gularly adapted to each other. A glance had
convinced Arthur Carrollton that Maggie was by far the most beautiful
lady present, and feeling that on this her first introduction into
society she needed someone 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 loath 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 Rose, and then she looked to see
how Henry 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 received the homage of
the gay throng. Thoughts similar to those of Rose, however, forced
themselves upon him as he saw the dignified bearing of Mr.
Carrollton, and for the first time in his life he was conscious of an
uncomfortable feeling of inferiority to some thing or some body, he
hardly knew what. This feeling, however, passed away when Maggie came
at last to his side, with her winning smile and playful words.

Very closely Madam Conway watched her now; but Maggie did not heed it,
and leaning on Henry's arm she seemed oblivious to all save him.
After a time he led her out upon a side piazza, where they would be
comparatively alone. Observing that she seemed a little chilly, he
left her for a moment while he went in quest of her shawl. Scarcely
was he gone when a slight, fairy form came flitting through the
moonlight to where Maggie sat, and, twining its 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 the sound of that name,
which even the night wind, sighing through the trees, seemed to take
up and repeat. "My sister!" 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 between 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