however, 
 was she on terra firma, when the yelling crowd made a pre 
 v'ipiUte rush towards her, and in much alarm, she climbed
 
 348 MAGGIE MILLEIi. 
 
 for safety into an empty buggy, whereupon the horse, 
 equally alarmed, began to rear, and without pausing an in 
 etant, the terrified lady sprang out on the side opposite to 
 that by which she had entered, catching her dress upon tho 
 seat, and tearing half the gathers from the waist. 
 
 " Heaven help me 1" she cried, picking herself up, and be 
 ginning to wish she had never troubled herself with Theo's 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 To reach the depot was now her great object, and as the 
 two belligerent parties occupied the front, she thought to 
 effect au entrance at the rear. But the doors were locked, 
 and as she turned the corner of the building, she suddenly 
 found herself in the thickest of the fight. To advance was 
 impossible, to turn back equally so, and while meditating 
 some means of escape, she lost her footing and fell across a 
 wheelbarrow, which stood upon the platform, crumpling her 
 bonnet, and scratching her face upon a nail which protruded 
 from the vehicle. Nearer dead than alive, she made her way 
 at last into the depot, and from thence into the cars, where, 
 sinking into a seat, and drawing her shawl closely around 
 her, the better to conceal the sad condition of her dress, she 
 indulged in meditations not wholly complimentary to firemen 
 in general, and her late comrades in particular. 
 
 For half an hour she waited impatiently, but though the 
 cars were filling rapidly there were no indications of starting; 
 and it was almost seven, ere the long and heavily loaded 
 train moved slowly from the depot. About fifteen minutes 
 previous to their departure, as Madam Conway was looking 
 ruefully out upon the multitude, she was horrified at seeing 
 directly beneath her window, the veritable woman from 
 whom, through the entire day, she had been hiding. Invo 
 luntarily she glanced at the vacant seat in front of her, 
 which, as she feared, was soon occupied by Mrs. Dougla*
 
 MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS. 34 
 
 ami her companion, who, as Madam Conway divined, was 
 " Sain Babbit's wife." 
 
 Trembling nervously lest she should be discovered, she 
 drew he: reil closely over her face, keeping very quiet, and 
 looking intently from the window into the gathering dark 
 tiess without. But her fears were groundless, for Mrs 
 Douglas had no suspicion that the crumpled bonnet and 
 forry figure, sitting so disconsolately in the corner, was the 
 same which but the day before had honored her with a call. 
 She was in high spirits, having had, as she informed her 
 neighbor, " a tip-top time." On one point, however, she was 
 disappointed. " She meant as much as could be to have 
 seen Theodoshy, but she wan't to hum. Her graudmarm 
 was in town," said she, " but if she was in the room, she 
 must have been asleep, or dreadful deaf, for I pounded with 
 all my might. I'm sorry, for I'd like to scrape acquaintance 
 with her, bein' we're connected." 
 
 An audible groan came from beneath the thick brown 
 veil, whereupon both ladies turned their heads. But the in 
 dignant woman made no sign, and in a whisper loud enough 
 for Madam Conway to hear, Mrs. Douglas said, " Some 
 Irish critter in liquor, I presume. Look at her jammed 
 bonnet." 
 
 This remark drew from Mrs. Bab-bit a very close inspec 
 tion of the veiled figure, who, smothering her wrath, felt 
 greatly relieved when the train started, and prevented her 
 from hearing anything more. At the next station, however, 
 Mrs. Douglas showed her companion a crochet collar, which 
 she had purchased for two shillings, and which, she said,* 
 " was almost exactly like the one worn by tho woman who 
 topped at her house the day before." 
 
 Leaning forward, Madam Conway glanced contemptu 
 ously at the coarse knit thing, which bore about the same
 
 350 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 resemblance to her own handsome collar, as cambric does to 
 satin. 
 
 " Vulgar, ignorant creatures I" she muttered, while Mrs. 
 Babbit, after duly praising the collar, proceeded to make 
 Borne inquiries concerning the strange lady who had shared 
 Mrs. Douglas's hospitality. 
 
 " I've no idee who she was," said Mrs. Douglas ; " but I 
 think it's purty likely she was some crazy critter they was 
 takiu' to the hospital." 
 
 Another groan from beneath the brown veil, and turning 
 around, the kind hearted Mrs. Douglas asked if she was 
 sick, adding in an aside, as there came no answer, " been 
 fightin' I'll warrant 1" 
 
 Fortunately for Madam Conway, the cars moved on, and 
 when they stopped again, to her great relief; the owner of 
 the blue umbrella, together with " Sam Babbit's wife," 
 alighted, and amid the crowd assembled on the platform she 
 recognized Betsey Jane, who had come down to meet her 
 mother. The remainder of the way seemed tedious enough, 
 for the train moved but slowly, and it was near 10 o'clock 
 ere they reached the Hillsdale station, where, to her great 
 delight, Madam Conway found Margaret awaiting her, 
 together with Arthur Carrollton. The moment she saw the 
 former, who came eagerly forward to meet her, the weary, 
 worn-out woman burst into tears; but at the sight of Mr. 
 Carrollton, she forced them back, saying in reply to Maggie'8 
 inquiries, that Theo was not at home, that she had spent a 
 dreadful day, and been knocked down in a fight at the 
 depot, in proof of which she pointed to her torn dress, her 
 crumpled bonnet, and scratched face. Maggie laughed 
 aloud in spite of herself, and though Mr. Carrollton's eyes 
 were several times turned reprovingly upon her, she con 
 tinued to laugh at intervals at the sorry, forlorn appearance
 
 ARTHUR CAKROLLTON AMD MAGGIE. 861 
 
 presented by her grandmother, who for several days was 
 confined to her bed, from the combined effects of fasting, 
 fright, firemen's muster, and her late encounter with Mrs. 
 Douglas, senior 1
 
 IM MA.GGJE MILLF.R. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. 
 
 MR. CARROLLTON had returned from Boston ou Thursday 
 afternoon, and finding them all gone from the hotel, had 
 come on to Hillsdale in the evening train, surprising Maggie 
 as she sat in the parlor alone, wishing herself in Worcester, 
 or in some place where it was not as lonely as there. With 
 his presence the loneliness disappeared, and in making his 
 tea and listening to his agreeable conversation, she forgot 
 everything, until, observing that she looked weary, he said, 
 "Maggie, I would willingly talk to you all night, wore it not 
 for the bad effect it would have you on to-morrow. You 
 must go to bed now," and he showed her his watch, which 
 pointed to the hour of midnight. 
 
 Exceedingly mortified, Maggie was leaving the room, 
 when noticing her evident chagrin, Mr. Carrollton came to 
 her side and laying his hand very respectfully on hers, said 
 kindly, "It is my fault, Maggie, keeping you up so late, and 
 I only send you away now, because those eyes are growing 
 heavy, and I know that you need rest. Good night to you, 
 and pleasant dreams." 
 
 He went with her to the door, watching her until she dis 
 appeared up the stairs ; then half wishing he had not sent 
 her from him, he, too, sought his chamber; but not to sleep, 
 for Maggie, though absent, was with him still in fancy. For 
 more than a year he had been haunted with a bright, sun-
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. 853 
 
 shiny face, whose owner embodied the dashing, independent 
 spirit, and softer qualities which made Maggie Miller so at 
 tractive. Of this face he had often thought, wondering if the 
 real ^yould equal the ideal, and now that he had met with 
 her, had looked into her truthful eyes, had gazed upon her 
 feunny face, which mirrored faithfully her every thought and 
 feeliug, he was more than satisfied, and to love that beau 
 tiful girl seemed to him an easy matter. She was so child 
 like, so artless, so different from any one whom he had ever 
 known, that he was interested in her at once. But Arthur 
 Carrollton never did a thing precipitately. She might have 
 many glaring faults, he must see her more, must know her 
 better, ere he lavished upon her the love whose deep foun 
 tains had never yet been stirred. 
 
 After this manner he reasoned as he walked up and dowu 
 his chamber, while Maggie, on her sleepless pillow, was 
 thinking, too, of him, wondering if she did hate him as 
 much as she intended, and if Henry would be offended at 
 her sitting up with him until after twelve o'clock. 
 
 It was nearly half-past nine when Maggie awoke next 
 morning, and making a hasty toilet, she descended to the 
 dining-room, where she found Mr. Carrollton awaiting her. 
 He had been up a long time ; but when Anna Jeffrey, 
 blessed with an uncommon appetite, fretted at the delay of 
 breakfast, and suggested calling Margaret, he objected, say 
 ing she needed rest, and must not be disturbed. So, in 
 something of a pet, the young lady breakfasted alone with 
 her aunt, Mr. Carrollton preferring to wait for Maggie. 
 
 "I am sorry I kept you waiting," said Maggie, sealing 
 aerself at the table, and continuing to apologize for her 
 tardiness. 
 
 But Mr. Carrollton felt more than repaid by having her 
 thus alone with him, and many were the admiring glances ha
 
 5t MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 cast towards her, as with her shining hair, her happy face, 
 her tasteful morning gown of pink, and her beautiful white 
 hands which handled so gracefully the silver coffee-urn, she 
 made a living, glowing picture, such as any man might 
 delight to look upon. Breakfast being over, Mr. Carroll- 
 ion proposed a ride, and as Anna Jeffrey at that moment 
 entered the parlor, he invited her to accompany them. 
 There was a shadow on Maggie's brow, as she left the room 
 to dress, a shadow which had not wholly disappeared when 
 she returned ; and observing this, Mr. Carrollton said, 
 " Were I to consult my own wishes, Maggie, I should leave 
 Miss Jeffrey at home ; but she is a poor girl whose enjoy 
 ments are far less than ours, consequently I invited her for 
 this once, knowing how fond she is of riding." 
 
 " How thoughtful you are of other people's happiness !" 
 said Maggie, the shadow leaving her brow at once. 
 
 " I am glad that wrinlde has gone, at all events," returned 
 Mr. Carrollton, laughingly, and laying his hand upon her 
 forehead, he continued : " Were you my sister Helen, I 
 should probably kiss you for having so soon got over your 
 pet ; but as you are Maggie Miller, I dare not," and ho 
 looked earnestly at her, to see if he had spoken the truth. 
 
 Coloring crimson as it became the affianced bride of 
 Henry Warner to do, Maggie turned away, thinking Helen 
 must be a happy girl, and half wishing she, too, were 
 Arthur Carrollton's sister. It was a long, delightful excur 
 sion they took, and Maggie, when she saw how Anna Jeffrey 
 enjoyed it, did not altogether regret her presence. On their 
 way home she proposed calling upon Hagar, " whom she had 
 not seen for three whole days." 
 
 " And who, pray, is Hagar ?" asked Mr. Carrollton ; and 
 Maggie replied, " She is my old nurse, a strange, eraxy 
 creature, whom they say I somewhat resemble."
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. 358 
 
 By this time they were near the cottage, in the door of 
 tfhich old Hagar was standing, with her white hair falling 
 round her face. 
 
 " I see by your looks, you don't care to call, but I shall," 
 aaid Maggie, and bounding from her saddle, she ran up tc 
 Hagar, pressing her hand and whispering in her ear, that it 
 would soon be time to hear from Henry. 
 
 " Kissed her, I do believe !" said Anna Jeffrey. " She 
 must have admirable taste I" 
 
 Mr. Carrollton thought so too, and with a half comical, 
 half displeased expression, he watched the interview be 
 tween that weird old woman, and fair young girl, little 
 suspecting how nearly they were allied. 
 
 " Why didn't you come and speak to her ?" said Maggie, 
 as he alighted to assist her in again mounting Gritty. " She 
 used to see you in England, when you were a baby, and if 
 you won't be angry, I'll tell you what she said, it was, that 
 you were the Grossest, ugliest young one she ever saw ! 
 There, there, don't set me down so hard !" and the saucy 
 eyes looked mischievously at the proud Englishman, who, 
 truth to say, did place her in the saddle with a little more 
 force than was at all necessary. 
 
 Not that he was angry. He was only annoyed for what 
 he considered Maggie's undue familiarity with a person like 
 Hagar, but he wisely forbore making any comments in Anna 
 Jeffrey's presence, except, indeed, to laugh heartily at Ha- 
 gar's complimentary description of himself when a baby. 
 Arrived at home, and alone again with Maggie, he found 
 her so very good-natured and agreeable, that he could not 
 chide her for anything, and Hagar was for a time forgotten. 
 
 That evening, as the reader knows, they went together to 
 the depot, where they waited four long hours, but not impa 
 tiently ; for sitting there in the moonlight, with the winding
 
 88* MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Chicopee full m view, and Margaret Miller at his side, AIN 
 thur Carrollton forgot the lapse of time, especially when 
 Maggie, thinking no harm, gave a most ludicrous description 
 of her call upon Mrs. Douglas senior, and of her grandmo 
 ther's distress at finding herself so nearly connected with 
 what she termed " a low, vulgar family." 
 
 Arthur Carrolltoii was very proud, and had Theo been kit 
 sister, he might, to some extent, have shared m Madam 
 Conway's chagrin ; and so he said to Maggie, at the same 
 time fully agreeing with her that George Douglas was a re 
 fined, agreeable man, and as such entitled to respect. Still, 
 had Theo known of his parentage, he said, it would probably 
 have made some difference ; but now that it could not be 
 helped, it was wise to make the best of it. 
 
 These words were little heeded then by Maggie, but with 
 ruost painful distinctness they recurred to her in the after 
 time, when, humbled in the very dust, she had no hope that 
 the highborn, haughty Carrollton would stoop to a child of 
 Hagar Warren ! But no shadow of the dark future was 
 over her now, and very eagerly she drank iu every word and 
 look of Arthur Carrollton, who, all unconsciously, was tram 
 pling on another's rights, and gradually weakening the fan 
 cied love she bore for Henry Warner. 
 
 The arrival of the train brought their pleasant conversa 
 tion to a close, and for a day or two Maggie's time was 
 wholly occupied with her grandmother, to whom she frankly 
 acknowledged having told Mr. Carrollton of Mrs. Douglaa 
 and her daughter Betsey Jane. The fact that he knew of 
 her disgrace and did not despise her was of great benefit tc 
 Madam Conway, and after a few days she resumed her usual 
 spirits, and actually told of the remarks made by Mrs. Doug 
 las concerning herself and the fight she had been in 1 As 
 time passed on she became reconciled to the Douglases, hav
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. 857 
 
 ing, as she thought, some well-founded reasons for believing 
 that for Theo's disgrace, Maggie would make amends by 
 marrying Mr. Carrollton, whose attentions each day became 
 more and more marked, and were not apparently altogether 
 disagreeable to Maggie. On the contrary, his presence at 
 HilJsdale was productive of much pleasure to her, as well as 
 of a little annoyance. 
 
 From the first he seemed to exercise over her an influence 
 ehe could not well resist a power to make her do whatever 
 he willed that she should do ; and though she sometimes re 
 belled, she was pretty sure in the end to yield the contest, 
 ind submit to one who was evidently the ruling spirit. As 
 yet nothing had been said of the hair ornament which, out 
 of compliment to him, her grandmother wore every morning 
 in her collar, but at last, one day Madam Conway spoke of 
 it herself, asking " if it were, as she had supposed, his grand 
 mother's hair ?" 
 
 " Why, no," he answered involuntarily ; " it is a lock 
 Maggie sent me in that wonderful daguerreotype 1" 
 
 " The stupid thing 1" thought Maggie, while her eyes 
 fairly danced with merriment, as she anticipated the ques 
 tion she fancied was sure to follow, but did not. 
 
 One glance at her tell-tale face was sufficient for Madam 
 Conway. In her whole household there was but one head 
 with locks as white as that, and whatever her thoughts 
 might have been, she said nothing, but from that day forth, 
 Hagar's haii was never again seen ornamenting her person ! 
 That afternoon Mr. Carrollton and Maggie went out to ride, 
 and in the course of their conversation he referred to the 
 pin, asking whose hair it was and seeming much amust-d 
 when told that it was Hagar's. 
 
 "But why did you not tell her when it first came," he 
 said; and Maggie answered, " Oh, it was such fun to see hci
 
 858 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 sporting Hagar's hair, when she is so proud. It didn't hurt 
 her either, for Hagar is as good as anybody. I don't believe 
 in makitig such a difference because one person chances to 
 be richer than another." 
 
 " Neither do I," returned Mr. Carrollton. "I would not 
 esteem a person for wealth alone, but there are points of 
 difference which should receive consideration. For instance, 
 this old Hagar may be well enough in her way, but suppose 
 she were nearly connected to you your grandmother if you 
 like. it would certainly make some difference in your position. 
 
 You would not be Maggie Miller, and I " 
 
 " Wouldn't ride with me, I dare say," interrupted Mag 
 gie; to which he replied, " I presume not," adding as he saw 
 slight indications of pouting, " and therefore I am glad you 
 are Maggie Miller, and not Hagar's grandchild." 
 
 Mentally pronouncing him a " proud hateful thing," Mag 
 gie rode on a while in silence. But Mr. Carrollton knew well 
 how to manage her, and he, too, was silent until Maggie, 
 who could never refrain from talking any length of time, 
 forgot herself and began chatting away as gaily as before. 
 During their excursion they came near to the gorge of 
 Henry Warner memory, and Maggie, who bad never 
 quite forgiven Mr Carrollton for criticising her horsemanship, 
 resolved to show him what she could do. The signal was 
 accordingly given to Gritty, and ere her companion was aware 
 of her intention she was tearing over the ground at a speed 
 he could hardly equal. The ravine was just on the border 
 of the wood, and without pausing an instant, Gritty leaped 
 across it, lauding safely on the other side, where he stopped, 
 while half fearfully, half exultingly, Maggie looked back to 
 ee what Mr. Carrollton would do. At first he had fancied 
 Grilty beyond her control, and wheu he saw her directly 
 over the deep chasm he shuddered, involuntarily stretching
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. 859 
 
 out his arms to save her ; but the look she gave him as sho 
 turned around, convinced him that the risk she had run was 
 done on purpose. Still he had no intention of following her, 
 for he feared his horse's ability as well as his own to clear 
 that pass. 
 
 " Why don't you jump ? Are you afraid ?" and Maggie's 
 eyes looked archly out from beneath her tasteful riding 
 cap. 
 
 For half a moment he felt tempted to join her, but 
 his better judgment came to his aid, and he answered, 
 " Yes, Maggie, lam afraid, having never tried such an ex 
 periment. But I wish to be with you in some way, and as I 
 cannot come to you, I ask you to come to me. You seem 
 accustomed to the leap 1" 
 
 He did not praise her. Nay, she fancied there was more 
 of censure in the tones of his voice ; at all events, he had 
 asked her rather commandingly to return, and " she 
 wouldn't do it." For a moment she made no reply, and he 
 said again, " Maggie, will you come ?" then half playfully, 
 half reproachfully, she made answer, "A gallant English 
 man indeed ! willing I should risk my neck where you dare 
 not venture yours. No, I shan't try the leap again to-day, 
 I don't feel like it ; but I'll cross the long bridge half a 
 mile from here good bye," and fully expecting him to meet 
 her, she galloped off, riding, ere long, quite slowly, " so he'd 
 have a nice long time to wait for her 1" 
 
 How then was she disappointed, when, on reaching the 
 bridge, there was nowhere a trace of him to be seen, 
 neither could she hear the sound of his horse's footsteps, 
 though she listened long and anxiously. 
 
 " He is certainly the most provoking man I ever saw ;" 
 she exclaimed, half crying with vexation. " Henry wouldn't 
 have served me so, and I'm glad I was engaged to him b*
 
 860 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 fore I saw this hateful Carroll ton, for grandma might po* 
 sibly have coaxed me into marrying him, and then wouldn't 
 Mr. Dog and Mrs. Cat have led a stormy life 1 No, we 
 wouldn't," she continued ; " I should in time get accustomed 
 tc minding him, and then I think he'd be splendid, though 
 no better than Henry. I wonder if Hagar has a letter for 
 me I" and chirruping to Gritty, she soon stood at the door 
 of the cabin. 
 
 " Have you two been qarrelliog ?" asked Hagar, noticing 
 Mag's flushed cheeks. " Mr. Carrollton passed here twenty 
 minutes, or more, ago, looking mighty sober, and here yon 
 are with your face as red What has happened ?" 
 
 " Nothing," answered Mag, a little testily, " only he's the 
 meanest man ! Wouldn't follow me, when I leaped the 
 gorge, and I know he could, if he had tried." 
 
 " Showed his good sense," interrupted Hagar, adding that 
 Maggie mustn't think every man was going to risk his neck 
 for her. 
 
 " I don't think so, of course," returned Maggie ; " but he 
 might act better almost commanded me to conie back and 
 join him, as though I was a little child ; but I wouldn't do 
 it. I told him I'd go down to the long bridge and cross, 
 expecting, of course, he'd meet me there ; and instead of 
 that, he has gone off home. How did he know what acci 
 dent would befall me ?" 
 
 " Accident 1" repeated Hagar ; " accident befall you, 
 tvho know every crook and turn of these woods so much 
 better than he does ?" 
 
 " Well, any way, he might have waited for me," returned 
 Mag, " I don't believe he'd care if I were to get killed. I 
 meai to scare him and see ;" and springing from Gritty'g 
 back, she gave a peculiar whistling sound, at which the 
 pony bounded away towards home while she followed Hagar
 
 ARTHUR CARROL^TON AND MAGGIE. Ml 
 
 iuto the cottage, where a letter from Henry awaited 
 her. 
 
 They were to sail for Cuba on the 15th of October, and 
 be now wrote, asking if Maggie would go without her 
 grandmother's consent. But, though irresolute when he 
 before broached the subject, Mag was decided now. " She 
 would not run away," and so she said to Hagar, to whom 
 she confided the whole affair. 
 
 " I do not think it would be right to elope," she said. 
 ' In three years more, I shall be twenty-one, and free to do 
 as I like ; and if grandma will not let me marry Henry, 
 now, he must wait. I can't run away. Rose would not 
 .approve of it, I'm sure, and I 'most know Mr. Carrol'ton 
 would not." 
 
 " I can't see how his approving, or not appioving cat 
 affect you," said Ilagar ; then bending down, so that her 
 wild eyes looked full in Maggie's eyes, she said, " Are you 
 beginning to like this Englishman ?" 
 
 " Why, no, I guess I ain't," answered Mag, coloring 
 slightly. " I dislike him dreadfully, he's so proud. Why, 
 he did the same as to say, that if I were your grandchild, 
 he would not ride with me." 
 
 "My grandchild, Maggie Miller! my grandchild!" 
 . shrieked Hagar. " What put that into his head ?" 
 
 Thinking her emotion caused by anger at Arthur Carroll- 
 ton, Mag mentally chidcd herself for having inadvertently 
 said what she did, while, at the same time, she tried to 
 Boot he old Hagar, who rocked to and fro, as was her cus 
 tom when her " crazy spells " were on. Growing a little 
 * more composed, she said, at last, " Marry Henry Warner, 
 t>v all means, Maggie ; he ain't as proud as Carrollton he 
 would not care as much if he knew it." 
 
 "Know what?" asked Mag; and, remembering herself ia 
 16
 
 ** MAGGIE MILTER. 
 
 time, Ilagar answered, adroitly, "knew of your promise to 
 let me live with you. You remember it, don't you ?" and 
 she looked wistfully towards Mag, who, far more intent 
 upon something else, answered, " Yes, I remember. But 
 hush ! don't I hear horses' feet coming rapidly through the 
 woods '(" and running to the window, she saw Mr. Carrollton, 
 mounted upon Gritty, and riding furiously towards the house. 
 
 " You go out, Hagar, and see if he is looking for me," 
 whispered Mag, stepping back, so he could not see. 
 
 " Henry Warner must snare the bird quick, or he will 
 lose it," muttered Hagar, as she walked to the door, where, 
 evidently much excited, Mr. Carrolltou asked if " she knew 
 aught of Miss Miller, and why Gritty had come home alone ? 
 It is such an unusual occurrence," said he, " that we felt 
 alarmed, and I have come in quest of her." 
 
 From her post near the window, Maggie could plainly see 
 his face, which was very pale, and expressive of much con 
 cern, while his voice, she fancied, trembled as he spoke her 
 name. 
 
 " He does care," she thought ; woman's pride waj satis 
 fied, and ere Hagar could reply, she ran out saying laugh 
 ingly, " And so you thought maybe I was killed, but I'm 
 not. I concluded to walk home and let Gritty go on in ad 
 vance. I did not mean to frighten grandma." 
 
 " She was not as much alarmed as myself," said Mr. Car- 
 rollton, the troubled expression of his countenance changing 
 at once. " You do not know how anxious I was, when I 
 saw Gritty come riderless to the door, nor yet how relieved 
 I am in finding you thus unharmed." 
 
 Maggie knew she did not deserve this, and blushi ig like a 
 guilty child, she offered no resistance when he lifte \ her in 
 the saddle gently tenderly, as if she had indeed escaped 
 from some great danger.
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. Sttl 
 
 " It is time you were home," said he, and throwing tho 
 bridle across his arm, he rested his hand upon the saddle 
 and walked slowly by her side. 
 
 All his fancied coldness was forgotten ; neither was th 
 leap nor yet the bridge once mentioned, for he was only too 
 happy in having her back alive, while she was doubting the 
 propriety of an experiment which, in the turn matters had 
 taken, seemed to involve deception. Observing at last that 
 he occasionally pressed his hand upon his side, she asked 
 the cause, and was told that he had formerly been subject 
 to a pain in his side, which excitement or fright greitly 
 augmented. " I hoped I was free from it," he said, " but 
 the sight of Gritty dashing up to the door without ' you, 
 brought on a slight attack ; for I knew if you were harmed, 
 the fault was mine for having rather unceremoniously 
 deserted you." 
 
 This was more than Mag could endure in silence. The 
 frank ingenuousness of her nature prevailed, and turning t ,/ 
 wards him her dark, beautiful eyes, in which tears were 
 Binning, she said : " Forgive me, Mr. Carrollton. T se^t 
 Gritty home on purpose to see if you would be annoyed, fr 
 I felt vexed because you would not humor my whim and 
 meet me at the bridge. I am sorry I caused you any uneasi 
 ness," she continued, as she saw a shadow flit over his face 
 " Will you forgive me ?" 
 
 Arthur Carrollton could not resist the pleading of those 
 lustrous eyes, nor yet refuse to take the ungloved hand she 
 offered him ; .and if, in token of reconciliation, he did press 
 t a little more fervently than Henry Warner would have 
 thought at all necessary, he only did what, under the m- 
 cumstauces, it was very natural he should do. From tha 
 first Maggie Miller had been a puzzle to Arthur Carrollton 
 but he was fast learning to read her was beginning to nu
 
 864 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 derstand how perfectly artless she was anC this little in 
 cident increased, rather than diminished, his admiration. 
 
 " I will forgive you, Maggie," he said, on one condition 
 "You must promise never again to experiment with niy 
 feelings, in a similar manner." 
 
 The promise was readily given and then they proceeded 
 on as leisurely as if at home, there was no anxious grand 
 mother vibrating between her high-backed chair and the 
 piazza, nor yet an Anna Jeffrey, watching them enviously as 
 they came slowly up the road. 
 
 That night there came to Mr. Carrollton a letter from 
 Montreal, saying his immediate presence was necessary there, 
 on a business matter of some importance, and he accordingly 
 decided to go on the morrow. 
 
 " When may we expect you back ?" asked Madam Con- 
 woy, as in the morning he was preparing for his journey. 
 
 " It will, perhaps, be two months at least, before I 
 return," said he, adding that there was a possibility of his 
 being obliged to go immediately to England. 
 
 In the recess of the window Mag was standing, thinking 
 how lonely the house would be without him, and wishing 
 there was no such thing as parting from those she liked 
 even as litfle as she did Arthur Carrollton. 
 
 "I won't let him know that I care, though,"' she thought, 
 and forcing a smile to her face, she was about turning to 
 bid him good bye, when she heard him tell her grandmother 
 of the possibility there was that he would be obliged to go 
 directly to England from Montreal. 
 
 "Then I may never see him again," she thought, and her 
 tears burst forth involuntarily, at the idea of parting with 
 him forever. 
 
 Faster and faster they came, until at last, fearing lest he 
 should see them, she rau away up stairs, and mounting to
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. 368 
 
 the nof, sat down bchiud the chimney, where, herself unol> 
 served, she could watch him far up the road. From the 
 half-closed door of her chamber, Anna Jeffrey had seen Mag 
 stealing up the tower stairs ; had seen, too, that she was 
 weeping, and suspecting the cause, she went quietly down to 
 the parlor to hear what Arthur Carrollton would say. The 
 carriage was waiting, his trunk was in its place, his hat was 
 'iu his hand ; to Madatn Conway he said good bye ; to 
 Anna Jeffrey, too, and still he lingered, Icokiug wistfully 
 round in quect of something, which evidently was not 
 there. 
 
 " Where's Margaret ?" he asked at last, and Madam Con- 
 way answered, " surely, where can she be ? Have you seen 
 her, Anna ?" 
 
 " I saw her on the stairs some time ago," SMd Anna, 
 adding that possibly she had gone to see Hag<tr, as she 
 usually visited her at this hour. 
 
 A shade of disappointment passed over Mr. Garrollton's 
 face, as he replied, " tell her I am sorry she thiuks more of 
 Hagar than of me." 
 
 The next moment he was gone, and leaning against the 
 chimney, Mag watched with tearful eyes the carriage as it 
 wound up the grassy road. On the brow of the hill, just 
 before it would disappear from sight, it suddenly stopped. 
 Something was the matter with the harness, and while John 
 was busy adjusting it, Mr. Carrollton leaned from the win 
 dow, and looking back, started involuntarily as he caught 
 si<>'ht of the figure so clearly defined upon the house-top. A 
 slight suspicion of the truth came upon him, and kissing his 
 hand, he waved it. gracefully towards her. Mag's handker 
 chief was wet with tears, but she shook it out in the morn 
 ing breeze, and sent to Arthur Carrollton, as she thought 
 her last good bye.
 
 b*6 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Fearing lest her grandmother should see her swollen eyes, 
 she stole down the stairs, and taking her shawl and bonnet 
 from the table in the hall, ran off into the woods, going to 
 a pleasant, mossy bank, not far from Hagar's cottage, where 
 she had more than once sat with Arthur Carrollton, and 
 where she fancied she would never sit with him again. 
 
 " I don't believe it's for him, that I am crying," she 
 thought, as she tried in vain to stay her tears ; " I always 
 intended to hate him, and I 'most know I do ; I'm only feel 
 ing badly, because I won't run away, and Henry and Rose 
 will go without me so soon !" And fully satisfied at having 
 discovered the real cause of her grief, she laid her head 
 upon the bright autumnal grass, and wept bitterly, holding 
 her breath, and listening intently as she heard, in the dis 
 tance, the sound of the engine, which was bearing Mr. Car 
 rollton away. 
 
 It did not occur to her that he could not yet have 
 reached the depot, and as she knew nothing of a change in 
 the time of the trains, she was taken wholly by surprise, 
 when, fifteen minutes later, a manly form bent over her, as 
 she lay upon the bank, and a voice, earnest and thrilling in 
 tones, murmured softly, " Maggie, are those tears for me ?" 
 
 When about halfway to the station, Mr. Carrollton had 
 heard of the change of the time, and knowing he should not 
 be in season, had turned back, with the intention of waiting 
 for the next train, which would pass in a few hours. Learn 
 ing that Maggie was in the woods, he had started in quest 
 of her, going naturally to the mossy bank, where, as we 
 have seen, he found her weeping on the grass. She was 
 weeping for him he was sure of that. He was not indiffe 
 rent to her, as he had sometimes feared, and for an instant 
 he felt tempted to take her in his arms and tell her how deal 
 she was to him.
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON A\D MAGGIE. 387 
 
 " I will speak to her first," he thought, and so he a iked 
 ' if the tears were for him." 
 
 Inexpressibly astonished and mortified at having him see 
 her thus, Maggie started to her feet, while angry words at 
 being thus intruded upon, trembled on her lips. But wind 
 ing his arm around her, Mr. Carrollton drew her to his side, 
 explaining to her in a few words how he came to be there, 
 and continuing, " I do not regret the delay, if by its means 
 I have discovered what I very much wish to know. Mag 
 gie, do you care for me ? Were you weeping because I had 
 left you ?" 
 
 He drew her very closely to him looking anxiously into 
 her face, which she covered with her hands. She knew ht 
 was in earnest, and the knowledge that he loved her thrilled 
 her for an instant with indescribable happiness. A moment, 
 however, and thoughts of her engagement with another 
 flashed upon her. " She must not sit there thus with Ar 
 thur Carrollton she would be true to Henry," and with 
 mingled feelings of sorrow, regret and anger though why 
 she should experience either she did not then understand 
 she drew herself from him, and when he said again, " Will 
 Maggie answer ? Are those tears for me ?" she replied petu 
 lantly, " No ; can't a body cry without being bothered for a 
 reason ? I came down here to be alone ?" 
 
 " I did not mean to intrude, and I beg your pardon for 
 having done so," said Mr. Carrollton, sadly, adding, as Mag 
 gie made no reply, " I expected a different answer, Maggie ; 
 I almost hoped you liked me, and I believe now that you 
 do." 
 
 In Maggie's bosom there was a fierce struggle of feeling 
 She did like Arthur Carrollton and she thought she liked 
 Henry Warner at all events she was engaged to him, and 
 halt' angry at the former for having disturbed her, and still
 
 ff68 MAGGIE MTLLEK. 
 
 more angry at herself for being thus disturbed, she exclaimed 
 as he again placed his arm around her, " Leave me alone, 
 Mr. Carrollton. I don't like you. I don't like anybody 1'' 
 and gathering up her shawl, which lay upon the grass, she 
 ran away to Hagar's cabin, hoping he would follow her. 
 But he did not. It was his first attempt at love-making, 
 and very much disheartened, he walked slowly back to the 
 house ; and while Maggie, from Hagar's door, was looking 
 to see if he were coming, he, from the parlor window, was 
 watching, too, for her, with a shadow on his brow and a load 
 upon his heart. Madam Conway knew that something was 
 wrong, but it was in vain that she sought an explanation. 
 Mr. Carrollton kept his own secret, and consoling herself with 
 his volunteered assurance that in case it became necessary 
 for him to return to England, he should, before embarking, 
 visit Hillsdale, she bade him a second adieu. 
 
 In the meantime, Maggie, having given up all hopes of 
 again seeing Mr. Carrollton, was waiting impatiently the 
 coining of Hagar, who was absent, having, as Maggie 
 readily conjectured, gone to Richland. It was long past 
 noon when she returned, and by that time the stains had 
 disappeared from Maggie's face, which looked nearly as 
 bright as ever. Still, it was with far less eagerness thau 
 usual that she took from Hagar's hand the expected letter 
 from Henry. It was a long, affectionate epistle, urging her 
 once more to accompany him, and saying if she still refused 
 she must let him know immediately, as they were intending 
 to start for New York in a few days. 
 
 " I can't go," said Maggie ; " it would not be right." 
 And going to the time-worn desk, where, since her secret 
 correspondence, she had kept materials for writing, sha 
 wrote to Henry a letter, telling him she felt badly to disap 
 point him, but she deemed it much wiser to defer their mar-
 
 ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE. S69 
 
 riage until her grandmother felt differently, or at least untl 
 ehe was at an age to act for herself. This beiug done, sh 
 went slowly back to the house, which to her seemed desolate 
 indeed, Her grandmother saw readily that something was 
 the matter, and rightly guessing the cause, she forebore 
 questioning her, neither did she once that day mention Mr. 
 Carrollton, although Anna Jeffrey did, telling her what he 
 had said about her " thinking more of Hagar than of him 
 self," and giving as her opinion that be was much displeased 
 at her rudeness in running away. 
 
 " Nobody cares for his displeasure," answered Maggie, 
 greatly vexed at Anna, who took especial delight in annoy 
 ing her. 
 
 Thus a week went by, when one evening, as Madam Con 
 way and Maggie sat together in the parlor, they were sur 
 prised by the sudden appearance of Henry Warner. He 
 had accompanied his aunt and sister to New York, where 
 they were to remain for a few days, and then impelled by a 
 strong desire to see Margaret once more, he had come with 
 the vain hope that at the last hour she would consent to fly 
 with him, or her grandmother consent to give her up. All 
 the afternoon he had been at Hagar's cottage waiting for 
 Maggie, and at length determining to see her, he had ven 
 tured to the hou^e. With a scowling frown, Madam Con- 
 way looked at him through her glasses, while Maggie, half 
 joyfully, half fear"ully, went forward to meet him. In a few 
 words he explained why he was there, and then a,gain asked 
 of Madam Comvay if Margaret could go. 
 
 " I do not believe she cares to go," thought Madam Con- 
 way, as she glanced at Maggie's face ; but she did not say 
 eo, lest she should awaken within the young girl a feeling 
 of opposition. 
 
 She had watched Maggie closely, and felt sure that he' 
 16*
 
 870 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 affection for Henry Warner was neither deep noi lasting 
 Arthur Carrollton's presence had done much towards weak 
 ening it, and a few months more would suffice to wear it 
 away entirely. Still, from what had passed, she fancied thaf 
 opposition alone would only make the matter worse by rous 
 ing Maggie at once. She knew far more of human nature 
 than either of the young people before her ; and after a, 
 little reflection, she suggested that Henry should leave Mag 
 gie with her for a year, during which time no communica 
 tion whatever should pass between them, while she would 
 promise faithfully not to influence Margaret either way. 
 
 " If at the end of the year," said she, " you both retain 
 for each other the feelings you have now, I will no longer 
 object to the marriage, but will make the best of it." 
 
 At first, Henry spurned at the proposition, and when he 
 saw that Margaret thought well of it, he reproached her 
 with a want of feeling, saying " she did not love him as she 
 had once done." 
 
 " I shall not forget you, Henry," said Maggie, coming to 
 his side and taking his hand in hers, " neither will you for 
 get me ; and when the year has passed away, only think 
 how much pleasanter it will be for us to be married here at 
 home, with grandma's blessing on our union !" 
 
 " If I only knew you would prove true I" said Henry., 
 who missed something in Maggie's manner. 
 
 " I do mean to prove true," she answered sadly, though 
 at that moment another face, another form, stood between 
 her and Henry Warner, who, knowing that Madam Conway 
 would not suffer her to go with him on any terms, concluded 
 at last to make a virtue of necessity, and accordingly ex 
 pressed his willingness to wait, provided Margaret were al 
 lowed to write occasionally either to himself or Rose. 
 
 But to this Madam Conway would not consent. " She
 
 ARTHUR CAKROLLTON AND MAGGIE. w* 
 
 wished the test to be perfect," she said, " and unless he ac 
 cepted her terms, he must give Maggie up, at once and for- 
 ever." 
 
 As there seemed no alternative, Henry rather ungraciously 
 yielded the point, promising to leave Maggie free for a year, 
 while she, too, promised not to write either to him or to 
 Rose, except with her grandmother's consent. Maggie 
 Miller's word once passed, Madam Conway knew it would 
 not be broken, and she unhesitatingly left the young people 
 together while they said their parting words. A message 
 of love from Maggie to Rose a hundred protestations of 
 eternal fidelity, and then they parted : Henry, sad and dis 
 appointed, slowly wending his way back to the spot where 
 Hagar impatiently awaited his coming, while Maggie, lean 
 ing from her chamber window, and listening to the sound 
 of his retreating footsteps, brushed away a tear, wondering 
 the while why it was that fke felt so relieved.
 
 11 AGGIE MJUKU. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 PERPLEXITY. 
 
 HALF iu sorrow, half in joy, old Hagar listened to tne 
 story which Henry told her, standing at her cottage door. 
 In sorrow, because she had learned to like the young man, 
 learned to think of him as Maggie's husband, who would 
 not wholly cast her off, if her secret should chance to be 
 divulged; and in joy, because her idol would be with her yet 
 a little longer. 
 
 " Maggie will be faithful quite as long as you," she said, 
 when he expressed his fears of her forge tfnlness ; and trying 
 to console himself with this assurance, he sprang into the 
 carriage in which he, had come, and was driven rapidly 
 away. 
 
 He was too late for the night express, but taking the 
 early morning train, he reached New York just, as the sun 
 was setting. 
 
 "Alone ! my brother, alone ?" queried Roso, as he entered 
 the private parlor of the hotel where she was staying with 
 her aunt. 
 
 "Yes, alone, just as I expected," he answered, somewhat 
 bitterly. 
 
 Then very briefly he related to her the particulars of his 
 adventure, to which she listened eagerly, one moment chiding 
 herself for the faint, shadowy hope which whispered that
 
 PERPLEXITY. 878 
 
 possibly Maggie Miller would never be his wife, and again 
 sympathizing in his disappointment. 
 
 " A year would not be very long," she said "and in the 
 new scenes to which he was going," a part of it would pass 
 rapidly away ;" and then in her childlike, guileless manner, 
 she drew a glowing picture of the future, when, her own 
 health restored, they would return to their old home in 
 I jcominster, where, after a few mouths more, he would bring 
 *o them his bride. 
 
 "You are my comforting angel, Rose," he said, folding her 
 lovingly in his arras, and kissing her smooth white cheek. 
 " With such a treasure as you for a sister, I ought not tc 
 repine, even though Maggie Miller should never be mine." 
 
 The words were lightly spoken, arid by him soon forgot 
 ten, but Rose remembered them long, dwelling upon them 
 in the wearisome nights, when in her narrow berth, she 
 listened to the swelling sea, as it dashed against the vessel's 
 side. Many a fond remembrance, too, she gave to Maggie 
 Miller, who, in her woodland home, thought often of the 
 travellers on the sea, never wishing that she was with them; 
 but experiencing always a feeling of pleasure in knowing 
 that she was Maggie Miller yet, and should be until next 
 year's autumn leaves were falling. 
 
 Of Arthur Carrollton she thought frequently, wishing sho 
 had not been so rude that morning in the woods, and feeling 
 vexed because in his letters to her grandmother, he merely 
 eaid ; Remember me to Margaret." 
 
 "I wish he would write something besides that," sbe 
 thought, "for I remember him now altogether too much for 
 my own good;" and then she wondered "what he would have 
 said that morning, if she had not been so cross." 
 
 Very little was said to her of him by Madam Conway, 
 who, having learned that he was not going to England, and
 
 S74 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 would ere long return to them, concluded for a time to let 
 the matter rest, particularly as she knew how much Maggie 
 was already interested in one whom she had resolved to 
 hate. Feeling thus confident that all would yet end well, 
 Madam Gouway was in unusually good spirits, save when 
 thoughts of Mrs. Douglas senior obtruded themselves upon 
 her. Then, indeed, in a most unenviable state of mind, she 
 repined at the disgrace which Theo had brought upon them, 
 and charged Maggie repeatedly to keep it a secret from 
 Mrs. Jeffrey and Anna, the first of whom made many 
 inquiries concerning the family, which she supposed of course 
 was very aristocratic. 
 
 One clay towards the last of November, there came to 
 Madam Couway a letter from Mrs. Douglas senior, wonder 
 ful alike in composition and appearance. Directed wrong 
 tiide up, sealed with a wafer, and stamped with a thimble, it 
 bore an unmistakable resemblance to its writer, who expressed 
 many regrets that " she had not known in the time on't, 
 who her illustrious visitors were." 
 
 " If I had known," she wrote, " I should have sot the 
 table in the parlor certiug, for though I'm plain and home 
 spun, I know as well as the next one what good manners is, 
 and do my endeavors to practise it. But do tell a body," 
 she continued, " where you was, muster day in Wooster. 
 I knocked and pounded enough to raise the dead, and 
 nobody answered. I never noticed you was deaf when you 
 Was here, though Betsey Jane thinks she did. If you be, 
 I'll send you up a receipt for a kind of intment which Miss 
 Sam Babbit invented, and which cures everything. 
 
 " Theodoshy has been to see us, and though in my way 
 of thinkic', she ain't as handsome as Margaret, she looks as 
 well as the ginerality of women. I liked her. too, aud us
 
 PERPLEXITY. 876 
 
 soon as the men's winter clothes is off my hands, I ealkcr- 
 late to have a quiltiu', and finish up another bedquilt to 
 eend her, for manlike, George has furnished up his rooms 
 with all sorts of nicknacks, and got only two blankets, and 
 two Marsales spreads for his bed. So I've sent 'em down 
 the herriu'-bone and risin' sun quilts for every day wear, as 
 I don't believe in usiii' your best things all the time. My 
 old man says I'd better let 'em alone ; but he's got some 
 queer ideas, thinks you'll sniff your nose at my letter, and 
 all that, but I've more charity for folks, and well I might 
 have, bein' that's my name. 
 
 " CHARITY DOUGLAS." 
 
 To this letter were appended three different postscripts. 
 In the first Madam Conway and Maggie were cordially 
 invited to visit Charlton again ; in the second Betsey Jane 
 sent her regrets; while in the third Madam Conway was 
 particularly requested to excuse haste and a bad pen. 
 
 " Disgusting creature !" was Madam Couway's exclama 
 tion, as she finished reading the letter, then tossing- it into 
 the fire she took up another one, which had come by tlie 
 same mail, and was from Theo herself. 
 
 After dwelling at length upon the numerous calls sho 
 made, the parties she attended, the compliments she received, 
 and her curiosity to know why her grandmother came back 
 that day, she spoke of her recent visit in Charlton. 
 
 " You have been there, it seems," she wrote, " so I need 
 dot particularize, though I know how shocked and disap 
 pointed yon must have been ; and I think it very kind in 
 you not to have said anything upon the subject, except that 
 you had called there, for George reads all my letters, and I 
 would not have his' feelings hurt. He had prepared me in 
 a measure for the visit, but the reality was even worse thav
 
 87 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 I anticipated. And still they are the kindest hearted peo 
 ple in the world, while Mr. Douglas is a man, they say, of 
 excellent sense. George never lived at home much, and 
 their heathenish ways mortify him I know, though he never 
 Bays a word, except that they are his parents. 
 
 " People here respect George, too, quite as much as if he 
 were a Conway, and I sometimes think they like him all the 
 better for being so kind to his old father, who comes fre 
 quently to the store. Grandma, I begin to think differently 
 of some things from what I did. Birth and blood do not 
 make much difference in this country, at least ; and still I 
 must acknowledge that I should feel dreadfully if I did not 
 love George and know that he is the kindest husband in the 
 world." 
 
 The letter closed with a playful insinuation that as Henry 
 Warner had gone, Maggie might possibly marry Arthur 
 Carrollton, and so make amends for the disgrace which 
 Theo had unwittingly brought upon the Conway line. 
 
 For a long time after finishing the above, Madam Conway 
 sat rapt in thought. Could it be possible that during all 
 her life, she had labored under a mistake ? Were birth and 
 family rank really of no consequence ? Was George just 
 as worthy of respect as if he had descended directly from 
 the Scottish race of Douglas, instead of belonging to that 
 vulgar woman ? " It may be so in America," she sighed ; 
 " but it is not true of England," and sincerely hoping that 
 Theo's remark concerning Mr. Carrollton might prove true, 
 she laid aside the letter, and for the remainder of the day, 
 busied herself with preparations for the return of Arthur 
 Carrollton, who had written that he should be with them 
 on the first of December. 
 
 The day came, and, unusually excited, Maggie flitted from
 
 PERPLEXITY. STJ 
 
 room to room, seeing that everything was in order, wonder 
 ing how he would meet her and if he had forgiven hel 
 for having been so cross at their last interview in the woods 
 The effect of every suitable dress in her wardrobe was tried, 
 and she decided at last upon a crimson and black merino, 
 which harmonized well with her dark eyes and hair. The 
 dress was singularly becoming, and feeling quite well satis 
 fied with the face and form reflected by her mirror, she 
 descended to the parlor, where any doubts she might have 
 had concerning her personal appearance were put to flight 
 by Anna Jeffrey, who, with a feeling of envy, asked " if she 
 had the scarlet fever !" referring to her bright color, and 
 eaying, she " did not think too red a face becoming to any 
 one, particularly to Margaret, to whom it gave a blowsy 
 look, such as she had more than once heard Mr. Carrollton 
 say he did not like to see 1" 
 
 Margaret knew well that the dark-browed girl would give 
 almost anything for the roses blooming on her cheeks ; so 
 she made no reply, but simply wished Anna would return to 
 England, as for the last two months she had talked of doing 
 It was not quite dark, and Mr. Carrollton, if he came that 
 night, would be with them soon. The car whistle had 
 sounded some time before, and Maggie's quick ear caught at 
 last the noise of the bells in the distance. Nearer and 
 nearer they came ; the sleigh was at the door, and forget 
 ting everything but her own happiness, Maggie ran out to 
 meet their guest, nor turned her glowing face away when he 
 stooped down to kiss her. lie had forgiven her ill-nature, 
 she was certain of that, and very joyfully she led the way 
 to the parlor, where as the full light of the lamp fell upon 
 him she started involuntarily, he seemed so changed. 
 
 " Are you sick ?" she asked, and her voice expressed tha 
 deep auxiuty she felt.
 
 378 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Forcing back a slight cough and smiling down upon her 
 he answered cheerfully, " Oh no, not sick. Canada ah 
 does not agree with me ; that's all. I took a severe cold, 
 Boon after my arrival in Montreal," and the cough he had 
 attempted to stifle, now burst forth, sounding to Maggie, 
 who thought only of consumption, like an echo from the 
 grave. 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry," she answered sadly, and her eyes 
 filled with tears, which she did not try to conceal, for look 
 ing through the window across the snow-clad field on which 
 the winter moon was shining, she saw instinctively another 
 grave beside that of her mother. 
 
 Madam Conway had not yet appeared, and as Anna Jef 
 frey just then left the room, Mr. Carrollton was for some 
 moments alone with Maggie. Winding his arm around her 
 waist, and giving her a most expressive look, he said, " Mag 
 gie, are those tears for me ?" 
 
 Instantly the bright blushes stole over Maggie's face and 
 neck, for she remembered the time when once -before he had 
 asked her a similar question. Not now, as then, did she 
 turn from him away, but she answered frankly, " Yes, they 
 are. You look so pale and thin, I'm sure you must be very 
 ill." 
 
 Whether Mr. Carrolltou liked blowsy complexions or not, 
 he certainly admired Maggie's at that moment, and drawing 
 her closer to his side, he said, half playfully, half earnestly, 
 " To see you thus anxious for me, Maggie, more than atones 
 for your waywardness when last we parted. You are for 
 given, but you are unnecessarily alarmed. I shall be better 
 soon. Hillsdale air will do me good, and I intend remain 
 ing here until I am well again. Will you nurse me, Mag 
 gie, just as my sister Helen would do, were she here ?" 
 
 The right chord was touched, and all the soft, womanlj
 
 PERPLEXITY. 8*9 
 
 qualities of Maggie Miller's nature were called forth by Ar 
 thur Carrollton's failing health. For several weeks after hia 
 arrival at Hillsdale he was a confirmed invalid, lying all 
 day upon the sofa in the parlor, while Maggie read to him 
 from books which he selected, partly for the purpose of 
 amusing himself, and more for the sake of benefiting her and 
 improving her taste for literature. At other times, he would 
 tell her of his home beyond the sea, and Maggie, listening 
 to him while he described its airy halls, its noble parks, its 
 shaded walks and musical fountains, would sometimes wish 
 aloud that she might one day see that spot which seemed to 
 her so much like paradise. He wished so, too, and often 
 times when, with half-closed eyes, his mind was wandering 
 amid the scenes of his youth, he saw at his side a queenly 
 figure with features like those of Maggie Miller, who each 
 day was stealing more and more into his heart, where 
 love for other than his nearest friends had never before 
 i found entrance. She had many faults, he knew, but these 
 he possessed both the will and the power to correct, and as 
 day after day she sat reading at his side, he watched her 
 bright, animated face, thinking what a splendid woman she 
 would make, and wondering if an American rose like her 
 would bear transplanting to English soil. 
 
 Very complacently Madam Conway looked on, reading 
 aright the admiration which Arthur Carrollton evinced for 
 Margaret, who in turn was far from being uninterested in 
 him. Anna Jeffrey, too, watched them jealously, ponder 
 ing in her own mind some means by which she could, if possi 
 ble, annoy Margaret. Had she known how far matters had 
 gone with Henry Warner, she wouid unhesitatingly have 
 told it to Arthur Carrollton ; but so quietly had the affair 
 been managed that she knew comparatively but little. Thig 
 little, however, she determined to tell him, together with
 
 880 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 any embellishments she might see fit to use. Accordingly 
 one afternoon, when he had been there two months or more, 
 and Maggie had gone with her grandmother to- ride, she 
 went down to the parlor under pretence of getting a book 
 to read. He was much better now, but feeling somewhat 
 fatigued from a walk he bad taken in the yard, he was re 
 clining upon the sofa. Leaning over the rocking-chair 
 which stood near by, Anna inquired for his health, and then 
 asked how long since he had heard from home. 
 
 He liked to talk.of England, and as there was nothing 
 to him particularly disagreeable in Anna Jeffrey, he bade 
 her be seated. Very willingly she complied with his request, 
 and after talking awhile of England, announced her inten 
 tion of returning home the last of March. " My aunt prefers 
 remaining with Madam Conway, but I don't like America," 
 said she, " and I often wonder why I am here." 
 
 " I supposed you came to be with your aunt, who, I am 
 told, has been to you a second mother," answered Mr. Car- 
 rollton ; and Anna replied, " You are right. She could not 
 be easy until she got me here, where I know I am not 
 wanted ; at least one would be glad to have me leave." 
 
 Mr. Carrollton looked inquiringly at her, and Anna con 
 tinued : " I fully supposed I was to be a companion for Mar 
 garet ; but instead of that she treats me with the utmost 
 coolness, making me feel keenly my position as a dependent." 
 " That does not seem at all like Maggie," said Mr. Car 
 rollton, and with a meaning smile far more expressive than 
 words, Anna answered, " She may not always be alike, but 
 hush 1 don't I hear bells ?" and she ran to the window, say 
 ing as she resumed her seat, " I thought they had como, 
 but I was mistaken. I dare say Maggie has coaxed her 
 grandmother to drive by the post office, thinking there 
 inight be a letter from Henry Warner.
 
 PERPLEXITY. 381 
 
 Her manner affected Mr. Carrollton perceptibly, but he 
 made no reply; and Anna asked "if he knew Mr. War 
 ner ?" 
 
 " I saw him in Worcester, I believe," he said, and Anna 
 continued, " Do you think him a suitable husband for a gir 
 like Maggie ?" 
 
 There was a deep flush on Arthur Cafrollton's cheek, and 
 his lips were whiter than their wont as he answered, " I 
 know nothing of him, neither did I suppose Miss Miller ever 
 thought of him for a husband." 
 
 " I know she did at one time," said his tormentor, turn 
 ing the leaves of her book, with well feigned indifference. 
 " It was not any secret, or I should not speak of it ; of 
 course Madam Conway was greatly opposed to it, too, and 
 forbade her writing to him ; but how the matter is now, I 
 do not positively know, though I am quite sure they are en 
 gaged." 
 
 " Isn't it very close here ? Will you please to open the hall 
 door ?" said Mr. Carrollton, suddenly panting for breath ; 
 and satisfied with her work, Anna did as desired and then 
 left him alone. 
 
 " Maggie engaged !" he exclaimed, " engaged, when I 
 was hoping to win her for myself !" and a sharp pang shot 
 through his heart as he thought of giving to another the 
 beautiful girl who had grown so into his love. " But I am 
 glad I learned it in time," he continued, hurriedly walking 
 the floor, " knew it ere I had done Henry Warner a wrong, 
 by telling her of my love, and asking her to go with me to 
 iny English home, which will be desolate without her. This 
 is why she repulsed me in the woods. She knew I 
 ought not to speak of love to her. Why didn't I see it be 
 fore, or why has not Madam Conway told me the truth ? 
 She at least has deceived me," and witl a feeling of kecr
 
 38* MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 disappointment, he continued to pace the floor, one moment 
 resolving to leave Hillsdale at once, and again, thinking how 
 impossible it was to tear himself away. 
 
 Arthur Carrollton was a perfectly honorable man, and 
 once assured of Maggie's engagement, he would neither by 
 word or deed do aught to which the most fastidious lover 
 could object, and Henry Warner's rights were as safe with 
 him as with the truest of friends. But was Maggie really 
 engaged ? Might there not be some mistake ? He hoped 
 so at least, and alternating between hope and fear, he 
 waited impatiently the return of Maggie, who, with each 
 thought of losing her, seemed tenfold dearer to him than 
 she had ever been before ; and when at last she came bound 
 ing in, he could scarcely refrain from folding her in his arms, 
 and asking of her to think again ere she gave another than 
 himself the right of calling her his bride. But she is not 
 mine, he thought, and so he merely took her cold hands 
 within his own, rubbing them until they were warm. Then 
 seating himself by her side upon the sofa, he spoke of her 
 ride, asking casually if she called at the pbst office. 
 
 " No, we did not drive that way," she answered readily, 
 adding that the post office had few attractions for her now, 
 as no one wrote to her save Theo. 
 
 She evidently spoke the truth, and with a feeling of relief 
 Mr. Carrollton thought that possibly Miss Jeffrey might 
 have been mistaken ; but he would know at all hazards, 
 even though he ran the risk of being thought extremely 
 rude. Accordingly that evening, after Mrs. Jeffrey -and 
 Anna had retired to their room, and while Madam Conway 
 was giving some household directions in the kitchen, he 
 asked hei to come and sit by him as he lay upon the sofa, 
 himself placing her chair where the lamp light would fall 
 fully upon her face and reveal its every expression. Closing
 
 PERPLEXITY. 888 
 
 the piano, she complied with his request, and then awaited 
 in silence for what he was to say. 
 
 "Maggie," he began, "you may think me bold, but there 
 is something I very much wish to know, and which you, if 
 you choose, can tell me. From what I have heard, I am 
 led to think you are engaged. Will you tell me if this is 
 true ?" 
 
 The bright color faded out from Maggie's cheek, while 
 her eyes grew darker than before, and still she did not 
 speak. Not that she was angry with him for asking her 
 that question ; but because the answer, which, if made at 
 all, must be yes, was hard to utter. And yet why should 
 she hesitate to tell him the truth at once ? 
 
 Alas, for thee, Maggie Miller ! The fancied love yon feel 
 tor Henry Warner is fading fast away. Arthur Carrollton 
 is a dangerous rival, and even now, you cannot meet the 
 glance of his expressive eyes without a blush ! Your bet 
 ter judgment acknowledged his superiority to Henry long 
 ago, and now in your heart there is room for none save 
 him. 
 
 " Maggie," he said, again stretching out his hand to take 
 the unresisting one which lay upon her lap, " you need not 
 make me other answer save that so plainly written on your 
 face. You are engaged, and may heaven's blessing attend 
 both you and yours.'' 
 
 At this moment Madam Conway appeared, and fearing 
 her inability to control her feelings longer, Maggie precipi 
 tately left the room. Going to her chamber, she burst into 
 ^ passionate fit of weeping, one moment blaming Mr. Car 
 rollton for having learned her secret, and the next chiding 
 herself for wishing to withhold from him a knowledge of her 
 engagement. 
 
 " It is not that I love Henry less, I am sure," she thought,
 
 584 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 and laying her head upon her pillow, she recalled everything 
 which had passed between herself and her affianced hus 
 band, trying to bring back the olden happiness with which 
 she had listened to his words of love. But it would not 
 come ; there was a barrier in the way, Arthur Carrollton as 
 he looked when he said so sadly, " You need not tell me, 
 Maggie." 
 
 " Oh, I wish he had not asked me that question," she 
 sighed. " It has put such dreadful thoughts into my head. 
 And yet I love Henry as well as ever ; I know I do, I am 
 sure of it, or if I do not, 7 will," and repeating to herself 
 again and again the words, " I will, I will," she fell 
 asleep 
 
 Will, however, is not always subservient to one's wishes, 
 and during the first few days succeeding the incident of that 
 night, Maggie often found herself wishing Arthur Carrollton 
 had never come to Hillsdale, he made her so wretched, so 
 unhappy. Insensibly, too, she became a very little unamia- 
 ble, speaking pettishly to her grandmother, disrespectfully 
 to Mrs Jeffrey, haughtily to Anna, and rarely to Mr. Car 
 rollton, who, after the lapse of two or three weeks, began 
 to talk of returning home in the same vessel with Anna 
 Jeffrey, at which time his health would be fully restored. 
 Then, indeed, did Maggie awake to the reality that while 
 her hand was plighted to one, she loved another not as 
 in days gone by she had loved Henry Warner, but with a 
 deeper, more absorbing love. With this knowledge, too, 
 there came the thought that Arthur Carrollton had once 
 loved her, and but for the engagement now so much regret 
 ted, he would ere this have told her so. But it was too late, 
 too lale. He would never feel toward her again as he onco 
 had felt, and bitter tears she shed as she contemplated the 
 fast coming future, when Arthur Carrollton would be gone,
 
 PERPLEXITY. S8B 
 
 3r shudderingly thought of the time when Henry Warner 
 would return to claim her promise. 
 
 " I cannot, cannot marry him," she cried, " until I've torn 
 that other image from my heart," and then for many days 
 ehe strove to recall the olden love in vain ; for, planted on 
 the sandy soil of childhood, as it were, it had been out 
 grown, and would never again spring into life. " I will 
 write to him exactly how it is," she said at la.st; " will tell him 
 that the affection I felt for him, could not have been what 
 a wife should feel for her husband. I was young, had seen 
 nothing of the world, knew nothing of gentlemen's society, 
 and when he came with his handsome face, and winning 
 ways, my interest was awakened. Sympathy, too, for his 
 misfortune, increased that interest, which grandma's opposi 
 tion tended in no wise to diminish. But it has died out, 
 that fancied love, and I cannot bring it back. Still, if he 
 insists, I will keep my word, and when he comes next 
 autumn, I will not tell him, No." 
 
 Maggie was very calm when this decision was reached, 
 and opening her writing desk she wrote just a* she said she 
 would, begging of him to forgive her if she had done him 
 wrong, and beseeching Rose to comfort him as only a sister 
 like her could do. " And remember," she wrote at the close, 
 " remember that sooner than see you very unhappy, I will 
 marry you, will try to be a faithful wife ; though, Henry, 1 
 would rather not oh, so much rather not." 
 
 The letter was finished, and then Maggie took it to her 
 grandmother, who read it eagerly, for in it she saw a fulfill 
 ment of her wishes. Very closely had she watched both 
 Mr. (-arrollton and Maggie, readily divining the truth, that 
 something was wrong between them. But from past expe 
 rience, she deemed it wiser not to interfere directly. Mr. 
 Carrollton's avowed uitcntion of returning to England, how 
 
 11
 
 38fl MAGGIE MILLER. *. 
 
 ver, startled her, and she was revolving some method of 
 procedure when Margaret brought to her the letter. 
 
 "I am happier than I can well express," she said, when 
 she had finished reading it. " Oh course you have my per 
 mission to send it. But what has changed you, Maggie ? 
 Has another taken the place of Henry Warner ?" 
 
 " Don't ask me, grandma," cried Mag, covering her face 
 with her hands, " don't ask me, for indeed I cau only tell 
 you that I am very unhappy." 
 
 A little skillful questioning on Madam Conway's part ; 
 sufficed to explain the whole how constant association with 
 Arthur Carrollton had won for him a place in Maggie's 
 heart, which Henry Warner had never filled ; how the 
 knowledge that she loved him as she could love no other 
 one had faintly revealed itself to her, on the night when he 
 asked if she were engaged, and had burst upon her with 
 overwhelming power, when she heard that he was going 
 home. 
 
 " He will never think of me again, I know," she said ; 
 "but, with my present feelings, I cannot marry Henry, 
 anless he insists upon it." 
 
 " Men seldom wish to marry a woman who says she doe3 
 not love them, and Henry Warner will not prove an excep 
 tion," answered Madam Conway ; and, comforted with thig 
 assurance, Mag folded up her letter, which was soon on its 
 way to Cuba. 
 
 The next evening, as Madam Conway sat alone witli Mr. 
 Carrollton, she spoke of his return to England, expressing 
 her sorrow, and a-sking why he did not remain with them 
 longer. 
 
 " I will deal frankly with you, Madam," said he, ' and 
 say that if I followed my own inclination I should stay, for 
 Hillsdale holds for me an attraction which no other spot
 
 PERPLEXITY. 187 
 
 possesses. I refer to your grand-daughter, who, in the little 
 time I have known her, has grown very dear to me ; so 
 dear, that I dare not stay longer where she is, lest I should 
 love her too well, and rebel against yielding her to 
 another." 
 
 For a moment, Madam Couway hesitated; but thinking 
 the case demanded her speaking, she said, " Possibly, Mr. 
 Carrollton, I can make an explanation which will show 
 some points in a different light from that in which you no\f 
 see them. Margaret is engaged to Henry Warner, I will 
 admit ; but the engagement has become irksome, and yes 
 terday she wrote, asking a release, which he will grant, of 
 course." 
 
 Instantly, the expression of Mr. Carrollton's face waa 
 changed, and very intently he listened, while Madam Con- 
 way frankly told him the story of Margaret's engagement 
 up to the present time, withholding from him nothing, not 
 even Mag's confession of the interest she felt in him, an in 
 terest which had weakened her girlish attachment for Henry 
 Warner. 
 
 " You have made me very happy," Mr. Carrollton said to 
 Madam Conway, as, at a late hour, he bade her good night, 
 " happier than I can well express ; for, without Margaret, 
 life to me would be dreary, indeed." 
 
 The next morning, at the breakfast table, Anna Jeffrey, 
 who was in high spirits with the prospect of having Mr. 
 Carrollton for a fellow-traveller, spoke of their intended 
 voyage, saying she could hardly wait for the time to come, 
 and asking if he were not equally impatient to leave so hor 
 rid a country as America. 
 
 " On the contrary," he replied, " I should be sorry tc 
 leave America just yet. I have, therefore, decided tc 
 remain a little longer," and his eyes sought the face of Mug
 
 888 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 who, in her joyful surprise, dropped the knife with which 
 she was helping herself to butter ; while Anna Jcffrej, quilts 
 as much astonished, upset her coffee, exclaiming, " j\ r i-t 
 going home ! What has changed your mind ?" 
 
 Mr. Carrollton made her no direct reply, aud she con 
 tinued her breakfast in no very amiable mood ; while Mag 
 gie, too much overjoyed to eat, managed, ere long, to find 
 an excuse for leaving the table. Mr. Carrollton wished to 
 do everything honorably, and so he decided to say nothing 
 to Mag of the cause of this sudden change in his plan, until 
 Henry Warner's answer was received, as she would then 
 feel freer to act as she felt. His resolution, however, was 
 more easily made than kept, and during the succeeding 
 weeks, by actions, if not by words, he more than once told 
 Maggie Miller how much she was beloved ; and Maggie, 
 trembling with fear lest the cup of happiness just within her 
 grasp should be rudely dashed aside, waited impatiently for 
 the letter which was to set her free. But weeks went by, 
 and Maggie's heart grew sick with hope deferred, for there 
 came to her no message from the distant Cuban shore 
 where, in another chapter, we will for a moment go.
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. Set? 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 BRIGHTLY shone the moonlight on the sunny isle of Cuba, 
 dancing lightly on the wave, resting softly on the orange 
 groves, and stealing gently through the casement, into the 
 room where a young girl lay, whiter far than the flowera 
 strewn upon her pillow. From the commencement of the 
 voyage, Rose had drooped, growing weaker every day, until 
 at last all who looked upon her, felt that the home, of which 
 she talked so much, would never again be gladdened by her 
 presence. Very tenderly, Henry Warner nursed her, bear 
 ing her often in his arms upon the vessel's deck, where she 
 could breathe the fresh morning air as it came rippling o'er 
 the sea. But neither ocean breeze, nor yet the fragrant 
 breath of Florida's aromatic bowers, where for a time they 
 stopped, had power to rouse her ; and when at last Havana 
 was reached, she laid her weary head upon her pillow, whis 
 pering to no one of the love whieh was wearing her life 
 away. With untold anguish at their hearts, both her aunt 
 and Henry watched her, the latter shrinking ever from the 
 thoughts of losing one who seemed a part of his very life. 
 
 " I cannot give you up, my Rose. I cannot live without 
 you," he said, when once she talked to him of death. " You 
 are all the world to me," and laying his head upon her pil 
 low, he wept as men will sometimes weep over their firrf 
 great sorrow.
 
 890 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 " Don't, Henry," she said, laying her tiny hand upon hi? 
 hair " Maggie will comfort you when I am gone She 
 will talk to you of me, standing at my grave, for, Henry, 
 you must not leave me here alone. You must carry me 
 home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my child 
 hood was passed, and where I learned to love you so much ; 
 oh, so much 1" 
 
 There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the 
 last words were uttered, but Henry Warner did not under 
 Btand it, and covering the little blue veined hand with 
 kisses, he promised that her grave should be made at the 
 foot of the garden in their far off home, where the sunset- 
 light fell softly, and the moonbeams gently shone. That 
 evening, Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a 
 disturbed slumber. For a time he took no notice of the dis 
 connected words she uttered in her dreams, but when, at 
 last, he heard the sound of his own name, he drew near, 
 and bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy, 
 sorrow a,nd surprise to a secret which, waking, she would 
 never have told to him, above all others. She loved him 
 the fair girl he called his sister but not as a sister loves, 
 and now, as he stood by her, with the knowledge thrilling 
 every nerve, he remembered many by-gone scenes, where, 
 but for his blindness, he would have seen how every pulsa 
 tion of her heart throbbed alone for him, whose hand was 
 plighted to another, and that other no unworthy rival. 
 Beautiful, very beautiful, was the shadowy form which, at 
 that moment, seemed standing at his side, and his heari 
 went out towards her as the one above all others to be his 
 bride. 
 
 " Had I known it sooner," he thought, " known it before 
 ] met the peerless Mag, I might have taken Rose to my 
 bosom and loved her, it may be, with a deeper love than
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 3 
 
 that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose is everything to me 
 She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can I let 
 her die, when I have the power to save her ?" 
 
 There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was 
 waking, and as her soft blue eyes unclosed and looked up in 
 his face, he wound his arms around her, kissing her lips, as 
 never before he had kissed her. She was not his sister 
 now the veil was torn away a new "feeling had been 
 awakened, and as days and weeks went by there gradually 
 crept in between him and Maggie Miller a new love even a 
 love for the fair-haired Rose, to whom he was kinder, if 
 possible, than he had been before, though he seldom kissed 
 her lips, or caressed her in any way. 
 
 "It would be wrong," he said, "a wrong to himself a 
 wrong to her and a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom hia 
 troth was plighted," and he did not wish it otherwise, he 
 thought ; though insensibly there came over him a wish that 
 Maggie herself might weary of the engagement, and seek 
 to break it. " Not that he loved her the less," he reasoned, 
 "but that he pitied Rose the more." 
 
 In this manner time passed on, until at last there came to 
 him Maggie's letter which had been a long time on the sea. 
 
 " I expected it," he thought, as he finished reading it, 
 And though conscious for a moment of a feeling of disap 
 pointment, the letter brought him far more pleasure than 
 pain. 
 
 Of Arthur Carrollton no mention had been made, but he 
 readily guessed the truth; and thinking "it is well," he laid 
 the letter aside and went back to Rose, deciding to say 
 nothing to her then. He would wait until his own feelings 
 were more perfectly defined. So a week went by, and again, 
 as he had often done before, he sat with her alone in the stilly 
 night, watched her as she slept, and thinking how beaut ifu 1
 
 392 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 she was, with her golden Uair shading her childish face, her 
 long eyelashes resting on her cheek, and her little hands 
 folded meekly upon her bosom. 
 
 "She is too beautiful to die," he murmured, pressing a 
 kiss upon her lips. 
 
 This act awoke her, and turning towards him she said, 
 " Was I dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss ine as you used 
 to do ?" 
 
 " Not dreaming, Rose," he answered then rather hur 
 riedly he added, " I have a letter from Maggie Miller, and 
 ere I answer it, I would read it to you. Can you hear it 
 now ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," she whispered faintly, " read it to me, 
 Heury;" and turning her face away, she listened, while he 
 read that Maggie Miller, grown weary of her troth, asked a 
 release from her engagement. 
 
 He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear 
 what Rose would say. But for a time she did not speak. 
 All hope for herself had long since died away, and now sho 
 experienced only sorrow for Henry's disappointment. 
 
 " My poor brother," she said at last, turning her face to 
 wards him and taking his hand in hers ; " I am sorry 
 for you to lose us both, Maggie and me. What will you 
 do?" 
 
 " Rose," he said, bending so low that his brown locka 
 mingled with the yellow tresses of her hair, " Rose, I do 
 not regret Maggie Miller's decision, neither do I blame her 
 for it. She is a noble, true-hearted girl, and so long as I 
 live I shall esteem her highly ; but I. too, have changed 
 have learned to love another. Will yon sanction this new 
 love, dear Rose ? Will you say that it is right ?" 
 
 The white lids closed wearily over the eyes of blue, but 
 they could not keep back the tears which rolled
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 8l 
 
 her face, as she answered somewhat sadly, " Who is it, 
 Henry ?" 
 
 There was another moment of silence, and then he 
 whispered in her ear, " People call her Rose ; /once called 
 her sister ; but my heart now claims her for something 
 nearer. My Rose," he continued, " shall it be ? Will you 
 live for my sake ? Will you be my wife ?" 
 
 The shock was too sudden too great, and neither on that 
 night, nor yet the succeeding day, had Rose the power to 
 answer. But as the dew of heaven is to the parched and 
 dying flower, so were these words of love to her, imparting 
 at once new life and strength, making her as it were another 
 creature. The question asked that night so unexpectedly, 
 was answered at last ; and then with almost perfect happi 
 ness at her heart, she, too, added a few lines to the letter 
 which Henry sent to Maggie Miller, over whose pathway, 
 hitherto so bright, a fearful shadow was falling.
 
 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE PEDDLER. 
 
 IT was a rainy April day a day which precluded all out 
 door exercise, and Hagar Warren, from the window of her 
 lonely cabin, watched in vain for the coming of Maggie 
 Miller. It was now more than a week since she had been 
 there, for both Arthur Carrollton and herself had accom 
 panied the disappointed Anna Jeffrey to New York, going 
 with her on board the vessel which was to take her from a 
 country she so affected to dislike. 
 
 " I dare say you'll be Maggie somebody else ere I meet you 
 again," she said to Maggie, at parting, and Mr. Carrollton, 
 on her journey home, found it hard to keep from asking her 
 if for the " somebody else," she would substitute his name 
 and so be " Maggie Carrollton." 
 
 This, however, he did not do ; but his attentions were so 
 marked, and his manner toward her so affectionate, that 
 ere Ilillsdale was reached, there was in Maggie's mind no 
 longer a doubt as to the nature of his feelings toward her. 
 Arrived at home, he kept her constantly at his side, while 
 Hagar, who was suffering from a slight attack of rheumatism, 
 and could not go up to the stone house, waited and watched, 
 thinking herself almost willing to be teased for the secret, if 
 she could once more hear the sound of Maggie's voice. The 
 secret, however, had been forgotten in the exciting scenes,
 
 THE PEDDLER. 396 
 
 Jh rough which Maggie had passed since first she learned of 
 its exisreuce ; and it was now a long, long time since she 
 had mentioned it to Hagar, who each day grew more and 
 more determined never to reveal it. 
 
 " My life is almost ended," she thought, " and the secret 
 shall go with me to my grave. Margaret will be happier 
 without it, and it shall not be revealed." 
 
 Thus she reasoned on that rainy afternoon, when she sal 
 waiting for Maggie, who, she heard, had returned the day 
 before. Slowly the hours dragged on, and the night 
 shadows fell at last upon the forest trees, creeping into the 
 corners of Hagar's room, resting upon the hearth -stone 
 falling upon the window pane, creeping up the wall, a;id 
 affecting Hagar with a nameless fear of some impending 
 evil. This fear not even the flickering flame of the lamp, 
 which she lighted at last, and placed upon the mantel, was 
 able to dispel, for the shadows grew darker, folding them 
 selves around her heart, until she covered her eyes with her 
 hands, lest some goblin shape should spring into life before 
 her. 
 
 The sound of the gate latch was heard, and footsteps 
 were approaching the door ; not the bounding step of Maggie, 
 but a tramping tread, followed by a heavy knock, and the 
 next moment a tall, large man appeared before her, asking 
 shelter for the night. The pack he carried showed him at 
 once to be a peddler, and upon a nearer view, Hagar recog 
 nized in him a stranger who, years before, had craved her 
 hospitality. He had been civil to her then ; she did not 
 fear him now, and she consented to his remaining, thinking 
 his presence there might dispel the mysterious terror hang 
 ing around her. But few words passed between them that 
 night, for Martin, as he called himself, was tired, and after 
 partaking of the supper she prepared, he retired to rest The
 
 896 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 next morning, however, he was more talkative, kindly en 
 lightening her with regard to his business, his family arid 
 his place of residence, which last he said was in Meriden, 
 Connecticut. 
 
 It was a long time since Hagar had heard that name, and 
 now, turning quickly towards him, she said, " Meriden 1 
 That is where my Hester lived, and where her husband died.'' 
 
 " I want to know," returned the Yankee peddler. " What 
 might have been his name ?" 
 
 "Hamilton, Nathan Hamilton. Did you know him? 
 He died nineteen years ago, this coming summer." 
 
 " Egzadly /" ejaculated the peddler, setting down his pack, 
 and himself taking a chair, preparatory to a long talk 
 " Egzactly ; I knowed him like a book. Old Squire Ham- 
 pletou, the biggest man in Meriden, and you don't say his 
 last wife, that tall, handsome gal, was your darter ?" 
 
 " Yes, she was my daughter," answered Ilagar, her whole 
 face glowing with the interest she felt, in talking for the 
 first time in her life with one who had known her daughter's 
 husband, Maggie's father. " You knew her. You have 
 seen her?" she continued; and Martin answered, " Seen her 
 a hundred times, I'll bet. Any how, I sold her the weddiu' 
 gown, and now I think ou't, she favored you. She was a 
 likely person, and I allus thought that proud sister of his'n, 
 the widder Warner, might have been in better business than 
 takin' them children away as she did, because he married 
 his hired gal. But it's as well for them, I s'pose, particu. 
 larly for the boy, who is one of the fust young men in 
 Wooster, now. Keeps a big store I" 
 
 " Warner, Warner !" interrupted old Hagar, the nameless 
 terror of the night before creeping again into her heart. 
 " Whose name did you say was Warner ?" 
 
 " The hull on 'em, boy, girl and all, is called Warner
 
 THE PEDDLER. 8t? 
 
 now one Rose, and t'other Henry," answered the peddler ; 
 perfectly delighted with the interest manifested by his audi 
 tor, who, grasping at the bedpost and moving her hand rap 
 idly before her eyes, as if to clear away a mist which had 
 settled there, continued, " I remember now Hester told me 
 of the children ; but one, she said, was a step-child, that 
 was the boy, wasn't it ?" and her wild, black eyes had in 
 them a look of unutterable anxiety, wholly incomprehensi 
 ble to the peddler, who, instead of answering her question 
 said, " What ails you woman ? Your face is as white as a 
 piece of paper ?" 
 
 " Thinking of Hester always affects me so," she answered; 
 and stretching her hands beseechingly towards him, she 
 entreated him to say if Henry were not the step-child. 
 
 " No marm, he warn't" answered the peddler, who, like a 
 great many talkative people, pretended to know more than 
 he really did, and who in this particular instance, was cer 
 tainly mistaken. " I can tell you egzactly how that is ; 
 Henry was the son of Mr. Hampleton's first marriage, Henry 
 Hampldon. The second wife, the one your darter lived 
 with, was the widder Warner, and had a little gal, Rose, 
 when she married Mr. Hampletou. This widder Warner's 
 husband's brother married Mr. Hampleton's sister, the 
 woman who took the children, and had Henry change his 
 name to Warner. The Hampletons and Warners were 
 mighty big feelin' folks, and the old Squire's match morti 
 fied 'em dreadfully." 
 
 " Where are they now ?" gasped Hagar, hoping there 
 might be some mistake. 
 
 " There you've got me !" answered Martin. " I haven'i 
 seen 'em this dozen year ; but the last I heard, Miss War 
 ner and Rose was livin' in Leominster, and Henry was in a big 
 store in Wooster But what the plague is the matter ?" he
 
 o8 MAGGIE MILLEK 
 
 continued, alarmed at the expression of Hagar's face, afi 
 well as at the strangeness of her manner. 
 
 Wringing her hands as if she would wrench her fingers 
 from their sockets, she clutched at her long white hair, and 
 rocking to and fro, moaned " woe is me, and woe the day 
 when I was born." 
 
 From every one save her grandmother, Margaret had 
 kept the knowledge of her changed feelings towards Henry 
 Warner ; and looking upon a marriage between the two as 
 an event surely expected, old Hagar was overwhelmed with 
 grief and fear. Falling at last upon her knees, she cried, 
 " Had you cut my throat from ear to ear, old man, you 
 could not have hurt me more. Oh, that I had died years and 
 years ago ! but I must live now, live!" she screamed, spring 
 ing to her feet " live to prevent the wrong my own wick 
 edness has caused." 
 
 Perfectly astonished at what he saw and heard, the ped 
 dler attempted to question her, but failing to obtain any satis 
 factory answers, he finally left, mentally pronouncing her, 
 " as crazy as a loon." This opinion was confirmed by the 
 people on whom he next called, for, chancing to speak of 
 Hagar, he was told that nothing which she did or said was 
 considered strange, as she had been called insane for years. 
 This satisfied Martin, who made no further mention of her, 
 and thus the scandal, which his story might otherwise have 
 produced, was prevented. 
 
 In the meantime, on her face old Hagar lay, moaning bit 
 terly. " My sin has found me out, found me out ; arid just 
 when I thought it never need be known. For myself, I do 
 not care ; but Maggie, Maggie, how can 1 tell her that she 
 is bone of my bone, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh 
 and me, old Hagar Warren 1" 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the scorn and intense
 
 THE PEDDLER. 399 
 
 loathing concentrated in the tones of Hagar's voice as she 
 uttered these last words, " and me, old Hagar Warren !" 
 Had she indeed been the veriest wretch on earth, she could 
 not have hated herself more than she did in that hour of her 
 humiliation, when, with a loud voice, she cried, " let me die, 
 oh, let me die, and it will never be known 1" Then, as she. 
 reflected upon the terrible consequence which would ensue 
 were she to die and make no sign, she wrung her hands 
 despairingly, crying, " Life, life, yes, give me life to tell her 
 of my guilt ; and then it will be a blessed rest to die. Oh, 
 Margaret, my precious child, I'd give ray heart's blood, drop 
 by drop, to save you ; but it can't be ; you must not wed 
 your father's son ; oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!" 
 
 Fainter and fainter grew each succeeding word, and 
 when the last was spoken, she fell again upon her face, 
 unconscious and forgetful of her woe. Higher and higher 
 in the heavens rose the morning sun, stealing across the win 
 dow-sill, and shining aslant the floor, where Hagar still lay 
 in a deep, deathlike swoon. An hour passed on, and then 
 the wretched woman came slowly back to life, her eyes 
 lighting up with joy, as she whispered, " it was a dream, 
 thank heaven, 'twas a dream ;" and then growing dim with 
 tears, as the dread reality came over her. The first fearful 
 burst of grief was passed, for Hagar now could weep, and 
 tears did her good, quelling the feverish agony at her heart. 
 Not for herself did she suffer so much as for Mag, trembling 
 for the effect the telling of the secret would have on her. 
 For it must be told. She knew that full well, and as the 
 win fast neared the western horizon, she murmured, " Oh, 
 will she come to-night, will she come to-night ?" 
 
 Yes, Hagar, she will. Even now her feet, which, when 
 >hey backward turn, will tread less joyously, are threading
 
 400 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 the woodland path. The half-way rock is reached neaief 
 and nearer she comes her shadow falls across the floor - 
 her hand is on your arm her voice is in your ear Maggia 
 Miller is at your side Heaven help you both 1
 
 THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. fit 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. 
 
 " Hagar 1 Hagar I" exclaimed Mag, playfully bounding 
 wO her side, and laying her hand upon her arm ; " What ail- 
 *th thee, Hagar ?" 
 
 The words were mete, for never Hagar in the desert, 
 thirsting for the gushing fountain, suffered more than did 
 she who sat with covered face and made no word of answer. 
 Maggie was unusually happy that day, for but a few hours 
 before she had received Henry's letter, making her free 
 free to love Arthur Carrollton, who she well knew only 
 waited a favorable opportunity to tell her his love ; so 
 with a heart full of happiness she had stolen away to visit 
 Hagar, reproaching herself as she came for having neglected 
 her so long. " But I'll make amends, by telling her what 
 I'm sure she must have guessed," she thought, as she en 
 tered the cottage, where, to her surprise, she found her 
 weeping. Thinking the old woman's distress might possibly 
 be occasioned by her neglect, she spoke again " Are you 
 crying for me, Hagar ?" 
 
 " Yes, Maggie Miller, for you for you /" answered Hagar, 
 lifting up a face so ghastly white, that Maggie started back 
 in some alarm. 
 
 " Poor Hagar, you are ill," she said, and advancing nearer 
 she wound her arms around the trembling form, and pillow*
 
 Ml MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 ing the snowy head upon her bosom, continued soothingly, 
 " I did not mean to stay away so long. I will not do it 
 again, but I am so happy, Hagar, so happy that I half for 
 got myself." 
 
 For a moment Hagar let her head repose upon the bosom 
 cf her child, then murmuring softly, "it will never lie there 
 again," she arose, and, confronting Maggie, said, "Is it love 
 which makes you so happy ?" 
 
 " Yes, Hagar, love," answered Margaret, the deep blushes 
 stealing over her glowing face. 
 
 " And is it your intention to marry the man you love ?' 
 continued Hagar, thinking only of Henry Warner, while Mar 
 garet, thinking only of Arthur Carrollton, replied, " If he 
 will marry me, I shall most surely marry him." 
 
 " It is enough. I must tell her," whispered Hagar ; while 
 Maggie asked, " Tell me what ?" 
 
 For a moment the wild eyes fastened themselves upon her 
 with a look of yearning anguish, and then Hagar answered 
 slowly, " Tell you what you've often wished to know my se 
 cret .'" the last word dropping from her lips more like a 
 warning hiss than like a human sound. It was long since 
 Mag had teased for the secret, so absorbed had she been in 
 other matters, but now that there was a prospect of know 
 ing it, her curiosity was reawakened, and while her eyes 
 glistened with expectation, she said, "Yes, tell it to me, 
 Hagar, and then I'll tell you mine ;" and all over her beauti 
 ful face there shone a joyous light as she thought how Ha 
 gar, who had once pronounced Henry Warner unworthy, 
 would rejoice in her new love. 
 
 " Not here, Maggie not here in this room can I tell 
 you," said old Hagar ; " but out in the open air, where my 
 breath will come more freely ;" and leading the way, she 
 hobbled to the mossy bank, where Mag had sat with Ar
 
 THE TELLIXG OF TOE SECRET. 408 
 
 thur CarrolltoL on the morning of his departure for Mon 
 treal. 
 
 Here she sat down, while Maggie threw herself upon the 
 damp ground at her feet, her face lighted with eager curiosity 
 and her lustrous eyes bright as stars with the excitement. 
 For a moment Hagar bent forward, and folding her hands 
 one above the other, laid them upon the head of the young 
 girl as if to gather strength for what she was to say. But 
 all in vain ; for when she essayed to speak, her tongue clave 
 to the roof of her mouth, and her lips gave forth unmean 
 ing sounds. 
 
 "It must be something terrible to affect her so," thought 
 Mug, and taking the bony hands between her own, she said, 
 " I would not tell it, Hagar ; I do not wish to hear." 
 
 The voice aroused the half-fainting woman, and withdraw 
 ing her hand from Maggie's grasp, she replied, " Turn away 
 your face, Margaret Miller, so I cannot see the hatred set 
 tling over it, when I tell you what I must." 
 
 " Certainly ; my back if you prefer it," answered Mag, 
 half playfully ; and turning around, she leaned her head 
 against the feeble knees of Hagar. 
 
 " Maggie, Maggie" began the poor old woman, lingering 
 long and lovingly over that dear name, "nineteen years 
 ago, next December, I took upon my soul the secret sin 
 which has worn niy life away, but I did it for the love I had 
 for you. Oh, Margaret, believe it, for the love I had for 
 you, more than for my own ambition ;" and the long fingers 
 slid nervously over the bands of shiaing hair just within her 
 reach. 
 
 At the touch of those fingers, Mag shuddered involun 
 tarily. There was a vague, undefined terror stealing over 
 her, and impatient to know the worst, she said, " Go on, teU 
 me what you did."
 
 404 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 " I can't I can't and yet I must," cried Hagar. "Yon 
 were a beautiful baby, Mag, and the other one was sickly, 
 pinched and blue. I had you both in my room the night 
 afier Hester died ; and the devil Maggie, do you know 
 how the devil will creep into the heart, and whisper, u hisper 
 till the brain is all on fire ? This thing he did to me, Mag 
 gie, nineteen years ago, he whispered whispered dreadful 
 things, and his whisperings were of you." 
 
 " Horrible ! Hagar," exclaimed Maggie. . " Leave the 
 devil, and tell me of yourself." 
 
 " That's it," answered Hagar. " If I had but left him 
 then, this hour would never have come to me; but I listened, 
 and when he told me that a handsome, healthy child, would 
 be more acceptable to the Couways than a weakly, fretful 
 one when he said that Hagar Warren's grandchild had 
 far better be a lady than a drudge that no one would ever 
 know it, for none had noticed either / did it, Maggie MiL 
 ler ; / took you from the pine board cradle, where you lay 1 
 dressed you in the other baby's dothes / laid you on her pil- 
 loiv / wrapped her in your co irse white frock / said that 
 she was mine, and Margaret < h Heaven I cant you see it 1 
 Don't you know that I, the shrivt'led, skinny hag, who tells you 
 
 this, AM YOUR OWN GRANDMOTHER ! 1" 
 
 There was no need for Maggie Miller to answer that 
 appeal. The words had burned into her soul scorching 
 her very life-blood, and maddening her brain. It was a 
 fearful blow crushing her at once. She saw it all, under- 
 Btood it all, and knew there was no hope. The family pride, 
 at which she had often laughed, was strong within her amj 
 could not at once be rooted out. All the fond household 
 memories, though desecrated and trampled down, were not 
 BO soon to be forgotten. She could not own that half-crazed 
 woman for her grandmother 1 As Hagar talked, she had
 
 THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. 
 
 risen to her feet, aud now, tall and erect as the mountain 
 ash which grew on her native hills, she stood before her, 
 every vestige of color faded from her face, her eyes dark aa 
 midnight and glowing like coals of living fire, while her 
 hands, locked despairingly together, moved slowly towards 
 Hagur, as if to thrust her aside. 
 
 " Oh, speak again," she said, " but not the dreadful words 
 you said to me just now. Tell me they are false say that 
 my father perished in the storm, that my mother was she 
 who held me on her bosom when she died that I oh, 
 Hagar, / am not / will not be the creature you say I am. 
 Speak to me," she continued, " tell me, is it true ?" and in her 
 voice there was not the olden sound. 
 
 Hoarse hollow full of reproachful anguish it seemed, 
 and bowing her head in very shame, old Hagar made her 
 answer : " Would to heaven 'twere not true but 'tis it 
 is ! Kill me, Maggie," she continued, " strike me dead, if 
 you will, but take your eyes away. You must not look thus 
 at me, a heart-broken wretch." 
 
 But not of Hagar Warren was Maggie thinking then. 
 The past, the present, aud the future were all embodied in 
 her thoughts. She had been an intruder all her life ; had 
 ruled with a high hand people on whom she had no claim, and 
 who, had they known her parentage, would have spurned 
 her from them. Theo, whom she had held in her arms so 
 oft, calling her sister and loving her as such, was hers no 
 longer ; nor yet the fond woman who had cherished her so 
 tenderly neither were hers ; and in fancy she saw the look 
 of scorn upon that woman's face, when she should hear the 
 tale, for it must be told, and she must tell it too. She 
 would not be an impostor ; and then there flushed upon her 
 the agonizing thought, before which all else seemed us 
 naught in the proud heart of Arthur Carrollton was there
 
 406 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 a place for Hagar Warren's grandchild ? "No . no ! no !* 
 she moaned ; and the next moment she lay at Hagar's feet, 
 white, rigid and insensible. 
 
 " She's dead 1" cried Hagar ; and for one brief instant 
 she hoped that it was so. 
 
 But not then and there was Margaret to die ; and slowly 
 she came back to life, shrinking from the touch of Hagar'a 
 hand, when she felt it on Tier brow. 
 
 " There may be some mistake," she whispered; but Hagar 
 answered, " there is none ;" at the same time relating so 
 minutely the particulars of the deception, that Maggie was 
 convinced, and covering her face with her hands, sobbed 
 uloud, while Hagar, sitting by in silence, was nerving her 
 self to tell the rest. 
 
 The sun had set, and the twilight shadows were stealing 
 down upon them, when creeping abjectly upon her knees 
 towards the wretched girl, she said, " There is more, Maggie, 
 more I have not told you all." 
 
 But Maggie had heard enough, and exerting all her 
 strength, she sprang to her feet, while Hagar clutched 
 eagerly at her dress, which was wrested from her grasp, as 
 Maggie fled away away she knew not, cared not whither, 
 so that she were beyond the reach of the trembling voice, 
 which called after her to return. Alone in the deep woods, 
 with the darkness falling around her, she gave way to the 
 mighty sorrow which had come so suddenly upon her. She 
 could not doubt what she had heard. She knew that it waa 
 true, and as proof after proof crowded upon her, until the 
 chain of evidence was complete, she laid her head upon the 
 rain-wet grass, and shudderingly stopped her ears, to shut 
 out, if possible, the memory of the dreadful words, " I, the 
 shrivelled, skinny hag, who tells you this, am your own grand 
 mother." For a long time she lay there thus, weeping tiU
 
 PERPLEXITY. 407 
 
 the fountain of her tears seemed dry ; then weary, faint, and 
 sick, she started for her home. Opening cautiously the outer 
 door, she was gliding up the stairs, when Madam Conway, 
 entering the hall with a lamp, discovered her, and uttered 
 an exclamation of surprise at the strangeness of her appear 
 ance. Her dress, be-draggled and wet, was torn in several 
 places by the briery bushes she had passed ; her hair, loos 
 ened from its confinement, hung down her back, while her 
 face was so white and ghastly, that Madam Conway in much 
 alarm followed her up the stairs, asking what had hap 
 pened. 
 
 " Something dreadful came to me in the woods," said 
 Maggie, " but I can't tell you to-night. To-morrow I shall 
 be better or dead oh, / wish I could be dead before you 
 
 hate me so: dear grand No I didn't mean that* you ain't; 
 
 forgive me, do," and sinking to the floor, she kissed the very 
 hem of Madam Conway's dress. 
 
 Unable to understand what she meant, Madam Conway 
 divested her of her damp clothing, and placing her in bed, 
 sat down beside her, saying gently, " Can you tell me now 
 what frightened you ?" 
 
 A faint cry was Maggie's only answer, and taking the 
 lady's hand, she laid it upon her forehead, where the drops 
 of perspiration were standing thickly. All night long Madam 
 Conway sat by her, going once to communicate with Arthur 
 Carrollton, who, anxious and alarmed, came often to the 
 door, asking if she slept. She did sleep at last a fitful fever 
 ish sleep ; but ever at the sound of Mr. Carrollton's voice a 
 epasrn of pain distorted her features, and a low moan came 
 Tom her lips. Maggie had been terribly excited, and when 
 next morning she awoke, she was parched with burning 
 fever, while her mind at intervals seemed wandering ; and 
 ere two days were passed, she was raving with delirium.
 
 *08 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 brought on, the physician said, by some sudden shock, the 
 nature of which no one could even guess. 
 
 For three weeks she hovered between life and death, 
 whispering oft of the '' horrid shape which had met her in 
 the woods, robbing her of happiness and life." Winding 
 aer feeble arms around Madam Conway's neck, she would 
 beg of her most piteously " not to cast her off not to send 
 \er away from the only home she had ever known for I 
 couldn't help it," she would say. " I didn't know it, and 
 I've loved you all so much so much I Say, grandma, may 
 I call you grandma all the same ? Will you love poor 
 Maggie a little ?" and Madam Couway, listening to words 
 whose meaning she could not fathom, would answer by lay 
 ing the achiug head upon her bosom, and trying to soothe 
 the excited girl. Theo, too, was summoned home, but at 
 her Maggie at first refused to look, and covering her eyes 
 with her hand she whispered scornfully, "pinched and blue, 
 and pale; that's the very look. I couldn't see it when I 
 called you sister." 
 
 Then her mood would change, and motioning Theo to her 
 side, she would say to her, " Kiss me once, Theo, just as 
 you used to do when I was Maggie Miller." 
 
 Towards Arthur Carrolltou she from the first' mauifested 
 fear, shuddering whenever he approached her, and still ex 
 hibiting signs of uneasiness if he left her sight. " He hated 
 her," she said, " hated her for what she could not help;" 
 and when, as he often did, he came to her bedside, speaking 
 to her words of love, she would answer mournfully, " Don't, 
 Mr. Carrollton; your pride is stronger than your love. You 
 will hate me when you know it all." 
 
 Thus two weeks went by, and then with the first May 
 day, reason returned again, bringing life and strength to the 
 invalid, and joy to those who had so anxiously watched over
 
 PERPLEXITY. 409 
 
 her. Almost her first rational question was for Hagar, nnd 
 if she had been there. 
 
 " She is confined to her bed with inflammatory rheuma 
 tism/' answered Madam Conway, "but she inquires for you 
 every day, they say ; and once when told you could not live, 
 she started to crawl on her hands and knees to see you, but 
 fainted near the gate and was carried back." 
 
 " Poor old woman !" murmured Maggie, the tears rolling 
 down her cheeks, as she thought how strong must be tho 
 love that half crazed creature bore her, and how little it 
 was returned, for every feeling of her nature revolted from 
 claiming a near relationship with one whom she had hitherto 
 regarded as a servant. The secret, too, seemed harder to 
 divulge, and day by day she put it off, saying to them when 
 they asked what had so much affected her, that " she could 
 not tell them yet she must wait till she was stronger." 
 
 So Theo went back to Worcester as mystified as ever, and 
 Maggie was left much alone with Arthur Carrollton, who 
 strove in various ways to win her from the melancholy into 
 which she had fallen. All day long she would sit by the 
 open window, seemingly immovable, her large eyes, now in 
 tensely black, fixed upon vacancy, and her white face giving 
 no sign of the fierce struggle within, save when Madam 
 Conway, coming to her side, would lay her hand caressingly 
 on her iu token of sympathy. Then, indeed, her lips would 
 quiver, and turning her head away, she would say, " Don't 
 touch me don't." 
 
 To Arthur Carrollton she would listen with apparent 
 composure, though often as he talked, her long, tapering 
 nails left their impress in her flesh, so hard she strove to 
 seem indifferent. Once when tlioy were left together alone 
 he drew her to his side, and bending very low, so that his 
 lips almost touched her marble cheek, he told her of his 
 
 18
 
 110 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 love, and how full of anguish was his heart when he thought 
 that she would die. 
 
 "But God kindly gave you back to me," he said ; " and 
 now, my precious Margaret, will you be my wife ? Will you 
 go with me to my English home, from which I've tarried 
 now too long, because I would not leave you ? Will Maggie 
 answer me ?" and he folded her lovingly in his arms. 
 
 Oh, how could she tell him " No," when every fibre of 
 her heart thrilled with the answer " Yes!" She mistook 
 him mistook the character of Arthur Carrollton, for though 
 pride was strong within him, he loved the beautiful girl who 
 lay trembling in his arms, better than he loved his pride ; 
 and had she told him then, who and what she was, he would 
 not have deemed it a disgrace to love a child of Hagar 
 Warren. But Margaret did not know him, and when he 
 said again, " will Maggie answer me ?" there came from her 
 lips a piteous, wailing cry, and turning her face away, she 
 answered mournfully, " No, Mr. Carrollton, no, I cannot be 
 your wife. It breaks my heart to tell you so ; but if you 
 knew what I know, you would never have spoken to me 
 wosds of love. You would have rather thrust me from you, 
 for indeed I am unworthy." 
 
 " Don't yon love me, Maggie ?" Mr. Carrollfon said, and 
 in the tones of his voice there was so much of tenderness 
 that Maggie burst into tears, and involuutarily resting her 
 head upon his bosom, answered sadly, " I love you so much, 
 Arthur Carrolltou, tnat I would die a hundred deaths could 
 that make me worthy of you, as not long ago I thought I was 
 But it cannot be. Something terrible has come between us.* 
 
 " Tell me what it is. Let me share your sorrow." h 
 said ; but Maggie only answered, " Not yet, not yet. Let 
 me live where you are a little longer. Then I will tell you 
 all, and go away forever."
 
 PERPLEXITY. t, 
 
 This was all the satisfaction he could obtain ; but after a 
 time she promised that if he would not mention the subject 
 to her until the first of June, she would then tell him every 
 thing ; and satisfied with a promise which he knew would 
 be kept, Mr. Carrollton waited impatiently for the appointed 
 time, while Maggie, too, counted each nm as it rose and set, 
 .winging nearer and uearer a trial she so much dreaded.
 
 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 If fl AFTER XX. 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 Two days only remained ere the first of June, aud in the 
 solitude of her chamber, Maggie was weeping bitterly. 
 " How can I tell them who I am ?" she thought. " How 
 bear their pitying scorn, when they learn that she whom 
 they call Maggie Miller has no right to that name ? that 
 Hagar Warren's blood is flowing in her veins and Madam 
 Couway thinks so much of that 1 Oh, why was Hagar left 
 to do me this great wrong ? why did she take me from the 
 jine-board cradle, where she says I lay, and make me what 
 I was not born to be ?" and falling on her knees the wretch 
 ed girl prayed that it might prove a dream, from which she 
 would ere long awake. 
 
 Alas for thee, poor Maggie Miller ! It is not a dream, 
 but a stern reality, aud you who oft have spurned at birth 
 and family, why should you murmur now when both are 
 taken from you ? Are you not still the same, beautiful, 
 accomplished and refined, and can you ask for more ? 
 Strange that theory and practice so seldom should accord. 
 Aud yet it was not the degradation which Maggie felt so 
 keenly, it was rather the loss of love she feared ; and with 
 out that, the blood of royalty could not avail to make her 
 happy. 
 
 Maggie was a warm-hearted girl, and she loved the 
 stately lady she had been wout to call her grandmother
 
 THE RESULT. 418 
 
 with a filial, clinging love, which could not be severed, and 
 still this love was nanght compared to what she felt for 
 Arthur Carrollton, and the giving up of him was the hard 
 est part of all. But it must be done, she thought ; he had 
 told her once that were she Hagar Warren's grandchild, he 
 should not be riding with her how much less then would 
 lie make that child his wife ! and rather than meet the look 
 of proud disdain his face would wear, when first she stood 
 confessed before him, she resolved to go away where no one 
 had ever heard of her or Ilagar Warren. She would leave 
 Dehind a letter telling why she went, and commending to 
 Madam Conway's care poor Ilagar, who had been sorely 
 punished for her sin. " But whither shall I go, and what 
 shall I do, when I get there ?" she cried, trembling at the 
 thoughts of a world of which she knew so little. Then, aa 
 she remembered how many young girls of her age went out 
 as teachers, she determined to go at all events. " It will 
 be better than staying here where I have no claim," she 
 thought, and nerving herself for the task, she sat down to 
 write the letter, which, on the first of June, should tell to 
 Madam Conway and Arthur Carrollton the story of her 
 birth. 
 
 It was a harder task than she supposed, the writing that 
 farewell, for it seemed like severing every hallowed tie. 
 Three times she wrote, " My dear grandma," then with a 
 throb of anguish, she dashed her pen across the revered 
 name, and wrote simply, "Madam Conway." It was a ram 
 bling, impassioned letter, full of tender love of hope des 
 troyed of deep despair and though it shadowed forth no 
 expectation that Madam Conway or Mr. Carrollton would 
 ever take her to their hearts again, it begged of them most 
 touchingly to think sometimes of "Maggie," when she wa8 
 gone forever. Hagar was then commended to Madam Con
 
 414 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 way's forgiveness and care. " She is old," wrote Maggie, 
 "her life is nearly ended, and if you have in your heart 
 one feeling of pity for her, who used to call you grandma, 
 bestow it, I pray you, on poor old Ilagar Warren." 
 
 The letter was finished, and then suddenly remember 
 ing Hagar's words, that "all had not been told," and feel 
 ing it her duty to see once more the woman who had 
 brought her so much sorrow, Maggie stole cautiously from 
 the house, and was soon walking down the woodland road, 
 slowly, sadly, for the world had changed to her since last 
 she trod that path. Maggie, too, was changed, and when at 
 last she stood before Ilagar, who was now able to sit up, 
 the latter could scarcely recognize in the pale, haggard 
 woman, the blooming, merry-hearted girl, once known as 
 Maggie Miller. 
 
 " Margaret," she cried, " you have come again come to 
 
 forgive your poor old grand No, no," she added, as she 
 
 saw the look of pain flash over Maggie's face, " I'll never 
 insult you with that name. Only say that you forgive, me, 
 will you, Miss Margaret ?" and the trembling voice was 
 choked with sobs, while the aged form shook as with a pal 
 sied stroke. 
 
 Hagar had been ill. Exposure to the damp air on that 
 memorable night had brought on a second severe attack of 
 rheumatism, which had bent her nearly double. Anxiety 
 for Margaret, too, had wasted her to a skeleton, and her 
 thin, sharp face, now of a corpse-like pallor, contrasted 
 strangely with her eyes, from which the wildness all was 
 gone Touched with pity, Maggie drew a chair to her 
 side, and thus replied, " I do forgive you, Ilagar, for I know 
 that what you did was done in love; but by telling me what 
 you have, you've ruined all my hopes of happiness. In the 
 new scenes to which I go, and the new associations I shalj
 
 TIIE RESULT. 4lfi 
 
 form, I ma) 7 become contented with my lot, but never can I 
 forget that I once was Maggie Miller." 
 
 " Margaret," gasped Hagar, and in her dim eye there wag 
 something of its olden fire, " if by new associations you mean 
 Henry Warner, it must not be. Alas, that I should tell 
 this ! but Henry is your brother your father's only son. Oh, 
 horror, horror !" and dreading what Margaret would say, 
 she covered her face with her cramped, distorted hands. 
 
 But Margaret was not so much affected as Hagar had 
 anticipated. She had suffered severely, and could not now 
 be greatly moved. There was an involuntary shudder as 
 she thought of her escape, and then her next feeling was 
 one of satisfaction in knowing that she was not quite friend 
 less and alone, for Henry would protect her, and Rose, 
 indeed, would be to her a sister. 
 
 ' r Henry Warner my brother !" she exclaimed, " how 
 came you by this knowledge ?" And very briefly Hagar 
 explained to her what she knew, saying that Hester had 
 told her of two young children, but she had forgotten 
 entirely their existence, and now that she was reminded of 
 it, she could not help fancying that Hester said the step 
 child was a boy. But the peddler knew, of course, and she 
 must have forgotten. 
 
 (i When the baby they thought was you, died," said 
 Hagar, " I wrote to the minister in Meriden, telling him of 
 it, but I did not sign my name, and 1 thought that was the 
 last I should ever hear of it. Why don't you curse me ?" 
 Bhe continued. " Haven't I taken from you your intended 
 husband, as well as your name ?" 
 
 Maggie understood perfectly now why the secret had 
 >cen revealed, and involuntarily she exclaimed, " Oh, had I 
 told yon first, this never need have been ;" and then hur- 
 riedly she explained to the repentant Hagar how at th
 
 416 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 very moment when the dread confession was made, she, 
 Maggie Miller, was free from Henry Warner. 
 
 From the window Maggie saw in the distance the servant 
 who had charge of Hagar, and dreading the presence of a 
 Hard person, she arose to go. Offering her hand to Hagar 
 she said, " Good bye. I may never see you again, but if I 
 do not, remember that I forgive you freely." 
 
 " You are not going away, Maggie. Oh, are you going 
 away !" and the crippled arms were stretched imploringly 
 towards Maggie, who answered, "Yes, Hagar, I must go. 
 Honor requires me to tell Madam Conway who I am, and 
 after that, you know that I cannot stay. I shall go to my 
 brother." 
 
 Three times old Hagar essayed to speak, and at last, 
 between a whisper and a moan, she found strength to say, 
 " Will you kiss me once, Maggie darling ? 'Twill be some 
 thing to remember, in the lonesome nights when I am all 
 alone. Just once, Maggie. Will you ?" 
 
 Maggie could not refuse, and gliding to the bowed 
 woman's side, she put back the soft hair from off the wrink 
 led brow, and left there token of her forgiveness. 
 
 The last May sun had set, and ere the first June morning 
 rose Maggie Miller would be nowhere found in the homo 
 her presence had made so bright. Alone, with no eye upon 
 her save that of the Most High, she had visited the two 
 graves, and while her heart was bleeding at every pore, had 
 wept her last adieu over the sleeping dust so long held 
 eacred as her mother's. Then kneeling at the other grave, 
 she murmured, " Forgive me, Hester Hamilton, if in this 
 parting hour my heart clings most to her whose memory J
 
 THE RESULT. 41J 
 
 was first taught to revere ; and if in the better world yoa 
 know and love each other, oh, will both bless and pity me, 
 poor, wretched Maggie Miller !" 
 
 Softly the night air moved through the musical pine over 
 shadowing the humble grave, while the moonlight, flashing 
 from the tall marble, which stood a sentinel over the other 
 mound, bathed Maggie's upturned face as with a flood of 
 glory, and her throbbing heart grew still as if indeed at that 
 hushed moment the two mothers had come to bless their 
 child. The parting with the dead was over, and Margaret 
 Bat again in her room, waiting until all was still about the 
 old stone house. She did not add to her letter another line 
 telling of her discovery, for she did not think of it ; her 
 rniud was too intent upon escaping unobserved ; and when 
 sure the family had retired, she moved cautiously down the 
 stairs, noiselessly unlocked the door, and without once 
 daring to look back, lest she should waver in her purpose, 
 she went forth, heart-broken and alone, from what for 
 eighteen happy years had been her home. Very rapidly 
 she proceeded, corning at last to an open field through which 
 the railroad ran, the depot being nearly a quarter of a 
 mile away. Not until then had she reflected that her 
 appearance at the station at that hour of the night would 
 excite suspicion, and she was beginning to feel uneasy, when 
 suddenly around a curve the cars appeared in view. Fear 
 ing lest she should be too late, she quickened her footsteps, 
 when to her great surprise, she saw that the train was stop 
 ping ! But not for her they waited, in the bright moonlight 
 the engineer had discovered a body lying across the track 
 end had stopped the train in time to save the life of tho 
 man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had failed asleep. The 
 movement startled the passengers, many of whom alighted 
 and gathered around the inebriate. 
 
 18*
 
 418 MAGGIE MILLER 
 
 In the meantime, Margaret hac! come near, and knowirg 
 she could not now reach the depot in time, she mingled 
 unobserved in the crowd, and entering the rear car, took hei 
 seat near the door. The train at last moved on, and as at 
 the station no one save the agent was in waiting, it is not 
 strange that the conductor passed unheeded the veiled figure 
 which in the dark corner sat ready to pay her fare. 
 
 " He will come to me by and by," thought Maggie, but 
 he did not, and when Worcester was reached, she wag 
 still debtor to the Boston & Albany Railroad for the sum of 
 seventy cents. Bewildered and uncertain what to do next, 
 she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at 
 the depot until morning, when a train would leave for 
 Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her 
 brother. Taking a seat in the ladies' room, she abandoned 
 herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say 
 could she see her then. But Tlieo, though dreaming it may 
 be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the 
 night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and 
 dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had 
 followed her nay, was bending over her now and whisper' 
 iug in her ear, " Wake, Maggie, wake." 
 
 Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a 
 faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton, 
 but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked 
 " where she wished to go ?" 
 
 " To Leominster," she answered, turning her face fully 
 towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling 
 her when the train would leave, and saying that she must 
 go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not 
 better wait at some hotel. 
 
 But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitch burg 
 depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil ove'
 
 THE RESULT. 41* 
 
 her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city 
 should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed 
 for the cars to leave. Then, weary and faint, she entered thp 
 train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was, 
 drawing near to those who would love her for what she wa, 
 and not for what she had been. Rose would comfort her, 
 and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing 
 one whom she believed to be her brother's wife, for Henry 
 had written that ere this his homeward voyage was made, 
 Rose would be his bride. 
 
 Ah, Maggie ! thQre is for you a greater happiness in store 
 not a brother, but a sister your father's child is there to 
 greet your coming. And even at this early hour, her snow 
 white fingers are arranging the fair June blossoms into bou 
 quets, with which she adorns her house, saying to him who 
 hovers at her side, " that somebody, she knows not whom, 
 is surely coming there to-day;" and then, with a blush steal 
 ing over her cheek, she adds : " I wish it might be Marga 
 ret;" while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical 
 mouth, winds his arm around her waist, and playfully res 
 ponds, "Any one save her."
 
 <10 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAP TEH XXI. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 ON a cool piazza overlooking a handsome flower garden, 
 the breakfast table was tastefully arranged. It was Rose's 
 idea to have it there, and in her cambric wrapper, her 
 golden curls combed smoothly back, and her blue eyes shin 
 ing with the light of a new joy, she occupies her accustomed 
 seat beside one who for several happy weeks has called her 
 his, loving her more and more each day, and wondering 
 how thoughts of any other could ever have filled his heart. 
 There was much to be done about his home, so long deser 
 ted, and as Rose was determined upon a trip to the sea side, 
 he had made arrangements to be absent from his business 
 for two mouths or more, and was now enjoying all the hap 
 piness of a quiet, domestic life, free from care of any kind. 
 He had heard of Maggie's illness, but she was better now, 
 he supposed, and when Theo hinted vaguely that a marriage 
 between her and Arthur Carrolltou was not at all improba 
 ble, he hoped it would be so, for the Englishman, he knew, 
 was far better adapted to Margaret than he had ever beeu. 
 Of Theo's hints he was speaking to Rose, as they sat to 
 gether at breakfast, and she had answered, " It will be a 
 splendid match," when the door-bell rang, and the servant 
 announced, "a lady in the parlor, who asked for Mr. Warner." 
 
 " I told you some one would come," said Rose ; " do pray 
 see who it is. How does she look, Janet ?" 
 
 " Tall, white as a ghost, with big, black eyes," wif
 
 THE SISTERS. 421 
 
 Janet's answer; and with his curiosity awakei ed, Henry 
 Warner started for the parlor, Rose following on tiptoe, and 
 listening through the half closed door to what their visitor 
 might say. 
 
 Margaret had experienced no difficulty in finding the 
 house of Mrs. Warner, which seemed to her a second Para 
 dise, so beautiful and cool it looked, nestled amid the tall, 
 green forest trees. Everything around it betokened the fine 
 Taste of its occupants, and Maggie, as she reflected that 
 she, too, was nearly connected with this family, felt her 
 wounded pride in a measure soothed, for it was surely no dis 
 grace to claim such people as her friends. With a beating 
 heart, she rang the bell, asking for Mr. Warner, and now, 
 trembling in every limb, she awaited his coming. He was 
 not prepared to meet her, and at first he did not know her, 
 she was so changed ; but when, throwing aside her bonnet, 
 she turned her face so the light from the window opposite 
 shone fully upon her, he recognized her in a moment, and 
 exclaimed, " Margaret, Margaret Miller I why are you here ?" 
 
 The words reached Rose's ear, and darting forward, she 
 stood within the door, just as Margaret, staggering a step 
 or two towards Henry, answered passionately, " I have como 
 to tell you what I myself but recently have learned ;" and 
 wringing her hands despairingly, she continued, " I am not 
 Maggie Miller, I am not anybody, I am Hagar Warren's 
 grandchild, the offspring of her daughter and your own father! 
 Oh, Henry, don't you see it ? I am youf sister. Take me as 
 such, will you ? Love me as such, or I shall surely die. I 
 hare nobody now in the wide world but you. They are all 
 gone, all Madam Conway, Thco too, and--and"- She 
 could not speak that name. It died upon her lips, and tot 
 tering to a. chair she would have fallen had not Henrj 
 caught her in his arms.
 
 422 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Leading her to the sofa, while Rose, perfectly confounded 
 still stood within the door, he said to the half crazed girl, 
 " Margaret, I do not understand you. I never had a sister, 
 and my father died when I was six months old. There 
 xnust be some mistake. Will you tell me what you mean ?" 
 
 Bewildered and perplexed, Margaret began a hasty repe 
 tition of Hagar's story, but ere it was three-fourths told, there 
 came from the open door a wild cry of delight, and quick 
 sis lightning, a fairy form flew across the floor, white arms 
 were twined round Maggie's neck, kiss after kiss was 
 pressed upon her lips, and Rose's voice was in her ear, 
 never before half so sweet as now, when it murmured 
 soft and low to the weary girl, My sister Maggie mine 
 you are the child of my own father, for I was Rose. 
 Hamilton, called Warner, first to please my aunt, and next 
 to please my Henry. Oh, Maggie darling, I am so happy 
 now f and the little snowy hands smoothed caressingly the 
 bands of hair, so unlike her own fair waving tresses. 
 
 It was, indeed, a time of almost perfect bliss to them all, 
 and for a moment Margaret forgot her pain, which, had 
 Hagar known the truth, need not have come to her. But 
 she scarcely regretted it now, when she felt Rose Warner's 
 heart throbbing against her own, and knew their father was 
 the same. 
 
 " You are tired," Rose said, at length, when much had 
 been said by both. " You must have rest, and then I will 
 bring to you my aunt, our aunt, Maggie our father's sister. 
 She has been a mother to me. She will be one to you. 
 But staj," she continued, " you have had no breakfast. I 
 will bring you some," and she tripped lightly from the 
 room. 
 
 Maggie followed her with swimming eyes, then turning to 
 Heury, she said. " You are very happy, I am sure."
 
 THE SISTERS. 421 
 
 " Yes, very," he answered, coming to her side. " Hap 
 py in my wife, happy in my newly found sister," and he 
 laid his hand on hers, with something of his former fami 
 liarity. 
 
 But the olden feeling was gone, and Maggie could now 
 meet his glance without a blush, while he could talk with her 
 as calmly as if she had never been aught to him save the 
 sister of his wife. Thus often changeth the human heart's 
 first love. 
 
 After a time, Rose returned, bearing a silver tray heaped 
 with the most tempting viands ; but Maggie's heart was too 
 full to eat, and after drinking a cup of the fragrant black 
 tea, which Rose herself had made, she laid her head upon 
 the pillow, which Henry brought, and with Rose sitting by, 
 holding lovingly her hand, she fell into a quiet slumber. 
 For several hours she slept, and when she awoke at last, the 
 sun was shining in at the western window, casting over the 
 floor a glimmering light, and reminding her so forcibly of 
 the dancing shadows on the grass which grew around the old 
 stone house, that her eyes filled with tears, and thinking 
 herself alone, she murmured, " Will it never be my home 
 again ?" 
 
 A sudden movement, the rustling of a dress startled her, 
 and lifting up her head, she saw standing near, a pleasant- 
 looking, middle aged woman, who, she rightly guessed, waa 
 Mrs Warner, her own aunt. 
 
 " Maggie," the lady said, laying her hand on the fevered 
 brow, " I have heard a strange tale to-day. Heretofore I 
 had supposed Ross to be my only child, but though you take 
 me by surprise, you are not the less welcome. There is 
 room in my heart for you, Maggie Miller, room for tho 
 youngest born of my only brother. You are somewhat like 
 him, too," she continued, " though more like your mother;"
 
 t24 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 and with the mention of that name, a flush stole over the 
 lady's face, for she, too, was very proud, and her brother's 
 marriage with a servant girl had never been quite for 
 given. 
 
 Mrs. Warner had seen much of the world, and Maggie 
 &uew her to be a woman of refinement, a woman of whom 
 even Madam Conway would not be ashamed ; and winding 
 her arms around her neck, she said impulsively, " I am glad 
 you are my aunt, and you will love me, I am sure, even if I 
 am poor Hagar's grandchild." 
 
 Mrs. Warner knew nothing of Hagar, save from Henry's 
 amusing description, the entire truth of which she somewhat 
 doubted ; but she knew that whatever Hagar Warren 
 might be, the beautiful girl before her was not answerable 
 for it, and very kindly she tried to soothe her, telling her 
 how happy they would be together. " Rose will leave mo 
 in the autumn," she said, " and without you I should be all 
 alone." Of Hagar, too, she spoke kindly, considerately, 
 and Maggie, listening to her, felt somewhat reconciled to 
 the fate which had made her what she was. Still, there 
 was much of pride to overcome ere she could calmly think 
 of herself as other than Madam Conway's grandchild ; and 
 when that afternoon, as Henry and Rose were sitting with 
 her, the latter spoke of her mother, saying she had a faint 
 remembrance of a tall, handsome girl, who sang her to sleep 
 on the night when her own mother died, there came a visi 
 ble shadow over Maggie's face, and instantly changing the 
 conversation, she asked why Henry had never told her any- 
 ihing definite concerning himself and family. 
 
 For a moment Henry seemed embarrassed. Both the 
 Hamiltons and the Warners were very aristocratic in their 
 ieelings, and by mutual consent, the name of Hester War 
 ren was by them seldom spoken. Consequently, if thera
 
 THE SISTERS. -421 
 
 ex/sted a reason for Henry's silence with regard to his own 
 and Rose's history, it was that he disliked bringing up a 
 subject he had been taught to avoid, both by his aunt and 
 the mother of Mr. Hamilton, who for several years after her 
 sou's death, had lived with her daughter in Leominster, 
 .v! icre she finally died. This, however, he could not say to 
 Margaret, and after a little hesitancy, he answered laugh 
 ingly, "You never asked me for any particulars ; and then, 
 you know, I was more agreeably occupied than I should 
 have been had I spent my time in enlightening yon with 
 regard to our genealogy ;" and the saucy mouth smiled 
 arch!y*-first on Rose, and then on Margaret, both of whom 
 blushed slightly, the one suspecting he had not told her the 
 whole truth, and the other knowing he had not. 
 
 Very considerate was Rose of Maggie's feelings, and not 
 jiga-in that afternoon did she speak of Hester, though she 
 talked much of their father ; and Margaret, listening to his 
 praises, felt herself insensibly drawn towards this new 
 claimant for her filial love. " I wish I could have seen 
 him," she said, and starting to her feet Rose answered, 
 " Strange I did not think oT it before. We have his por 
 trait. Come this way," and she led the half unwilling Mag 
 into an adjoining room, where from the wall, a portly, good- 
 humored looking man, gazed down upon the sisters, his eyes 
 seeming to rest with mournful tenderness on the face of her 
 whom in life they had not looked upon. He seemed older 
 than Mag had supposed, and the hair upon his head was 
 white, reminding her of Hagar. But she did not, for this, 
 turn from him away. There was something pleasing in the 
 mild expression of his face, and she whispered faintly, " 'Tia 
 my father." 
 
 On the right of this portrait was another, the picture of 
 a woman, in whose curling lip and soft brown eyes, Mag
 
 426 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 recognized the mother of Henry. To the left was anolher 
 still, and she gazed upon the angel face, with eyes of violet 
 blue, and hair of golden brown, on which the fading sun 
 light now was falling, encircling it as it were with a halo of 
 glory. 
 
 " You are much like her," she said to Rose, who made no 
 answer, for she was thinking of another picture, which year? 
 before had been banished to the garret, by her haughty 
 grandmother, as unworthy a place beside him who had 
 petted and caressed the young girl of plebeian birth and 
 kindred. 
 
 " I can make amends for it, though," thought Rose, 
 ( returning with Mag to the parlor : then, seeking out her 
 husband, she held with him a whispered consultation, the 
 result of which was that on the morrow, there was a rum 
 maging in the garret, an absence from home for an hour or 
 two, and when about noon she returned, there was a pleased 
 expression on her face, as if she had accomplished her pur 
 pose, whatever it might have been. 
 
 All the morning Mag had been restless and uneasy, wan 
 dering listlessly from room to room, looking anxiously down 
 the street, starting nervously at the sound of every footstep, 
 while her cheeks alternately flushed and then grew pale as 
 the day passed on. Dinner being over, she sat alone in the 
 parlor, her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and her thoughts 
 away with one who she vaguely hoped would have followed 
 her ere this. True, she had added no postscript to tell him 
 of her new discovery ; but Hagar knew, and he would go to 
 her for a confirmation of the letter. She would tell him 
 where Mag was gone, and he, if his love could survive that 
 shock, would follow her thither ; nay, would be there that 
 very day, and Maggie's heart grew wearier, fainter, as time 
 wore on and he did not come. " I miht have known it,"
 
 THE SISTERS. 487 
 
 s'ue whispered sadly. " I did know that he would never 
 more think of me," and she wept silently over her ruined 
 love. 
 
 "Maggie, sister/' came to her ear, and Rose was ut her 
 side. " I have a surprise for you, darling. Can you bear 
 it now ?" 
 
 Oh, how eagerly poor Maggie Miller looked up in Rose's 
 face. The car whistle had sounded half an hour before. 
 Could it be that he had conie ? Was he t/iere ? Did he l&ce 
 her still ? No, Maggie, no, the surprise awaiting you is of 
 a far different nature, and the tears flow afresh when Rose, 
 in reply to the question, " what is it, darling ?" answers " it 
 is this," at the same time placing in Maggie's hand an ara- 
 brotype which she bade her examine. With a feeling of 
 keen disappointment, Maggie opened the casing, involunta 
 rily shutting her eyes as if to gather strength for what she 
 was to see. 
 
 It was a young face a handsome face a face much like 
 her own, while in the curve of the upper lip, and the expres 
 sion of the large black eyes, there was a look like Hagar 
 Warren. They had met together thus, the one a living 
 reality, the other a semblance of the dead, and she who held 
 that picture trembled violently. There was a fierce strug 
 gle within, the wildly beating heart throbbing for one 
 moment with a new-born love, and then rebelling against 
 taking that shadow, beautiful though it was, in place of her 
 whose memory she had so long revered. 
 
 " Who is it, Maggie ?'' Rose asked, leaning over her 
 shoulder. 
 
 Maggie knew full well whose face it was she looked upon, 
 but not yet could she speak that name so interwoven with 
 memories of another, and she answered mournfully, "it is 
 Hester Hamilton."
 
 428 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 " Yes, Margaret, your mother," said Rose. * I never tailed 
 her by that name, but I respect her for your sake. She 
 was my father's pet, they say, for he was comparatively old 
 and she his young girl-wife." 
 
 " Where did you get this ?" Maggie asked ; and, coloring 
 c:imson, Rose replied, "We have always had her portrait, 
 but grandmother, who was very old and foolishly proud 
 about some things, was offended at our father's last mar 
 riage, and when after his death the portraits were brought 
 here, she forgive her, Maggie she did not know you, or 
 she would not have done it " 
 
 "I know," interrupted Maggie. " She despised this Hes 
 ter Warren, and consigned her portrait to some spot from 
 which you have brought it and had this taken from it." 
 
 " Not despised her," cried Rose, in great distress, as she 
 saw a dark expression stealing over the face of Maggie, in 
 whose heart a chord of sympathy had been struck, when she 
 thought of her mother banished from her father's side. 
 " Grandma could not despise her," continued Rose, " sho 
 was so good, so beautiful." 
 
 " Yes, she was beautiful," murmured Maggie, gazing 
 earnestly upon the fair, round face, the soft, black eyes and 
 raven hair of her who for years had slept beneath the sha 
 dow of the Hillsdale woods. " Oh, I wish I was dead like 
 her," she exclaimed at last, closing the ambrotype, and lay 
 ing it upon the table. " I wish I was lying in that little 
 grave in the place of her who should have borne my name, 
 and been what I once was ;" and bowing her face upon her 
 hands she wept bitterly, while Rose tried in vain to comfort 
 her. " I am not sorry you are my sister," sobbed Margaret- 
 through her tears. " That's the only comfort I have left 
 me now ; but Rose, I love Arthur Carrollton so much ob 
 BO much and how can I give him up ?"
 
 THE SISTERS. 429 
 
 " If he is the noble, true-hearted man he looks to be, he 
 will not give you up," answered Rose, and then for the first 
 time since this meeting she questioned Margaret concerning 
 Mr. Carrollton, and the relations existing between them 
 " He will not cast you off," she said, when Margaret had 
 told her all she had to tell, " He may be proud, but he will 
 cling to you still. He will follow you, too not to-day, 
 perhaps, nor to-morrow, but ere long he will surely come ;" 
 and listening to her sister's cheering words, Maggie herself 
 grew hopeful, and that evening talked animatedly with Hen 
 ry and Rose of a trip to the sea-side they were intending 
 to make. " You will go, too, Maggie," said Rose, caress 
 ing her sister's pale cheek, and whispering in her ear, " Aunt 
 Susan will be here to tell Mr. Carrollton where you are, if 
 he does not come before we go, which I am sure he will." 
 
 Maggie tried to think so, too, and her sleep that night 
 was sweeter than it had been before for many weeks but 
 the next day came, and the next, and Maggie's eyes grew 
 dim with watching and with tears, for up and down the 
 road, as far as she could see, there came no trace of him for 
 whom she waited." 
 
 " I might have known it ; it was foolish for me to think 
 otherwise," she sighed, and turning sadly from the window 
 where all the afternoon she had been sitting, she laid her 
 head wearily upon the lap of Rose. 
 
 " Maggie," said Henry, " I am going to Worcester to 
 morrow, and perhaps George can tell me something cf Mr 
 Oarrollton." 
 
 Fjr a moment Maggie's heart throbbed with delight at (he 
 thought of hearing from him, even though she heard that ho 
 would leave her. But anon her pride rose strong within her. 
 She had told Hagar twice of her destination, Hagar had told 
 him, and if he chose he would have followed her ere this ; so
 
 480 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 somewhat bitterly she said, "Don't speak to George_of me 
 Don't tell him I am here. Promise me, will yon ?" 
 
 The promise was given, and the next morning, which wag 
 Saturday, Henry started for Worcester on the early train, 
 The day seemed long to Maggie, and when at nightfall he 
 came to them again, it was difficult to tell which was the 
 more pleased at his return, Margaret or Rose. 
 
 " Did you see Theo ?" asked the former ; and Henry re 
 plied, " George told me she had gone to Hillsdale. Madam 
 Conway is very sick." 
 
 " For me 1 for me ! She's sick with mourning for me," 
 cried Maggie. " Darling grandma ! she does love me still, 
 and I will go home to her at once." 
 
 Then the painful thought rushed over her, " If she wished 
 for me, she would send. It's the humiliation, not the love, 
 that makes her sick. They have cast me off grandma, 
 Theo, all, all," and sinking upon the lounge, she wept aloud. 
 
 " Margaret," said Henry, coming to her side, " but for 
 my promise I should have talked to George of you, for 
 there was a troubled expression on his face when he asked 
 me if I had heard from Hillsdale." 
 
 " What did you say ?" asked Maggie, holding her breath 
 to catch the answer, which was, " I told him you had not 
 written to me since my return from Cuba, and then he 
 looked as if he would say more, but a customer called him 
 away, and our conversation was not resumed." 
 
 For a moment Maggie was silent. Then she said, " I am 
 glad you did not intrude me upon him. If Theo has gone 
 to Hillsdale, she knows that I am here, and does not care to 
 follow me. It is the disgrace which troubles them, not the 
 losing me 1" and again burying her head in the cushions of 
 the lounge, she wept bitterly. It was useless for Henry and 
 Rose to try to comfort her, telling her it was possible that
 
 THF, SISTERS. 4*1 
 
 Hagar had told nothing; "And if so," said Henry, "you 
 will know that I am the last one to whom you would be 
 expected to flee for protection." Margaret would not listen. 
 She was resolved upon being unhappy, and during the long 
 houra of that night she tossed wakefully upon her pillow, 
 aud when the morning came she was too weak to rise ; so 
 she kept her room, listening to the music of the Sabbath 
 bells, which to her seemed sadly saying, " Home, home." 
 " Alas, I have no home," she said, turning away to weep, tor 
 in the tolling of those bells there came to her no voice, 
 whispering of the darkness, the desolation, and the sorrow 
 there was in the home for which she so much mourned. 
 
 Thus the day wore on, and ere another week was gone, 
 Eose insisted upon a speedy removal to the sea-shore, not* 
 withstanding it was so early in the season, for by this means 
 she hoped that Maggie's health would be improved. Ac 
 cordingly, Henry went once more to Worcester, ostensibly 
 for money, but really to see if George Douglas now would 
 speak to him of Margaret. But George was in New York, 
 they said ; and somewhat disappointed, Henry went back to 
 Leominster, where everything was in readiness for their 
 journey. Monday was fixed upon for their departure, and 
 at au early hour, Margaret looked back on what had 
 been to her a second home, smiling faintly as Rose whis 
 pered to her cheerily, " I have a strong presentiment that 
 somewhere in our travels we shall meet with Arthur Carioli- 
 ton"
 
 (31 MAGGIE M1LLEJL 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 
 
 now over the bills to the westward. Come to the 
 Hillsdale woods, to the stone house by the mill, where all 
 the day long there is heard but one name, the servants 
 breathing it softly aud low, as if she who had borne it were 
 dead, the sister, dim-eyed now, and paler faced, whispering 
 it oft to herself, while the lady, so haughty and proud, re 
 peats it again and again, shuddering as naught but the 
 echoing walls reply to the heart-broken cry of " Margaret, 
 Margaret, where are you now ?" 
 
 Yes, there was mourning in that household mourning 
 for the lost one, the darling, the pet of them all. 
 
 Brightly had the sun arisen on that June morning which 
 brought to them their sorrow, while the birds in the tall 
 forest tress carolled as gaily as if no storm cloud were hov 
 ering near. At an early hour Mr. Carrollton had arisen, 
 thinking, as he looked forth from his window, " She will 
 tell me all to-day," and smiling as he thought how easy and 
 pleasant would be the task of winning her back to her olden 
 gaiety. Madam Conway, too, was unusually excited and 
 very anxiously she listened for the first sound of Maggie's 
 footsteps on the stairs. 
 
 " She sleeps late," she thought, when breakfist was 
 announced, and taking her accustom3d seat, she baie a 
 servant " see if Margaret were ill."
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 433 
 
 " She is not there," was the report the girl brought back 
 
 " Not there !" cried Mr. Carrollton. 
 
 " Not there !" repeated Madam Conway, a shadowy fore 
 boding of evil stealing over her. " She seldom walks at 
 this early hour," she continued, and rising she went hersell, 
 to Margaret's room. 
 
 Everything was in perfect order, the bed was undisturbed, 
 the chamber empty, Margaret was gone, and on the dress 
 ing-table lay the fatal letter, telling why she went. Ai 
 first Madam Conway did not see it ; but it soon caught hei 
 eye, and tremblingly she opened it, reading but the first line; 
 " I am going away forever." 
 
 Then a loud shriek rang through the silent room, pene 
 trating to Arthur Carrollton's listening ear, and bringing 
 him at once to her side. With the letter still in her hand, 
 and her face of a deathly hue, and her eyes flashing with fcar ; 
 Madam Conway turned to him as he entered, saying, " Mar 
 garet has gone, left us forever, killed herself it may be 
 read ;" and she handed him the letter, herself bending 
 eagerly forward, to hear what he might say. 
 
 But she listened in vain. With lightning rapidity, 
 Arthur Carrollton read what Mag had written read that 
 she, his idol, the chosen bride of his bosom, was the daugh- 
 te r of a servant, the grandchild of old Hagar ! And for 
 this she had fled from his presence, fled because she knew of 
 the mighty pride which now, in the first bitter moment of his 
 agony, did indeed rise up a barrier between himself and the 
 beautiful girl he loved so well. Had she lain dead before 
 him, dead in all her youthful beauty, he could have folded her 
 in his arms, and then buried her from his sight, with a feel 
 ing of perfect happiness, compared to that which he now felt 
 
 " Oh, Maggie, my lost one, can it be ?" he whispered tc 
 himself, and pressing his hand upon his chest, which heaved 
 
 19
 
 4S4 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 with strong emotion, he staggered to a seat, while lh 
 perspiration stood iu beaded drops upon his forehead, and 
 around his lips. 
 
 " What is it, Mr. Carrollton ? 'Tis something dreadful, 
 sure," said Mrs. Jeffrey, appearing in the door, but Madam 
 Conway motioned her away, and tottering to his side, said, 
 11 Read it to me read." 
 
 The sound of her voice recalled his wandering mind, and 
 covering his face with his hands, he moaned in anguish ; 
 then, growing suddenly calm, he snatched up the letter, 
 which had fallen to the floor, and read it aloud ; while 
 Madam Conway, stupefied with horror, sank at his feet, and 
 clasping her hands above her head, rocked to and fro, bnt 
 made no word of comment. Far down the long ago her 
 thoughts were straying, and gathering up many by-gone 
 scenes, which told her that what she heard was true. 
 
 " Yes, His true," she groaned; and then, powerless to speak 
 another word, she laid her head upon a chair, while Mr. 
 Carrollton, preferring to be alone, sought the solitude of his 
 own room, where unobserved he could wrestle with his sor 
 row, and conquer his inborn pride, which whispered to him 
 that a Carrollton must not wed a bride so far beneath him. 
 
 Only a moment, though, and then the love he bore for 
 Maggie Miller rolled back upon him with an overwhelming 
 power, while his better judgment, with that love, came hand 
 in hand, pleading for the fair young girl, who, now that ho 
 had lost her, seemed a thousand fold dearer than before. 
 But he had not lost her; he would find her. She was Maggie 
 Miller still to him, and though old Ilagar's blood were in 
 her veins, he wo&ld not give her up. This resolution occo 
 made, it could not be shaken, and when half an hour or 
 more was passed, he walked with firm, unfaltering footsteps, 
 back to the apartment where Madam Conway still sat upon
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOUttJNiJNy. 481 
 
 the floor, her head resting upou the chair, and her frame 
 convulsed with grief. 
 
 Her struggle had been a terrible one, and it was not over 
 yet, for with her it was more than a matter of pride and 
 love. Her daughter's rights had been set at naught ; a 
 wrong had been done to the dead ; the child who slept 
 beneath the pine had been neglected ; nay, in life, had been, 
 perhaps, despised for an intruder, for one who had no right 
 to call her grandmother ; and shudderingly she cried, 
 " Why was it suffered thus to be ?" Then as she thought 
 of white-haired Hagar Warren, she raised her hand to 
 surse her, but the words died on her lips, for Hagar's deed 
 had brought to her much joy ; and now, as she remembered 
 the bounding step, the merry langh, the sunny face, and 
 loving words, which had made her later years so happy, she 
 involuntarily stretched out her arms in empty air, moaning 
 sadly, " I want her here. I want her now, just as she used 
 to be." Then, over the grave of her buried daughter, over 
 the grave of the sickly child, whose thin, blue face came up 
 before her, just as it lay in its humble coffin, over the decep 
 tion of eighteen years, her heart bounded with one wild, 
 yearning throb, for every bleeding fibre clung with a death 
 like grasp to her, who had been so suddenly takon from her. 
 " I love her still," she cried, " but can I take her back ?" 
 And then commenced the fiercest struggle of all, the bat 
 tling of love and pride, the one rebelling against a child of 
 Hagar Warren, and the other clamoring loudly, that with 
 out that child the world to her was nothing. It was the 
 hour of Madam Conway's humiliation, and in bitterness of 
 spirit, she groaned, " That I should come to this 1 Theo 
 fn-st, and Margaret, my bright, my beautiful Margaret next 
 Oh, how can I give her up when I loved her, best of all 
 boat of all ?"
 
 48# MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 This was true, for all the deeper, stronger love of Madam 
 Couway's nature had gone forth to the merry, gleeful girl, 
 whose graceful, independent bearing she had so often likened 
 to herself, and the haughty race with which she claimed rela 
 tionship. How was this illusion dispelled ! Margaret was 
 not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport. A servant girl had 
 been her mother, and of her father there was nothing known 
 Madam Couway was one who seldom wept for grief. She had 
 stood calmly at the bedside of her dying husband, had bu 
 ried her only daughter from her sight, had met with many 
 reverses, and shed for all no tears, but now they fell like 
 rain upon her face, burning, blistering as they fell, but 
 bringing no relief. 
 
 " I shall miss her in the morning," she cried, " miss her 
 at noon, miss her in the lonesome nights, miss her every 
 where oh, Margaret, Margaret, 'tis more than I can bear I 
 Come back to me now, just as you are. I want you here 
 here where the pain is hardest," and she clasped her arms 
 tightly over her heaving bosom. Then her pride returned 
 again, and with it came thoughts of Arthur Carrollton. 
 He would scoff at her as weak and sentimental ; he would 
 never take beyond the sea a bride of Hagarish birth ; and 
 duty demanded that she, too, should be firm, and sanction 
 his decision. " But when he's gone," she whispered, " when 
 he has left America behind, I'll find her, if my life is spared. 
 I'll find poor Margaret, and see that she does not want, 
 though I must not take her back." 
 
 This resolution, however, did not bring her comfort, and 
 the hands pressed so convulsively upon her side could not 
 case her pain. Sure, never before had so dark an hour 
 enfolded that haughty woman, and a prayer that she might 
 die was trembling on her lips, when a footfall echoed along 
 the hall, and Arthur Carrollton stood before her. His face
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 431 
 
 was very pale, bearing marks of the storm he had passed 
 through ; but he was calm, and his voice was natural as he 
 said, "P(6sibly what we have heard is false. It may be a 
 vagary of Hagar's half crazed brain." 
 
 For an instant Madam Conway had hoped so, too ; but 
 when she reflected, she knew that it was true. Old Ilagar 
 had been very minute in her explanations to Margaret, who 
 in turn had written exactly what she had heard, and Madam 
 Conway, when she recalled the past, could have no doubt 
 that it was true. She remembered everything, but more 
 distinctly the change of dress, at the time of the baptism 
 There could be no mistake. Margaret was not hers, and so 
 she said to Arthur Carrollton, turning her head away as if 
 she, too, were in some way answerable for the disgrace. 
 
 " It matters not," he replied, " whose she has been. She 
 is mine, now, and if you feel able, we will consult together 
 as to the surest method of finding her." 
 
 A sudden faintness came over Madam Conway, and while 
 the expression of her face changed to one of joyful surprise, 
 she stammered out, " Can it be I hear aright ? Do I 
 understand you ? Are you willing to take poor Maggie 
 back ?" 
 
 " I certainly have no other intention," he answered. 
 " There was a moment the memory of which makes me 
 ashamed, when my pride rebelled ; but it is over now, and 
 Jiough Maggie cannot in reality be again your child, she 
 can be my wife, and I must find her." 
 
 " You make me so happy, oh, so happy !" said Madam 
 Conway. " I feared you would cast her off, and in that 
 case it would have been my duty to do so too, though 
 I never loved a human being, as at this moment I love 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Carroll! on looked as if he did not fully comprehend
 
 488 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 the woman, who loving Margaret as she said she did, could 
 yet be so dependent upon his dicision ; but he made no com 
 ment, and when next he spoke he announced his intention 
 of calling upon Ilagar, who possibly could tell him where 
 Margaret had gone. " At all events," said he, " I may 
 ascertain why the secret, so long kept, was at this late day 
 divulged. It may be well," he continued, " to say nothing 
 to the servants as yet, save that Maggie has gone. Mrs. 
 Jeffrey, however, had better be let into the secret at once. 
 We can trust her, I think." 
 
 Madam Conway bowed, and Mr. Carrolltou left the room, 
 starting immediately for the cottage by the mine. As he 
 approached the house, he saw the servant who for several 
 weeks had been staying there, and who now came out to 
 meet him, telling him that since the night before, Hagar had 
 been raving crazy, talking continually of Maggie, who, she 
 said, " had gone where none would ever find her." 
 
 In some anxiety, Mr. Carrollton pressed on, until the cot 
 tage door was reached, where for a moment he stood gazing 
 silently upon the poor woman before him. Upon the bed, 
 her white hair falling over her round, bent shoulders, and 
 her large eyes shining with delirious light, old Hagar sat, 
 weaving back and forth, and talking of Margaret, of Hester, 
 and " the little foolish child," who, with a sneer upon her 
 lip, she said, " was a fair specimen of the Conway race." 
 
 " Hagar," said Mr. Carrollton, and at the sound of that 
 voice Hagar turned toward him her flashing eyes, then 
 with a scream, buried her head in the bed-clothes, saying, 
 ' Go away, Arthur Carrollton I Why are you here ? 
 Don't you know who I am ? Don't you know what Marga 
 ret is, and don't you know how proud you are ?" 
 
 " Hagar," he said again, subduing, by a strong effort, the 
 repugnance he felt at questioning her, " I know all, except
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 48'. 
 
 where Margaret has gone, and if on this point you can give 
 me any information, I shall receive it most thankfully." 
 
 " Gone !" shrieked Hagar, starting up in bed ; *' then she 
 bis gone. The play is played out, the performance is ended, 
 and I sinned for nothing !" 
 
 " Hagar, will you tell me where Maggie is ? I wish to 
 follow her," said Mr. Carrollton ; and Hagar answered, 
 " Maggie, Maggie he said that lovingly enough, but 
 there's a catch somewhere. He does not wish to follow her 
 for any good and though I know where she has gone, I'll 
 surely never tell. I kept one secret nineteen years. I can 
 keep another as long ;" and folding her arms upon her 
 chest, she commenced singing, " I know full well, but I'll 
 never tell." 
 
 Biting his lips with vexation, Mr. Carrollton tried first by 
 persuasion, then by flattery, and lastly by threats, to obtain 
 from her the desired information, but in vain. Her only 
 answer was, " I know full well, but I'll never tell," save 
 once, when tossing towards him her long white hair, she 
 shrieked, " Don't you see a resemblance only hers is black 
 and so was mine nineteen years ago, and so was Hester's 
 too glossy and black as the raven's wing. The child is 
 like the mother the mother was like the grandmother, and 
 the grandmother is like me, Hagar Warren. Do you un 
 derstand ?" 
 
 Mr. Carrollton made no answer, and with a feeling of 
 disappointment walked away, shuddering as he thought, 
 " and she is Margaret's grandmother." 
 
 He found Madam Con way in strong hysterics on Marga 
 ret's bed, for she had refused to leave the room, saying, " she 
 would die there or nowhere." Gradually the reality of her 
 loss had burst upon her, and now gasping, choking, and 
 wringing her hands, she lay upon the pillows, while Mrn
 
 440 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Jeffrey , worked up to a pitch of great nervous excitement^ 
 fidgeted hither and thither, doing always the wrong thing, 
 fanning the lady when she did not wish to be fanned, and 
 ceasing to fan her just when she was " dying for want of air." 
 
 As yet, Mrs. Jeffrey knew nothing definite, except that 
 something dreadful had happened to Margaret ; but very 
 candidly Mr. Carrollton told her all, bidding her keep silent 
 on the subject ; then, turning to Madam Conway, he re 
 peated to her the result of his call on old Hagar. 
 
 " The wretch 1" gasped Madam Conway, while Mrs. Jef 
 frey, running in her fright from the window to the door, and 
 from the door back to the window again, exclaimed, " Mar 
 garet not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport, after all ! It is 
 just what I expected. I always knew she came honestly by 
 those low-bred ways I" 
 
 " Jeffrey," and the voice of the hysterical woman on the 
 bed was loud and distinct, as she grasped the arm of 
 the terrified little governess, who chanced to be within her 
 reach. " Jeffrey," either leave my house at once, or speak 
 more deferentially of Miss MiUer. You will call her by that 
 name, too. It matters not to Mr. Carrollton and myself 
 whose child she has been. She is ours now, and must be 
 treated with respect. Do you understand me ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," meekly answered Jeffrey, rubbing her 
 clumpy arm which bore the mark of a thumb_and finger, and 
 as her services were not just then required she glided from 
 the room to drown, if possible, her grievance in the leather 
 bound London edition of Baxter ! 
 
 Meanwhile, Madam Couway was consulting with Mr. Car 
 rollton as to their best mode of finding Margaret. " She 
 took the cars, of course," said Mr. Carrollton, adding that 
 "he should go at once to the depot, and ascertain which 
 way she went. If I do not return to-night you need not b<>
 
 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 44. 
 
 alarmed," he said, as he was leaving tne room, whereupon 
 Madam Conway called him back, bidding him " telegraph 
 for Theo at once, as she must have some one with her be 
 sides that vexatious Jeffrey." 
 
 Mr. Carrollton promised compliance with her request, and 
 then went immediately to the depot, where he learned that 
 no one had entered .the cars from that place on the previous 
 night, and that Maggie, if she took the train at all, must 
 have done so at some other station. This was not unlikely, 
 and before the day was passed, Mr. Carrollton had visited 
 several different stations, and had talked with the conduc 
 tors of the several trains, but all to no purpose ; and very 
 much disheartened, he returned at nightfall to the old stone 
 house, where to his great surprise, he found both Theo and 
 her husband. The telegram had done its mission, and feel 
 ing anxious to know the worst, George had come up with 
 Theo to spend the night. It was the first time Madam Con- 
 way had seen him since her memorable encounter with his 
 rrother, for though Theo had more than once been home, he 
 had never before accompanied her, and now when Madam 
 Conway heard his voice in the hall below, she groaned 
 afresh. The sight of his good-humored face, however, Bad 
 his kind offer to do whatever he could to find the fugitive, 
 restored her composure in a measure, and she partially for 
 got that he was in any way connected with the blue umbrella, 
 or the blue umbrella connected with him ! Never in her 
 life had Theo felt very deeply upon any subject, and now, 
 though she seemed bewildered at what she heard, she mani 
 fested no particular emotion, until her grandmother, wring 
 ing her hands, exclaimed, " You have no sister now, my 
 child, and I no Margaret." Then, indeed, her tears flowed, 
 and when her husband whispered to her, " We will love 
 poor Maggie all the same," she cried aloul, but not quite 
 
 19*
 
 442 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 as demonstratively as Madam Couway wished, and iu a rery 
 unamiable frame of mind, the old lady accused her of being 
 selfish and bard-hearted. 
 
 In this stage of proceedings Mr. Carrollton retarned, 
 bringing no tidings of Maggie, whereupon another fit of 
 hysterics ensued, and as Theo behaved much worse than 
 Mrs. Jeffi ey had done, the latter was finally summoned again 
 to the sick room, where she had last succeeded in quieting 
 the excited woman. The next morning George Douglas 
 visited old Hagar, but he too was unsuccessful/ and that 
 afternoon he returned to Worcester, leaving Theo with her 
 grandmother, who, though finding fault with whatever she 
 did, refused to let her go until Margaret was found. 
 
 During the remainder of the week, Mr. Carrollton rode 
 through the country, making the most minute inquiries, and 
 receiving always the same discouraging answer. Once he 
 thought to advertise, but from making the affair thus public 
 he instinctively shrank, and resolving to spare neither his 
 time, his money, nor his health, he pursued his weary way 
 alone. Once, too, Madam Con way spoke of Henry Warner, 
 saying it was possible Maggie might have gone to him, as 
 she had thought so much of Rose; but Mr. Carrollton "knew 
 better." " A discarded lover," he said, " was the last person 
 in the world to whom a young girl like Margaret would go. 
 particularly as Theo had said taat Henry was now the hus 
 band of another." 
 
 Still the suggestion haunted him, and on the Monday 
 following Henry Warner's first visit to Worcester, he, too. 
 went down to talk with Mr. Douglas, asking him, " if it were 
 possible that Maggie was in Leomiuster." 
 
 " I know she is not," said G-eorgo, repeating the particu 
 lars of his interview with Henry, who, lie said, was at the 
 store on Saturday. " Once I thought of telling him all/
 
 THE HOUSE JF MOURNING. t4i 
 
 Baid he, " and then considering the relations which formerly 
 existed between them, I concluded to keep silent, especially 
 as he manifested no desire to speak of her, bat appeared, I 
 fancied, quite uneasy when I casually mentioned Hillsdale." 
 
 Thus was that matter decided, and while not many milea 
 away, Maggie was watching hopelessly for the coming of 
 Arthur Carrollton, he, with George Douglas, was devising 
 the best means for finding her, George generously offering 
 to assist in the search, and suggesting finally that he should 
 himself go to New York city, while Mr. Carrollton explored 
 Boston and its vicinity. It seemed quite probable that 
 Margaret would seek some of the large cities, as in her letter 
 she had said she could earn her livelihood by teaching music; 
 and quite hopeful of success, the young men parted, Mr. 
 Carrolltou going immediately to Boston, while Mr. Douglas, 
 after a day or two, started for New York, whither, as the 
 reader will remember, he had gone at the time of Henry's 
 last visit to Worcester. 
 
 Here, for a time we leave them, Hagar raving mad, 
 Madam Conway in strong hysterics, Theo wishing herself 
 anywhere but at Hillsdale, Mrs. Jeffrey ditto, Georgo 
 Douglas threading the crowded streets of the noisy city, 
 and Mr. Carrolltou in Boston, growing paler and sadder as 
 day after day passed by, bringing him no trace of the lost 
 one. Here, I say, we leave them, while in another chapter 
 we follow the footsteps of her for whom this search was 
 made.
 
 H4 MAGGIE MILLEK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 FROM the seaside to the mountains, from the mountain! 
 
 to Saratoga, from Saratoga to Montreal, from Montreal to 
 the Thousand Isles, and thence they scarce knew where, the 
 travellers wended their way, stopping not long at any place, 
 for Margaret was ever seeking change. Greatly had she 
 been admired, her pale, beautiful face attracting attention at 
 once ; but from all flattery she turned away, saying to Hen 
 ry and Rose, " Let us go on." 
 
 So, onward still onward they went, pausing longest at 
 Montreal, for it was there Arthur Carrollton had been, there 
 a part of his possessions lay, and there Margaret willingly lin 
 gered, even after her companions wished to be gone. 
 
 " He may be here again," she said ; and so she waited and 
 watched, scanning eagerly the passers by, and noticing each 
 new face as it appeared at the table of the hotel, where they 
 were staying. But the one she waited for never came, " and 
 even if he docs," she thought, " he will not come for me." 
 
 So she signified her willingness to depart, and early one 
 bright July morning, she left, while the singing birds 
 from the tree tops, the summer air from the Canada hills, 
 and, more than all, a warning voice within her, bade her, 
 " Tarry yet a little, stay till the sun was set," for far out in 
 the country and many miles away a train was thundering on
 
 NIAGARA. 44e 
 
 It would reach the city at nightfall, and among its jaded pas 
 sengers, was a worn and weary man. Hopeless, almost aim- 
 less now, he would come, and why he came he scarcely 
 knew. " She would not be there so far from home," he 
 was sure of that, but he was coming for the sake of 
 what he hoped and feared, when last he trod those streets 
 Listlessly he entered the same hotel, from whose windows, 
 for five' long days, a fair young face had looked- for him. 
 Listlessly he registered his name, then carelessly turned the 
 leaves backward backward backward still, till only one 
 remained between his hand and the page bearing date five 
 days before. He paused and was about to move away, 
 when a sudden breeze from the open window turned the 
 remaining leaf, and his eye caught the name, not of Maggu 
 Miller, but of " Henry -Warner, lady, and sister." 
 
 " Thus it stood, and thus he repeated it to himself, dwell, 
 ing upon the last words sister, as if to him it had another 
 meaning. He had heard from Madam Conway, that neither 
 Henry Warner nor Rose had a sister, but she might be 
 mistaken ; probably she was, and dismissing the subject 
 from his mind, he walked away. Still the names haunted 
 him, and thinking at List, that if Mr. Warner were now in 
 Montreal, he would like to see him, he returned to the 
 office, asking the clerk if the occupants of Nos. were 
 there still. 
 
 " Left this morning for the Falls," was the laconic answer, 
 and without knowing why he should particularly wish to dc 
 so, Mr. Carrollton resolved to follow them. 
 
 He would as soon be at the Falls as at Montreal, he 
 thought. Accordingly he left the next morning for Niagara, 
 taking the shortest route by river and lake, and arriving 
 there on the evening of the second day after his departure 
 from the city. But nowhere could a trace be found of Heu
 
 446 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 ry Warner, and determining now to wait until he 2ame, 
 Mr. Carrollton took rooms at the International, where aftei 
 a day or two, worn out with travel, excitement and hope 
 deferred, he became severely indisposed, and took his bed, 
 forgetting entirely both Henry Warner and the sister, 
 whose name he had seen upon the hotel register. Thoughts 
 of Maggie Miller, however, were constantly in his mind, and 
 whether waking or asleep, he saw always her face, some 
 times radiant with healthful beauty, as when he first beheld 
 her, and again, pale, troubled, and sad, as when he saw her 
 last. 
 
 " Oh, shall I ever find her ?" he would sometimes say, as 
 in the dim twilight he lay listening to the noisy hum which 
 came up 'from the public room below. 
 
 And once, as he lay there thus, he dreamed, and in his 
 dreams there came through the open window a clear, silvery 
 voice, breathing the loved name of Maggie. Again he 
 heard it on the stairs, then little tripping feet went past his 
 door, followed by a slow, languid tread, and with a 'nervous 
 start, the sick man awoke. The day had been cloudy and 
 dark, but the rain was over now, and the room was full of 
 sunshine sunshine dancing on the walls, sunshine glimmer 
 ing on the floor, sunshine everywhere. Insensibly, too, there 
 stole over Mr. Carrollton's senses a feeling of quiet, of rest, 
 and he slept ere long again, dreaming this time that Mar 
 garet was there. 
 
 Yes, Margaret was there there, beneath the same roof 
 which sheltered him, and the same sunshine which filled hia 
 room with light had bathed her white brow, as leaning from 
 her window, she listened for the roar of the falling water. 
 They had lingered on their way, stopping at the Thousand 
 Isles, for Margaret would have it so ; but they had come at 
 last, and the tripping footsteps in the hall, the silvery voice
 
 NIAGARA. 447 
 
 npon the stairs, was that of the golden haired Rose, who 
 watched over Margaret with all a sister's love and a mother's 
 care. The frequent jokes of the fun-loving Henry, too, 
 were not without their good effects, and Margaret was bet 
 ter now than she had been for many weeks. 
 
 " I can rest here," she said, and a faint color came to her 
 cheeks, making her look more like herself than she had done 
 before since that night of sorrow in the woods. 
 
 And so three days went by, and Mr. Carrollton, on his 
 weary bed, dreamed not that the slender form, which some 
 times through his half closed door, cast a shadow in his 
 room, was that of her for whom he sought. The tripping 
 footsteps, too, went often by, and a merry, childish voice, 
 which reminded him of Maggie, rang through the spacious 
 halls, until at last the sick man came to listen for that party 
 as they passed. They were a merry party, he thought, a 
 very merry party, and he pictured to himself her of the 
 ringing voice ; she was dark eyed, he said, with braids of 
 shining hair, and when, as they were passing once, he asked 
 of his attendant if it were not as he had fancied, he felt a 
 pang of disappointment at the answer which was, "The 
 girl the young gentleman hears so much, has yellow curls 
 and dark blue eyes." 
 
 " She is not like Maggie, then," he sighed, and when 
 again he heard that voice, a part of its music was gone. 
 Still it cheered his solitude, and he listened for it again, just 
 as he had done before. 
 
 Once, when he knew they were going out, he went to the 
 window to see them, but the large straw flats and close 
 carriage revealed no secret, and disappointed he turned 
 away. 
 
 " It is useless to stay here longer," he said ; " I must bo 
 about my work. I am able to leave, and I will go to-mor
 
 448 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 row. But first I will visit the Falls once more. I 
 never see them again." 
 
 Accordingly, next morning, after Margaret and Rose had 
 left the house, he came down the stairs, sprang into an open 
 carriage, and was driven to Goat Island, which, until hia 
 illness, had been his favorite resort. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Beneath the tall forest trees which grow upon the island 
 there is a rustic seat. Just on the brink of the river it 
 stands, and the carriage road winds by. It is a compara 
 tively retired spot, looking out upon the foaming water rush 
 ing so madly on. Here the weary often rest ; here lovers 
 sometimes come to be alone ; and here Maggie Miller sat 
 on that summer morning, living over again the past, which 
 to her had been so bright, and musing sadly of the future, 
 which would bring her she knew not what. 
 
 She had struggled to overcome her pride, nor deemed it 
 longer a disgrace that she was not a Couvvay. Of Hagar, 
 too, she often thought, pitying the poor old half-crazed 
 woman who for her sake had borne so much. But not of her 
 was she thinking now. Hagar was shrivelled and bent, 
 and old, while the image present in Margaret's mind was 
 handsome, erect and young, like the gentleman riding ly 
 the man whose carriage wheels, grinding into the gravelly 
 road, attracted no attention. Too intent was she upon a 
 shadow to heed aught else around, and she leaned against a 
 tree, nor turned her head aside, as Arthur Carroll ton went 
 by! 
 
 A little further on, and out of Maggie's sight, a fairy Gg 
 are was seated upon the grass ; the flat was thrown aside, 
 and her curls fell back from her upturned face, as she spoke 
 to Henry Warner. But the sentence was unfinished, for 
 the carriage appeared in view, and with woman's quick
 
 NIAGARA. 44* 
 
 perception, Rose exclaims, "'Tis surely Arthur Carroll* 
 ton I" 
 
 Starting to her feet, she sprang involuntarily forward to 
 meet him, casting a rapid glance around for Margaret. He 
 observed the movement, and knew that somewhere in Hie 
 world he had seen that face before those golden curls- - 
 those deep blue eyes that childish form they were nnt 
 wholly unfamiliar. Who was she, and why did she advance 
 towards him ? 
 
 " Rose," said Henry, who would call her back, " Rose !" 
 and looking towards the speaker, Mr. Carrollton knew at 
 once that Henry Warner and his bride were standing 
 there before him. 
 
 In a moment he had joined them, and though he knew 
 that Henry Warner had once loved Maggie Miller, he spoko 
 of her without reserve, saying to Rose, when she asked if 
 he were there for pleasure, " I am looking for Maggie Miller. 
 A strange discovery has been made of late, and Margaret 
 has left us." 
 
 " She is here. here with us," cried Rose ; and in tne 
 exuberance of her joy, she was darting away, when Henry 
 held her back until further explanations were made. 
 
 This did not occupy them long, for sitting down again upon 
 the bank, Rose briefly told him all she knew ; and when 
 with eager joy he asked " where is she now ?" she pointed 
 towards the spot, and then with Henry walked away, for she 
 knew that it was not for her to witness that glad meeting. 
 
 The river rolls on with its heaving swell, and the white 
 foam is tossed towards the shore, while the soft summer air 
 >'<_ bears on its wing the sound of the cataract's roar. 
 But Margaret sees it not, hears it not. There is a spell 
 npon her now a halo of joy, and she only knows that a 
 strong arm is around her, and a voice is in her ear, whisper-
 
 400 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 ing that the bosom on which her weary head is pillowed 
 shall be her resting-place forever. 
 
 It had come to her suddenly, sitting there thus- -the foot 
 fall upon the sand had not been heard the shadow upou 
 the grass had not been seen, and his presence had not been 
 felt, till bending low, Mr. Carrollton said aloud, " My Mag 
 gie !" 
 
 Then indeed she started up, and turned to see who it was 
 that thus so much like him had called her name. She saw 
 \s"ho it was, and looking in his face, she knew she was not 
 hated, and with a moaning cry went forward to the arma 
 extended to receive her. 
 
 Four guests, instead of one, went forth that afternoon 
 from the International four guests homeward bound, and 
 eager to be there. No more journeying now for happiness ; 
 no more searching for the lost ; for both are found ; both 
 Bpfi there happiuess and Maggie Miller.
 
 HOMS. 451 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 IMPATIENT, restless and cross, Madam Convvay lay in Mar 
 garet's room, scolding Theo, and chiding Mrs. Jeffrey; both 
 of whom, though trying their utmost to suit her, managed 
 Unfortunately to do always just what she wished them not 
 to do. Mrs. Jeffrey's hands were usually too cold, while 
 Thco's were too hot. Mrs. Jeffrey made the head of the 
 bed too high. Theo altogether too low. IQ short, neither 
 of them ever did what Margaret would have done had she 
 been there, and so day after day the lady complained, grow 
 ing more and more unamiable, until at last Theo began to 
 talk seriously of following Margaret's example, and running 
 away herself, at least as far as Worcester ; but the dis 
 tressed Mrs. Jeffrey, terrified at the thoughts of being left 
 there alone, begged of her to stay a little longer, offering 
 the comforting assurance that " it could not be so bad 
 always, for Madam Conway would either get better or 
 something." 
 
 So Theo staid, enduring with a martyr's patience the ca 
 prices of her grandmother, who kept the whole household iu 
 a constant state of excitement, and who at last began to 
 blame George Douglas entirely as being the only one in 
 fault. " He didn't half look," she said, " and she doubted 
 whether he knew enough to keep from losing himself in New
 
 4^2 MAGGIS MILLER. 
 
 York. It was the most foolish thing Arthur Carrollton had 
 ever done, hiring George Douglas to search 1" 
 
 " Hiring him, grandma 1" cried Theo, " George offered his 
 services for nothing," and the tears came to her eyes at this 
 injustice done to her husband. 
 
 But Madam Conway persisted in being unreasonable, and 
 matters grew gradually worse until the day when Margaret 
 was found at the Fails On that morning Madam Conway 
 determined upon riding " fresh air would do her good," 
 ehe said, " and they had kept her in a hot chamber long 
 enngh." 
 
 Accordingly, the carriage was brought out, and Madam 
 Conway carefully lifted in ; but ere fifty rods were passed, 
 the coachman was ordered to drive back, as " she could not 
 endure the jolt she told them she couldn't all the time," 
 and her eyes turned reprovingly upon poor Theo, sitting si 
 lently in the opposite corner. 
 
 " The Lord help me, if she isn't coming back, so soon," 
 sighed Mrs. Jeffrey, as she saw the carriage returning, and 
 went to meet the invalid who had " taken her death cold," 
 just as she knew she should, when they insisted upon her 
 going out. 
 
 That day was far worse than any which had preceded 
 it. It was probably her last, Madam Conway said, and 
 numerous were the charges she gave to Theo concern 
 ing Margaret, should she ever be found. The house, the 
 farm, the furniture and plate, were all to be hers, while 
 to Theo was given the lady's wardrobe, saving such articles 
 as Margaret might choose for herself, and if she never were 
 found, the house and farm were to be Mr. Carrollton's. This 
 was too much for Theo, who resolved to go home on the 
 morrow at all hazards, and she had commenced making pre 
 parations for leaving, when to her great joy her husband
 
 HOME. 4B( 
 
 caine, and iu recounting to him her trials, she forgot in a 
 measure how unhappy she had been. George Douglas waa 
 vastly amused at what he heard and resolved to experiment 
 a little with the lady, who was so weak as to notice him 
 only with a slight nod when he first entered the room. He 
 saw at a glance that nothing in particular was the matter, 
 and when towards night she lay panting for breath, with 
 her eyes half closed, he approached her and said : " Madam, 
 in case you die " 
 
 " In case I die," she whispered indignantly. " It doesn't 
 admit of a doubt. My feet are as cold as icicles now." 
 
 " Certainly," said he. " I beg your pardon ; of course 
 you'll die." 
 
 The lady turned away rather defiantly for a dying woman, 
 and G eorge continued : " What I mean to say is this if 
 Margaret is never found, you wish the house to be Mr. 
 Carrolltou's ?" 
 
 " Yes, everything, my wardrobe and all," came from be 
 neath the bedclothes, and George proceeded : " Mr. Car- 
 rollton cannot of course take the house to England, and aa 
 he will need a trusty tenant, would you object greatly, if 
 my father and mother should come here to live ? They'd 
 like it, I " 
 
 The sentence was unfinished the bunches in the throat, 
 which for hours had prevented the sick woman from speak 
 ing aloud, and were eventually to choke her to death, disap 
 peared ; Madam Conway found her voice, and starting up, 
 screamed out, " That abominable woman and heathenish 
 gill in this house, in my house ; I'll live forever, first 1" and 
 her round bright eyes flashed forth their indignation. 
 
 ' I thought the mention of mother would revive her," said 
 George, aside to Theo, who, convulsed with laughter, had 
 hidden herself behind the window curtatu.
 
 84 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 Mr. Douglas was right, for not again that afternoon did 
 Madarn Conway speak of dying, though she kept her bed 
 until night-fall, when an incident occurred which brought 
 her at once to her feet, making her forget that she had ever 
 been otherwise than well. 
 
 In 'her cottage by the mine, old Hagar had raved, and 
 sung, and wept, talking much of Margaret, but never tell 
 ing whither she had gone. Latterly, however, she had 
 grown more calm, talking far less than heretofore, and 
 sleeping a great portion of the day, so that the servant 
 who attended her became neglectful, leaving her many 
 hours alone, while she, at the stone house, passed her time 
 more agreeably than at the lonesome hut. On the after 
 noon of which we write, she was as usual at the house, and 
 though the sun went down, she did not hasten back, for her 
 patient, she said, was sure to sleep, and even if she woke 
 she did not need much care. 
 
 Meantime old Hagar slumbered on. It was a deep, 
 refreshing sleep, and when at last she did awake, her reason 
 was in a measure restored, arid she remembered everything 
 distinctly, tip to the time of Margaret's last visit, when she 
 said she was going away. And Margaret had gone away, 
 she was sure of that, for she remembered Arthur Carrollton 
 stood once within that room, and besought of her to tell if 
 she knew aught of Maggie's destination. She did know, 
 but she had not told, and perhaps they had not found her 
 yet. .Raising herself in bed, she called aloud to the servant, 
 but there came no answer ; and for an hour or more, sho 
 waited impatiently, growing each moment more and more 
 excited. If Margaret were found she wished to know it, 
 and if she were not found, it was surely her duty to go at 
 once, and tell them where she was. But could she walk ? 
 She stepped upon the floor and tried. Her limbs trembled
 
 HOME. 451 
 
 beneath her weight, and sinking into a chair, soe cr'ed, "I 
 can't, I can't." 
 
 Half an hour later, she heard the sound of wheels. A 
 neighboring farmer was returning home from Richland. and 
 had taken the cross road as his shortest route. " Perhaps 
 he will let me ride," she thought, and hobbling to the cisor, 
 she called after him, making known her request. Wonder 
 ing what " new freak " had entered her mind, the man con 
 sented, and just as it was growing dark, he set her do^n at 
 Madam Conway's gate, where, half fearfully, the bewildered 
 tvoman gazed around. The windows of Margaret's room were 
 open, a figure moved before them, Margaret might be ^ore, 
 and entering the hall door unobserved, she began to 
 the stairs, crawling upon her hands and knees, and P 
 several times to rest. 
 
 It was nearly dark in the sick-room, and as Mr*. Jeffrey 
 had just gone out, and Theo, in the parlor below, was a" ; oy. 
 ing a quiet talk with her husband, Madam Conwav was 
 quite alone. For a time she lay thinking of Margaret, then 
 her thoughts turned upon George and his " amazing nropo- 
 gltion." " Such unheard of insolence !" she exclaimed ^nd 
 she was proceeding farther with her soliloquy, when a pp-"ni- 
 liar noise upon the stairs without caught her ear, and rais 
 ing herself upon her elbow, she listened intently to the so-'nd 
 which came nearer and nearer, and seemed like some me 
 creeping slo.wly, painfully, for she could hear at intervals a 
 long drawn breath, or groan, and with a vague feeling nf un 
 easiness, she awaited anxiously the appearance of her visito* ; 
 nor waited long, for the half closed door swung slowlv barK, 
 and through the gathering darkness the shape carne crawl 
 ing on, over the threshold, into the room, towards the enr- 
 nor, its limbs distorted and bent, its white hair sweeping i'ie 
 floor. AVith a smothered cry, Madam Con way hid beneath
 
 156 MAGGIE MILLER 
 
 tlie bedclothes, looking cautiously out at the singular objecl 
 which came creeping on until the bed was reached. It 
 touched ihe counterpane, it was struggling to regain its feet, 
 and with a scream of horror the terrified woman cried out, 
 " Fiend, why are you here?" while a faint voice replied, " I 
 am looking for Margaret. I thought she was in bed ;" and 
 rising up from her crouching posture, Hagar Warren stood 
 face to face with the woman she had so long deceived. 
 
 " Wretch !" exclaimed the latter, her pride returning as 
 she recognized old Hagar, and thought, " She is Maggie's 
 grandmother. Wretch, how dare you come into my pres 
 ence ? Leave this room at once," and a shrill cry of " Theo, 
 Theo," rang through the house, bringing Theo at once to 
 the chamber, where she started involuntarily at the sight 
 which met her view. 
 
 " Who is it ? Who is it ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 " It's Hagar Warren. Take her away I" screamed Madam 
 Conway ; while Hagar, raising her withered hand deprecat- 
 ingly, said : " Hear me first. Do you know where Marga 
 ret is ? Has she been found ?" 
 
 " No, no," answered Theo, bounding to her side, while 
 Madam Conway forgot to scream, and bent eagerly forward 
 to listen, her symptoms of dissolution disappearing one by 
 one, as the strange narrative proceeded, and ere its close, 
 she was nearly dressed, standing erect as ever, her face glow- 
 leg, and her eyes lighted up with joy. 
 
 " Gone to Leominster ! Henry Warner's half-sister !" she 
 exclaimed. " Why didn't she add a postscript to that let 
 ter, and tell us so ? though the poor child couldn't think of 
 everything ;" and then, unmindful of George Douglas, who 
 af that moment entered the room, she continued : " I should 
 suppose Douglas might have found it out ere this. But the 
 nomcnt I put my eyes ^>on that woman, I knew no child of
 
 HOME. 487 
 
 hers would ever know enough to find Margaret. The War 
 ners are a tolerably good family, I presume. I'll go after her 
 at once. Theo, bring my broche shawl, and wouldn't yon 
 wear my satin hood ? 'Twill be warmer than my leg 
 horn " 
 
 " Grandma," said Theo, in utter astonishment, "what o 
 you mean ? You surely are not going to Leominster to 
 night, as sick as you are ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am going to Leominster to-night," answered the 
 decided woman, " and this gentleman," waving her hand 
 majestically towards George, " will oblige me much by see 
 ing that the carriage is brought out." 
 
 Theo was about to remonstrate, when George whispered 
 " Let her go ; Henry and Rose are probably not at home, 
 but Margaret may be there. At all events a little airing 
 will do the old lady good ;" and rather pleased than other 
 wise with the expedition, he went after John, who pro 
 nounced his mistress " crazier than Hagar." 
 
 But it wasn't for him to dictate, and grumbling at the 
 prospect before him, he harnessed his horses and drove them 
 to the door, where Madam Conway was already in wait 
 ing. 
 
 " See that everything is in order for our return," she said 
 to Theo, who promised compliance, and then, herself bewil 
 dered, listened to the carriage as it rolled away ; it seemed 
 so like a dream that the woman, who three hours before 
 could scarcely speak aloud, had now started for a ride c ' 
 many miles in the damp night-air ! But love can accoc 
 plish miracles, and it made the eccentric lady strong, buo} 
 ing up her spirits, and prompting her to cheer on the coach 
 man, until just as the dawn grew rosy in the east, Leomin- 
 Bter appeared in view. The house was frwd, the carriage 
 let down, and then with a slight trembling in bcr 
 -.50
 
 463 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 limbs, Madam Conway alighted and walked up the gravelled 
 path, casting eager, searching glances around and comment 
 ing as follows : 
 
 " Everything is in good taste ; they must be somdody, 
 these Warners. I'm glad it is no worse." And with each 
 now indication of refinement in Margaret's relatives, the 
 disgrace seemed less and less in the mind of the proud 
 Englishwoman. 
 
 The ringing of the bell brought down Janet, who with an 
 inquisitive look at the satin hood and bundle of shawls, 
 ushered the stranger into the parlor, and then went for her 
 mistress. Taking the card her servant brought, Mrs. War 
 per road with some little trepidation, the name, " MADAM CON- 
 WAT, HILLSDALE." From what she had heard, she was not 
 prepossessed in the lady's favor ; but, curious to know why 
 she was there at this early hour, she hastened the making of 
 her toilet, and went down to the parlor, where Madam Con- 
 way sat, coiled in one corner of the sofa, which she had 
 satisfied herself was covered with real brocatelle, as were 
 also the chairs within the room. The tables of rosewood 
 and marble, and the expensive curtains had none of them 
 escaped her notice, and in a mood which more common fur 
 niture would never have produced, Madam Conway arose 
 to meet Mrs. Warner, who received her politely, and then 
 waited to hear her errand. 
 
 It was told in a few words. She had come for Margaret 
 Margaret, whom she had loved for eighteen years, and 
 could not now cast off, even though she were not of the Con- 
 way and Davenport extraction. 
 
 " I can easily understand how painful must have been the 
 knowledge that Maggie was not your own," returned Mrs. 
 Warner, for sh is a girl of whom any one might be proud ; but 
 juu are laboring under a mistake Henry is not her brother.*
 
 HOME. 459 
 
 nd then, very briefly she explained the matter to Madam 
 Conway, who having heard so much, was now surprised at 
 nothing, and who felt, it may be, a little gratified in know 
 ing that Henry was, after all, nothing to Margaret, save the 
 husband of her sister. But a terrible disappointment await 
 ed her. " Margaret was not there," and so loud were her 
 lamentations, that some time clasped ere Mrs. Warner could 
 make her listen, while she explained, that " Mr. Carrollton 
 had found Maggie the day previous, at the Falls, that they 
 were probably in Albany now, and would reach Hillsdalo 
 that very day;" such at least was the import of the telegram 
 which Mrs. AVarner had received the evening before. " They 
 wish to surprise you undoubtedly," she said, " and conse 
 quently have not telegraphed to you." 
 
 This seemed probable, and forgetting her weariness, Madam 
 Conway resolved upon leaving John to drive home at his 
 leisure, while she took the Leominster cars, which reached 
 Worcester in time for the upward train. This matter ad- 
 iusted, she tried to be quiet; but her excitement increased 
 each moment, and when at last breakfast was served, she 
 did but little justice to the tempting viands which her 
 hostess set before her. Margaret's chamber was visited 
 next, and very lovingly she patted and smoothed the downy 
 pillows, for the sake of the bright head which had rested 
 there, while to herself she whispered abstractedly, "Yea, 
 yes," though to what she was giving her assent, she could 
 not tell. She only knew that she was very happy, and very 
 impatient to be gone, and when at last she did go, it seemed 
 to her an age ere Worcester was reached. 
 
 Resolutely turning her head away, lest she should see the 
 scene of her disaster, when last she was in that city, she 
 walked up and down the ladies' room, her satin hood and 
 heavy broche shawl, on that warm July morning, attracting
 
 MO MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 much attention. But little did she care. "Margaret," wraa 
 the burden of her thoughts, and the appearance of Mrs. 
 Douglas herself, would scarcely have disturbed her. Much 
 less, then, did the presence of a queerly dressed young girl, 
 who, entering the car with her, occupied from necessity the 
 same seat, feeling herself a little annoyed at being thus 
 obliged to sit so near one whom she mentally pronounced 
 " mighty unsociable," for not once did Madam Con way turn 
 ber face that way, so intent was she upon watching their 
 apparent speed, and counting the number of miles they had 
 come. 
 
 When Charlton was reached, however, she did observe 
 the woman in a shaker, who, with a pail of huckleberries on 
 her arm, was evidently waiting for some one. 
 
 An audible groan from the depths of the satin hood, aa 
 Betsey Jam passed out and the cars passed on, showed plain 
 ly that the mother and sister of George Douglas were recog 
 nized, particularly as the former wore the red and yellow 
 calico, which, having been used as a " dress up " the summer 
 before, now did its owner service as a garment of every-day 
 wear. But not long did Madam Conway suffer her mind to 
 dwell upon matter so trivial. Hillsdale was not far away, 
 and she came each moment nearer. Two more stations 
 were reached the haunted swamp was passed Chicopee 
 River was in sight the bridge appeared in view the 
 whistle sounded, and she was there. 
 
 Half an hour later, and Theo, looking from her window, 
 started in surprise as she saw the village omnibus drive 
 ap to their door. 
 
 '* 'Tis grandmother I" she cried, and running to meet her 
 she asked why she had returned so soon. 
 
 " They are coming at noon," answered the excited woman 
 tuen, hurrying into the house, and throwing off her hood
 
 HOME. 46i 
 
 Bhc continued, " He's found her at the Falls ; they are be 
 tween here and Albany now ; tell everybody to hurry as fast 
 as they can ; tell Hannah to make a chicken pie Maggie 
 wus fond of that ; and turkey tell her to kill a turkey it's 
 Maggie's favorite dish and ice cream, too 1 I wish I had 
 some this minute," and she wiped the perspiration from her 
 burning face. 
 
 No more hysterics now ; no more lonesome nights ; no 
 more thoughts of death for Margaret was coming home 
 the best-loved of them all. Joyfully the servants told to 
 each other the glad news, disbelieving entirely the report fast 
 gaining circulation, that the queenly Maggie wa^ lowly bora 
 a grandchild of old Hagar. Up and down the stairs 
 Madam Conway ran, flitting from room to room and tarry 
 ing longest in that of Margaret, where the sunlight came iu 
 softly through the half closed blinds and the fair summer 
 blossoms smiled a welcome for the expected one. 
 
 Suddenly the noontide stillness was broken by a sound, 
 deafening and shrill on ordinary occasions, but falling now 
 like music on Madam Conway's ear, for by that sound she 
 knew that Margaret was near. Wearily went the half hour 
 by, and then, from the head of the tower stairs, Theo cried 
 out, " She is coming !" while the grandmother buried her 
 face in the pillows of the lounge, and asked to be alone 
 when she took back to her bosom the child which w*s net 
 hers. 
 
 Earnestly, as if to read the inmost soul, each looked into 
 the other's eyes Margaret and Theo and while the voice 
 of the latter was choked with tears, she wound her arms 
 around the graceful neck, which bent to the caress, and 
 whispered low, " You are my sister still." 
 
 Against the vine-wreathed balustrade a fairy form was 
 leaning, holding back her breath lest she should freak the
 
 162 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 deep silence of that meeting. In her bosom there was no 
 pang of fear lest Theo should be loved the best ; and even 
 had there been, it could not surely have remained, for 
 stretching out her arm, Margaret drew her to her side, and 
 placing her hand in that of Theo said, " You are both my 
 Bisters now," while Arthur Carrollton, bending down, kissed 
 the lips of the three, saying as he did so, " Thus do I 
 acknowledge your relationship to me." 
 
 " Why don't she come ?" the waiting Madam Conway 
 sighed, just as Theo pointing to the open door, bade Mar 
 garet " go in." 
 
 There was a blur before the lady's eyes a buzzing in her 
 ears and the footfall she had listened for so long, was now 
 unheard as it came slowly to her side. But the light touch 
 upon her arm the well remembered voice within her ear, 
 calling her " Madam Conway," sent through her an electric 
 thrill, and starting up she caught the wanderer in her arms, 
 crying imploringly, " Not that name, Maggie darling ; call 
 me grandma, as you used to do call me grandma still," 
 and smoothing back the long black tresses, she looked to 
 Bee if grief had left its impress upon her fair young face. It 
 was paler now, and thinner, too, than it was wont to be, 
 and while her tears fell fast upon it, Madam Conway whis 
 pered, " You have suffered much, my child, and so have I. 
 Why did you go away ? Say, Margaret, why did you leave 
 Die all alone ?" 
 
 " To learn how much you loved me," answered Margaret, 
 to whom this moment brought happiness second only to that 
 which she had felt when on the river bank she sat with Ar 
 thur Carrollton, and heard him tell how much she had been 
 mourned how lonesome was the house without her and 
 bow sad where all their hearts. 
 
 But that was over now ; no more sadness no more
 
 HOME a 
 
 tears ; the lost oae had returned ; Margaret w is home 
 again home in the hearts of all, and nothing could dislodge 
 her not even the story of her birth, vrlrich Arthur Carroll- 
 ton, spurning at further deception, told to the listening ser 
 vants, who, having always respected old ITagar for her posi 
 tion in the household as well as for her education, so supe 
 rior to their own, sent up a deafening shout, first for " Hagar's 
 grandchild," and next for " Miss Margaret forever "
 
 *64 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HAGAR. 
 
 BY Thco's request, old Hagar had been taken homo the 
 day before, yielding submissively, for her frenzied rnood was 
 over her strength was gone her life was nearly spent 
 and Ilagar did not wish to live. That for which she had 
 sinned had been accomplished, and though it had cost her 
 clays and nights of anguish, she was satisfied at last. Marga 
 ret was coining home again would be a lady still the bride 
 of Arthur Carrollton, for George Douglas had told her so, 
 and she was willing now to die, but not until she had seen 
 her once again had looked into the beautiful face of which 
 she had been so proud. 
 
 Not to-day, however, does she expect her ; and just aa 
 the sun was setting, the sun which shines on Margaret at 
 home, she falls away to sleep. It was at this hour, that 
 Margaret was wont to visit her, and now, as the tree-tops 
 grew red in the day's departing glory, a graceful form came 
 down the woodland path, where for many weeks the grass 
 'has not been crushed beneath her feet. They saw her as 
 she left the house, Madam Conway, Theo, all, but none 
 asked whither she was going. They knew, and one, who 
 loved her best of all, followed slowly after, waiting in the 
 woods until that interview should end. 
 
 Hagar lay calmly sleeping. The servant was as usual
 
 HAGAR. 461 
 
 away, and there was no eve watching Margaret as with 
 burning cheeks, and beating heart, she crossed the thresh 
 old of the door, pausing not, faltering not, until the bed wag 
 reached the bed where Hagar lay, her crippled hands fold 
 ed meekly upon her breast, her white hair shading a whiter 
 face, and a look about her half shut mouth, as if the thin 
 pale lips had been much used of late to breathe the word 
 "forgive." Maggie had never seen her thus before, and the 
 worn-out, aged face, had something touching in its sad ex 
 pression, and something startling, too, bidding her hasten, if 
 to that woman she would speak. 
 
 " Hagar," she essayed to say, but the word died on her 
 lips, for standing there alone, with the daylight fading from 
 the earth, and the lifelight fading from the form before 
 her, it seemed not meet that she should thus address the 
 sleeper. There was a name however by which she called 
 another a name of love, and it would make the withered 
 heart of Hagar Warren bound, and beat, and throb with 
 untold joy. And Margaret said that name at last, whisper 
 ing it first softly to herself ; then bending down so that her 
 breath stirred the snow-white hair, she repeated it aloud 
 starting involuntarily as the rude walls echoed back the 
 name " Grandmother 1" 
 
 " Grandmother !" Through the senses locked in sleep it 
 penetrated, and the dim eyes, once so fiery and black ; grew 
 large and bright again, as Hagar Warren woke. 
 
 Was it a delusion, that beauteous form which met her 
 view, that soft hand on her brow, or was it Maggie Miller ? 
 
 " Grandmother," the low voice said again, " I am Maggie, 
 Hester's child. Can you see me ? Do ycu know that I ana 
 here ?" 
 
 Yes, through the films of age, through the films of com 
 ing death, and through the gathering darkness, old Hagar 
 
 20*
 
 46< MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 saw and knew, and with a scream of joy, her shrunken arms 
 wound themselves convulsively around the maiden's neck, 
 drawing her near, and nearer still, until the shrivelled lips 
 touched the cheek of her who did not turn away, but nv 
 turned that kiss of love. 
 
 " Say it again, say that word once more," and the arms 
 closed tighter round the form of Margaret, who breathed 
 it yet again, while the childish woman sobbed aloud : " It 
 is sweeter than the angels' song, to hear you call me so." 
 
 She did not ask her when she came she did not ask her 
 where she had been ; but Maggie told her all, sitting by her 
 Bide with the poor hands clasped in her own ; then, as the 
 twilight shadows deepened in the room, she struck a light, 
 and coming near to Hagar, said, " Am I much like my 
 mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, only more winsome," was the answer, and the 
 half blind eyes looked proudly -at the beautiful girl bending 
 over the humble pillow. 
 
 " Do you know that ?" Maggie asked, holding to view the 
 ambrotype of Hester Hamilton. 
 
 For an instant Ilagar Tvavered, then hugging the picture 
 to her bosom, she laughed and cried together, whispering as 
 she did so, " My little girl, my Hester, my baby that I used 
 to sing to sleep, in our home away over the sea." 
 
 Hagar's mind was wandering amid the scenes of bygone 
 years, but it soon came back again to the present time, and 
 she asked of Margaret whence that picture came. In a few 
 words, Maggie told her, and then for a time there was silence, 
 vhich was broken at last by Hagar's voice, weaker now 
 than when she spoke before. 
 
 " Maggie," she said, " what of this Arthur Carrollton ? 
 Will he make you his bride ?" 
 
 " He has so promised " answered Mag ; and Hagar con
 
 HAGAR. 46) 
 
 tinned : " He will take you to England, and you will be a 
 lady, sure. Margaret, listen to me. 'Tis the last time we 
 shall ever talk together, you and I, and I am glad that it is 
 BO. I have greatly sinned, but I have been forgiven, and I 
 am willing now to die. Everything I wished for has come 
 to pass, even the hearing you call me by that blessed name ; 
 but Maggie, when to-morrow they say that I am dead 
 when you come down to look upon me lying here asleep, you 
 needn't, call me ' Grandmother,' yon may say ' poor Hagar ' 
 with the rest and Maggie, is it too much to ask that your 
 own hands will arrange my hair, fix my cap, and straighten 
 my poor old crooked limbs for the coffin ? And if I rhould 
 look decent, will you, when nobodv sees you do it Madam 
 Conway, Arthur Carrollton, nobody who is proud will you, 
 Maggie, kiss me once for the sake of what I've suffered that 
 you might be what you are ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will," was Maggie's answer, her tears falling 
 fast, and a fear creeping into her heart, as by the dim can 
 dle light, she saw a nameless shadow settling down on 
 Hagar's face. 
 
 The servant entered at this moment, and glancing at old 
 Hagar, sunk into a chair, for she knew that shadow was 
 death. 
 
 " Maggie," and the voice was now a whisper, " I wish 1 
 could once more see this Mr. CrTollton. 'Tis the nature 
 of his kin to be sometimes overbearing, and though I am 
 only old Hagar Warren, he might heed my dying words, 
 and be more thoughtful of your happiness. Do you think 
 that he would come ?" 
 
 Ere Maggie had time to answer, there wo a step upon 
 the floor, and Arthur Carrollton stood at her sidt He had 
 waited for her long, and growing at last impatient, had 
 stolen to the open door, and when the dying woman asked
 
 8 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 for him, be had trampled down his pride, and entered the 
 humble room. Winding his arm round Margaret, who 
 trembled violently, he said, " Hagar, I am here. Have yoo 
 aught to say to me ?" 
 
 Quickly the glazed eyes turned towards him, and the 
 clammy hand was timidly extended. He took it unhesitat 
 ingly, while the pale lips murmured faintly : " Maggie's too." 
 Then holding both between her own, old Hagar said so 
 lemnly : " Young man, as you hope for heaven, deal kindly 
 with my child," and Arthur Carrollton answered her aloud : 
 " As I hope for heaven, I will," while Margaret fell upon 
 her knees and wept. Raising herself in bed, Hagar laid her 
 hands upon the head of the kneeling girl, breathing over 
 her a whispered blessing ; then the hands pressed heavily, 
 the fingers clung with a loving grasp, as it were, to the 
 bands of shining hair the thin lips ceased to move the 
 head fell back upon the pillow, motionless and still, and 
 Arthur Carrollton, leading Margaret away, told to her gen 
 tly ; that Hagar was dead. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Carefully, tenderly, as if she had been a wounded dove, 
 did the whole household demean themselves towards Mar 
 garet, seeing that everything needful was done, but men 
 tioning never in her presence the name of the dead. And 
 Margaret's position was a trying one, for though Hagar had 
 been her grandmother, she had never regarded her as such, 
 and she could not now affect a grief she did not feel. Still, 
 from her earliest childhood she had loved the strange old 
 woman, and she mourned for her now, as friend mourncth 
 for friend, when there is no tie of blood between them. 
 
 Her promise, too, was kept, and with her own hands she 
 smoothed the snow-white hair, tied on the muslin cap, folded 
 the stiffened arms, and then, unmindful who was looking on,
 
 HAGAR. 4M 
 
 kissed twice the placid face, which seemed to smile >n herio 
 death. 
 
 By the side of Hester Hamilton they made another grave, 
 ind with Arthur Carrollton and Rose standing at either 
 side, Margaret looked on while the weary and worn was laid 
 to rest ; then slowly she retraced her steps, walking now 
 with Madam Con way, for Arthm oirrollton and Rose had 
 lingered at the grave, talking together of a plun, which had 
 presented itself to the minds of both as they stood by the 
 humble stone, which told where Margaret's mother slept. 
 To Margaret, however, they said not a word, nor yet to 
 Madam Con way, though they both united in urging the two 
 ladies to accompany Theo to Worcester for a few days. 
 
 " Mrs. Warner will help me keep house," Mr. Carrollton 
 paid, advancing the while so many good reasons why Mar 
 garet at least should go, that she finally consented, and 
 went down to Worcester, together with Madam Con- 
 way, George Douglas, Theo and Henry, the latter of whom 
 seemed quite as forlorn as did she herself, for Rose was left 
 behind, and without her he was nothing. 
 
 Madam Conway had been very gracious to him ; his fam 
 ily were good, and when, as they passed the Charlton depot, 
 thoughts of the leghorn bonnet and blue umbrella intruded 
 themselves upon her, she half wished that Henry had broken 
 his leg in Thco's behalf, and so saved her from bearing thfl 
 nnme of Douglas. 
 
 The week went by, passing rapidly as all weeks will, ami 
 Margaret was again at home. Rose was there still, and 
 just as the sun was setting, she took her sister's hand, and 
 ed her out into the open air, toward the resting-place of 
 tbe dead, where a change had been wrought, and Margare^
 
 170 MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 leaning over the iron gate, comprehended at once the feel 
 ing which had prompted Mr. Carrollton and Hose to desire 
 her absence for a time. The humble stone was gone, an 
 in its place there stood a handsome monument, less impos 
 ing, and less expensive than that of Mrs. Miller, it is true ; 
 but still chaste and elegant, bearing upon it simply the 
 names of " Hester Hamilton," and her mother " Hagar 
 Warren," with the years of their death. The little grave, 
 too, where for many years Maggie herself had been sup 
 posed to sleep, was not beneath the pine tree now ; that 
 mound was levelled down, and another had been made, just 
 where the grass was growing rank and green beneath the 
 shadow of the taller stone, and there side by side they lay 
 at list together, the mother and her infant child. 
 
 " It was kind in you to do this," Margaret said, and then, 
 with her arm round Rose's waist, she spoke of the coming 
 time when the sun of another hemisphere would be shining 
 down upon her, saying she should think often of that hour, 
 that spot, and that sister, who answered : " Every year when 
 the spring rains fall, I shall come to see that the grave has 
 been well kept, for you know that she was my mother, too," 
 and she pointed to the name of " Hester," deep cut in the 
 polished marble. 
 
 " Not yours Rose, but mine" said Maggie. " My mother, 
 she was, and as such, I will cherish her memory;" then, with 
 her arm still around her sister's waist, she walked slowly 
 back to the house. 
 
 A little later, and while Arthur Carrollton, with Maggie 
 Rt his side, was talking to her of something which made the 
 blushes burn on her still pale cheeks, Madam Conway her- 
 eelf walked out to witness the improvements, lingering 
 longest at the little grave, and saying to herself, " it was 
 very thoughtful in Arthur, very, to do what I should have
 
 HAGAR. 471 
 
 done myself ere this, had I not- been afraid of Margaret's 
 feelings." 
 
 Then turning to the new monument, she admired ita 
 cha: te beauty, but hardly knew whether she was pleased to 
 barn it there or not. 
 
 " It's very handsome," she said, leaving the yard ; and 
 walking backward to observe the effect. " And it adds much 
 to the looks of the place. There is no question about that. It 
 is perfectly proper, too, or Mr. Carrollton would never have 
 put it here, for he knows what is right, of course," and the 
 still doubtful lady turned away, saying as she did so, " on 
 the whole I think I am glad that Hester has a handsome 
 monument, and I know I am glad that Mrs. Miller's is a 
 littlf- *ihe taller of the two 1"
 
 7S MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858. 
 
 YEARS hence, if the cable coil, resting far down in thi 
 mermaids' home, shall prove a bond of perfect peace between 
 the mother and her child, thousands will recall the bright 
 summer morning, when through the caverns of the mighty 
 deep, the first electric message came, thrilling the nation's 
 heart, quickening the nation's pulse, and with the music of 
 the deep toned bell, and noise of the cannon's roar, pro 
 claiming to the listening multitude, that the isle beyond the 
 sea, and the lands which to the westward lie, were bound 
 together, shore to shore, by a strange, mysterious tie. And 
 two there are who, in their happy home, will oft look back 
 npon that day, that 18th day of August, which gave to one 
 of Britain's sons as fair and beautiful a bride as e'er went 
 forth from the New England hills to dwell beneath a foreign 
 sky. 
 
 They had not intended to be married so soon, for Mar 
 garet would wait a little longer ; but an unexpected and 
 urgent summons home made it necessary for Mr. Carrollton 
 to go, and so by chance, the bridal day was fixed for the 
 18th. None save the family were present, and Madam Con- 
 way's tears fell fast, as the words were spoken which made 
 them one, for by those words she knew that she and Mar 
 garet must part. But not forever ; for when tht oext year's
 
 AUGUST EIGHTEENTH. 479 
 
 Bolnmn leaves shall fall, the old house by the mill will again 
 be without a mistress, while in a handsome country seat 
 beyond the sea, Madam Conway will demean herself right 
 proudly as becometh the grandmother of Mrs. Arthur Car 
 roll ton. T heo, too, and Eose will both be there, for their 
 husbands have so promised, and when the Christmas fires 
 are kindled on the hearth, and the ancient pictures on the 
 wall take a richer tinge from the ruddy light, there will be a 
 happy group assembled within the Carrollton halls ; and 
 Margaret, the happiest of them all, will then almost forget 
 that ever in the Hillsdale woods, sitting at Hagar's feet, she 
 listened with a breaking heart to the story of her birth. 
 
 But not the thoughts of a joyous future could dissipate 
 entirely the sadness of that bridal, for Margaret was well 
 beloved, and the billow which would roll ere lonor between 
 
 ' O 
 
 her and her childhood's home, stretched many, many milea 
 away. Still they tried to be cheerful, and Henry Warner's 
 merry jokes had called forth more than one gay laugh, when 
 the peal of bells and the roll of drums arrested their atten 
 tion ; while the servants, who had learned the cause of the 
 rejoicing, struck up " God save the Queen," and from an 
 adjoining field a rival choir sent back the stirring note of 
 ' Hail Columbia Happy Land." Mrs. Jeffrey, too, was busy 
 la secret she had labored at the rent made by her foot in 
 tie flag of bygone days, and now, perspiring at every pore, 
 she dragged it up the tower stairs, planting it herself upon 
 the house-top, where side by side with the royal banner, it 
 waved in the summer breeze. And this she did, not because 
 she cared aught for the cable, in which she " didn't believe" 
 and declared " would never work," but because she would 
 celebrate Margaret's wedding day, and so made some amends 
 for her interference when once before the stars and stripes 
 Bad floated above the old stone house.
 
 4H MAGGIE MILLER. 
 
 And thus it was, amid smiles and tears, amid bells and 
 drums, and waving flags and merry song, amid noisy shout 
 and booming guns, that double bridal day was kept; and 
 when the sun went down, it left a glory on the western 
 eiouds as if they, too, had donned their best attire in honor 
 of the union. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 It is moonlight on the land, glorious, beautiful moonlight. 
 On Hagar's peaceful grave it falls, and glancing off from 
 the polished stone, shines across the fields upon the old 
 etone house, where all is cheerless now and still. No life 
 no sound no bounding step no gleeful song. All is silent, 
 all is sad. The light of the household has departed ; it 
 went with the -hour when first to each other the lonesome 
 servants said, " Margaret is gone." 
 
 Yes, she is gone, and all through the darkened rooms 
 there is found no trace of her, but away to the eastward 
 the moonlight falls upon the sea, where a noble vessel rides. 
 With pails unfurled to the evening breeze, it speeds away 
 away from the loved hearts on the shore which after that 
 bark, and its precious freight, have sent many a throb of 
 love. Upon the deck of that gallant ship there stands a 
 beautiful bride, looking across the water with straining eye, 
 and smiling through her tears on him who wipes those tears 
 away, and whispers in her ear, " I will be more to you, 
 my wife, than they have ever been." 
 
 So, witli the love-light shining on her heart, and the moon 
 light shining on the wave, we bid adieu to Due who bearf 
 BO more the name of " MAGGIE MILLER."
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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 3 1158 00327 1987 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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