felt Rose Warner's heart throbbing against her own, and knew their
father was the same.

"You are tired," Rose said, at length, when much had been said by
both. "You must have rest, and then I will bring to you my aunt, our
aunt, Maggie--our father's sister. She has been a mother to me.
She will be one to you. But stay," she continued, "you have had no
breakfast. I will bring you some," and she tripped lightly from the
room.

Maggie followed her with swimming eyes, then turning to Henry she
said, "You are very happy, I am sure."

"Yes, very," he answered, coming to her side. "Happy in my wife, happy
in my newly found sister," and he laid his hand on hers with something
of his former familiarity.

But the olden feeling was gone, and Maggie could now meet his glance
without a blush, while he could talk with her as calmly as if she
had never been aught to him save the sister of his wife. Thus often
changeth the human heart's first love.

After a time Rose returned, bearing a silver tray heaped with the most
tempting viands: but Maggie's heart was too full to eat, and after
drinking a cup of the fragrant black tea, which Rose herself had made,
she laid her head upon the pillow which Henry brought, and, with Rose
sitting by, holding lovingly her hand, she fell into a quiet slumber.
For several hours she slept, and when she awoke at last the sun was
shining in at the western window, casting over the floor a glimmering
light, and reminding her so forcibly of the dancing shadows on the
grass which grew around the old stone house that her eyes filled with
tears, and, thinking herself alone, she murmured, "Will it never be my
home again?"

A sudden movement, the rustling of a dress, startled her, and lifting
up her head she saw standing near a pleasant-looking, middle-aged
woman, who, she rightly guessed, was Mrs. Warner, her own aunt.

"Maggie," the lady said, laying her hand on the fevered brow, "I have
heard a strange tale to-day. Heretofore I had supposed Rose to be my
only child, but though you take me by surprise you are not the less
welcome. There is room in my heart for you, Maggie Miller, room for
the youngest-born of my only brother. You are somewhat like him, too,"
she continued, "though more like your mother;" and with the mention of
that name a flush stole over the lady's face, for she, too, was very
proud, and her brother's marriage with a servant girl had never been
quite forgiven.

Mrs. Warner had seen