re all the world to me;"
and, laying his head upon her pillow, he wept as men will sometimes
weep over their one great sorrow.

"Don't, Henry," she said, laying her tiny hand upon his hair. "Maggie
will comfort you when I am gone. She will talk to you of me, standing
at my grave, for, Henry, you must not leave me here alone. You must
carry me home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my childhood
was passed, and where I learned to love you so much--oh, so much!"

There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the last words were
uttered, but Henry Warner did not understand it, and covering the
little blue-veined hand with kisses he promised that her grave should
be made at the foot of the garden in their far-off home, where the
sunlight fell softly and the moonbeams gently shone. That evening
Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a disturbed slumber. For
a time he took no notice of the disconnected words she uttered in her
dreams, but when at last he heard the sound of his own name he drew
near, and, bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy, sorrow,
and surprise to a secret which, waking, she would never have told
him, above all others. She loved him,--the fair girl he called his
sister,--but not as a sister loves; and now, as he stood by her, with
the knowledge thrilling every nerve, he remembered many bygone scenes,
when but for his blindness he would have seen how every pulsation of
her heart throbbed alone for him whose hand was plighted to another,
and that other no unworthy rival. Beautiful, very beautiful, was the
shadowy form which at that moment seemed standing at his side, and
his heart went out towards her as the one above all others to be his
bride.

"Had I known it sooner," he thought, "known it before I met the
peerless Maggie, I might have taken Rose to my bosom and loved her--it
may be with a deeper love than that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose
is everything to me. She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can
I let her die when I have the power to save her?"

There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was waking, and as her soft
blue eyes unclosed and looked up in his face he wound his arms around
her, kissing her lips as never before he had kissed her. She was
not his sister now--the veil was torn away--a new feeling had been
awakened, and as days and weeks went by there gradually crept in
between him and Maggie Miller a new love--even a love for the
fair-haired Ro