Part 7 (2/2)

What troubles you?”

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

Never before had he spoken to her thus; but a change had come over him, his heart was full of a beautiful image, and fancying Rose might have followed his example he asked her the question he did, without, however, expecting or receiving a definite answer.

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

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

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

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

Winding his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to his side, Henry Warner rested her head upon his bosom, where it had often lain, and, smoothing her golden curls, told her of Maggie Miller, of her queenly beauty, of her das.h.i.+ng, independent spirit, her frank, ingenuous manner, her kindness of heart; and last of all, bending very low, lest the vine leaves and the fair blossoms of the rose should hear, he told her of his love; and Rose, the fairest flower of all which bloomed around that bower, clasped her hand upon her heart, lest he should see its wild throbbings, and, forcing back the tears which moistened her long lashes, listened to the knell of all her hopes.

Henceforth her love for him must be an idle mockery, and the time would come when to love him as she loved him then would be a sin--a wrong to herself, a wrong to him, and a wrong to Maggie Miller.

”You are surely not asleep,” he said at last, as she made him no reply, and bending forward he saw the tear-drops resting on her cheek.

”Not asleep, but weeping!” he exclaimed. ”What is it, darling? What troubles you?” And lifting up her head, Rose Warner answered, ”I was thinking how this new love of yours would take you from me, and I should be alone.”

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

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

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

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

”My sister--sister Maggie,” she repeated; and at the sound of that name her fast-beating heart grew still, for they seemed very sweet to her, those words ”my sister,” thrilling her with a new and strange emotion, and awakening within her a germ of the deep, undying love she was yet to feel for her who had traced those words and asked to be her sister. ”I will do right,” she thought; ”I will conquer this foolish heart of mine, or break it in the struggle, and Henry Warner shall never know how sorely it was wrung.”

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

”I grant your request [she said] and take you for a sister well beloved. I had a half-sister once, they say, but she died when a little babe. I never looked upon her face, and connected with her birth there was too much of sorrow and humiliation for me to think much of her, save as of one who, under other circ.u.mstances, might have been dear to me. And yet as I grow older I often find myself wis.h.i.+ng she had lived, for my father's blood was in her veins. But I do not even know where her grave was made, for we only heard one winter morning, years ago, that she was dead with the mother who bore her.

Forgive me, Maggie dear, for saying so much about that little child.

Thoughts of you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who, had she lived, would have been a young lady now nearly your own age.

So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I would have loved, I adopt you, sweet Maggie Miller, my sister and my friend. May Heaven's choicest blessings rest on you forever, and no shadow come between you and the one you have chosen for your husband! To my partial eyes he is worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly in form though you be, and that you may be happy with him will be the daily prayer of

”ROSE.”

The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother, who, after its perusal, kissed her, saying: ”It is right, my darling. I will send it to-morrow with mine; and now for a ride. I will see what a little exercise can do for you. I do not like the color of your face.”

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

Thus little know mankind of each other!

<script>