now how sorely it was wrung."

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

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

"ROSE."

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

But neither the fragrant summer air, nor yet the presence of Henry
Warner, who tarried several days, could rouse the drooping Rose; and
when at last she was left alone she sought her bed, where for many
weeks she hovered between life and death, while her brother and her
aunt hung over her pillow, and Maggie, from her woodland home, sent
many an anxious inquiry and message of love to the sick girl. In the
close atmosphere of his counting-room George Douglas too again battled
manfully with his olden love, listening each day to hear that she was
dead. But not thus early was Rose to die, and with the waning summer
days she came slowly back to life. More beautiful than ever, because
more ethereal and fair, she walked the earth like one