se, to whom he was kinder, if possible, than he had been
before, though he seldom kissed her lips or caressed her in any way.

"It would be wrong," he said, "a wrong to myself--a wrong to her--and
a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom my troth is plighted;" and he did
not wish it otherwise, he thought; though insensibly there came over
him a wish that Maggie herself might weary of the engagement and seek
to break it. Not that he loved her the less, he reasoned, but that he
pitied Rose the more.

In this manner time passed on, until at last there came to him
Maggie's letter, which had been a long time on the sea.

"I expected it," he thought, as he finished reading it, and though
conscious for a moment of a feeling of disappointment the letter
brought him far more pleasure than pain.

Of Arthur Carrollton no mention had been made, but he readily guessed
the truth; and thinking, "It is well," he laid the letter aside and
went back to Rose, deciding to say nothing to her then. He would wait
until his own feelings were more perfectly defined. So a week went by,
and again, as he had often done before, he sat with her alone in the
quiet night, watching her as she slept, and thinking how beautiful
she was, with her golden hair shading her childish face, her long
eyelashes resting on her cheek, and her little hands folded meekly
upon her bosom.

"She is too beautiful to die," he murmured, pressing a kiss upon her
lips.

This act awoke her, and, turning towards him she said, "Was I
dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss me as you used to do?"

"Not dreaming, Rose," he answered--then rather hurriedly he added: "I
have a letter from Maggie Miller, and ere I answer it I would read it
to you. Can you hear it now?"

"Yes, yes," she whispered faintly; "read it to me, Henry;" and,
turning her face away, she listened while he read that Maggie Miller,
grown weary of her troth, asked a release from her engagement.

He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear what Rose
would say. But for a time she did not speak. All hope for herself had
long since died away, and now she experienced only sorrow for Henry's
disappointment.

"My poor brother," she said at last, turning her face towards him and
taking his hand in hers; "I am sorry for you--to lose us both, Maggie
and me. What will you do?"

"Rose," he said, bending so low that his brown locks mingled with the
yellow tresses of her hair--"Rose, I do not regret Maggie Miller's