white fingers are
arranging the fair June blossoms into bouquets, with which she adorns
her home, saying to him who hovers at her side that somebody, she
knows not whom, is surely coming to-day; and then, with a blush
stealing over her cheek, she adds, "I wish it might be Margaret";
while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical mouth, winds his arm
around her waist, and playfully responds, "Anyone save her."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE SISTERS.

On a cool piazza overlooking a handsome flower garden the breakfast
table was tastefully arranged. It was Rose's idea to have it there,
and in her cambric wrapper, her golden curls combed smoothly back, and
her blue eyes shining with the light of a new joy, she occupies her
accustomed seat beside one who for several happy weeks has called her
his, loving her more and more each day, and wondering how thoughts of
any other could ever have filled his heart. There was much to be done
about his home, so long deserted, and as Rose was determined upon a
trip to the seaside he had made arrangements to be absent from
his business for two months or more, and was now enjoying all the
happiness of a quiet, domestic life, free from care of any kind. He
had heard of Maggie's illness, but she was better now, he supposed,
and when Theo hinted vaguely that a marriage between her and Arthur
Carrollton was not at all improbable, he hoped it would be so, for the
Englishman, he knew, was far better adapted to Margaret than he
had ever been. Of Theo's hints he was speaking to Rose as they sat
together at breakfast, and she had answered, "It will be a splendid
match," when the doorbell rang, and the servant announced, "A lady in
the parlor, who asks for Mr. Warner."

"I told you someone would come," said Rose. "Do, pray, see who it is.
How does she look, Janet?"

"Tall, white as a ghost, with big black eyes," was Janet's answer;
and, with his curiosity awakened, Henry Warner started for the parlor,
Rose following on tiptoe, and listening through the half-closed door
to what their visitor might say.

Margaret had experienced no difficulty in finding the house of Mrs.
Warner, which seemed to her a second Paradise, so beautiful and cool
it looked, nestled amid the tall, green forest trees. Everything
around it betokened the fine taste of its occupants, and Maggie, as
she reflected that she too was nearly connected with this family, felt
her wounded pride in a measure soothed, for it was surely