hing, independent spirit, her frank,
ingenuous manner, her kindness of heart; and last of all, bending very
low, lest the vine leaves and the fair blossoms of the rose should
hear, he told her of his love; and Rose, the fairest flower of all
which bloomed around that bower, clasped her hand upon her heart, lest
he should see its wild throbbings, and, forcing back the tears which
moistened her long lashes, listened to the knell of all her hopes.
Henceforth her love for him must be an idle mockery, and the time
would come when to love him as she loved him then would be a sin--a
wrong to herself, a wrong to him, and a wrong to Maggie Miller.

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

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

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

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

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

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