er from time to time letters fraught
with praises of Margaret Miller; and if in Rose Warner's nature there
had been a particle of bitterness, it would have been called forth
toward one who, she foresaw, would be her rival. But Rose knew no
malice, and she felt that she would sooner die than do aught to mar
the happiness of Maggie Miller.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winding his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to his side,
Henry Warner rested her head upon his bosom, where it had often lain,
and, smoothing her golden curls, told her of Maggie Miller, of her
queenly beauty, of her das