woman's face
when she should hear the tale, for it must be told--and she must tell
it, too. She would not be an impostor; and then there flashed upon her
the agonizing thought, before which all else seemed as naught--in the
proud heart of Arthur Carrollton was there a place for Hagar Warren's
grandchild? "No, no, no!" she moaned; and the next moment she lay at
Hagar's feet, white, rigid, and insensible.

"She's dead!" cried Hagar; and for one brief instant she hoped that it
was so.

But not then and there was Margaret to die; and slowly she came back
to life, shrinking from the touch of Hagar's hand when she felt it on
her brow.

"There may be some mistake," she whispered; but Hagar answered, "There
is none"; at the same time relating so minutely the particulars of the
deception that Maggie was convinced, and, covering her face with her
hands, sobbed aloud, while Hagar, sitting by in silence, was nerving
herself to tell the rest.

The sun had set, and the twilight shadows were stealing down upon
them, when, creeping abjectly upon her knees towards the wretched
girl, she said, "There is more, Maggie, more--I have not told you
all."

But Maggie had heard enough, and, exerting all her strength, she
sprang to her feet, while Hagar clutched eagerly at her dress, which
was wrested from her grasp, as Maggie fled away--away--she knew not,
cared not, whither, so that she were beyond the reach of the trembling
voice which called after her to return. Alone in the deep woods, with
the darkness falling around her, she gave way to the mighty sorrow
which had come so suddenly upon her. She could not doubt what she had
heard. She knew that it was true, and as proof after proof crowded
upon her, until the chain of evidence was complete, she laid her head
upon the rain-wet grass, and shudderingly stopped her ears, to shut
out, if possible, the memory of the dreadful words, "I, the shriveled,
skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother." For a long
time she lay there thus, weeping till the fountain of her tears seemed
dry; then, weary, faint, and sick, she started for her home. Opening
cautiously the outer door, she was gliding up the stairs when Madam
Conway, entering the hall with a lamp, discovered her, and uttered
an exclamation of surprise at the strangeness of her appearance. Her
dress, bedraggled and wet, was torn in several places by the briery
bushes she had passed; her hair, loosened from its confinement, hung