The establishment of Douglas & Co. was closed for the night.  The clerks had gone each to his own home; old Safford, the poor relation, the man-of-all-work, who attended faithfully to everything, groaning often and praying oftener over the careless habits of “the boys,” as he called the two young men, his employers, had sought his comfortless bachelor attic, where he slept always with one ear open, listening for any burglarious sound which might come from the store below, and which had it come to him listening thus would have frightened him half to death.  George Douglas, too, the senior partner of the firm, had retired to his own room, which was far more elegantly furnished than that of the old man in the attic, and now in a velvet easy-chair he sat reading the letter from Hillsdale, which had arrived that evening, and a portion of which we subjoin for the reader’s benefit.

After giving an account of his accident, and the manner in which it occurred, Warner continued: 

“They say ’tis a mighty bad wind which blows no one any good, and so, though I verily believe I suffer all a man can suffer with a broken bone, yet when I look at the fair face of Maggie Miller I feel that I would not exchange this high old bed, to enter which needs a short ladder, even for a seat by you on that three-legged stool behind the old writing-desk.  I never saw anything like her in my life.  Everything she thinks, she says, and as to flattering her, it can’t be done.  I’ve told her a dozen times at least that she was beautiful, and she didn’t mind it any more than Rose does when I flatter her.  Still, I fancy if I were to talk to her of love it might make a difference, and perhaps I shall ere I leave the place.

“You know, George, I have always insisted there was but one female in the world fit to be a wife, and as that one was my sister I should probably never have the pleasure of paying any bills for Mrs. Henry Warner; but I’ve half changed my mind, and I’m terribly afraid this Maggie Miller, not content with breaking my bones, has made sad work with another portion of the body, called by physiologists the heart.  I don’t know how a man feels when he is in love; but when this Maggie Miller looks me straight in the face with her sunshiny eyes, while her little soft white hand pushes back my hair (which, by the way, I slyly disarrange on purpose), I feel the blood tingle to the ends of my toes, and still I dare not hint such a thing to her.  ’Twould frighten her off in a moment, and she’ll send in her place either an old hag of a woman called Hagar, or her proud sister Theo, whom I cannot endure.

“By the way, George, this Theo will just suit you, who are fond of aristocracy.  She’s proud as Lucifer; thinks because she was born in England, and sprang from a high family, that there is no one in America worthy of her ladyship’s notice, unless indeed they chance to have money.  You ought to have seen how her eyes lighted up when I told her you were said to be worth two hundred thousand dollars!  She told me directly to invite you out here, and this, I assure you, was a good deal for her to do.  So don your best attire, not forgetting the diamond cross, and come for a day or two.  Old Safford will attend to the store.  It’s what he was made for, and he likes it.  But as I am a Warner, so shall I do my duty and warn you not to meddle with Maggie.  She is my own exclusive property, and altogether too good for a worldly fellow like you.  Theo will suit you better.  She’s just aristocratic enough in her nature.  I don’t see how the two girls come to be so wholly unlike as they are.  Why, I’d sooner take Maggie for Rose’s sister than for Theo’s!

“Bless me, I had almost forgotten to ask if you remember that stiff old English woman with the snuff-colored satin who came to our store some five years ago, and found so much fault with Yankee goods, as she called them?  If you have forgotten her, you surely remember the two girls in flats, one of whom seemed so much distressed at her grandmother’s remarks.  She, the distressed one, was Maggie; the other was Theo; and the old lady was Madam Conway, who, luckily for me, chances at this time to be in England, buying up goods, I presume.  Maggie says that this trip to Worcester, together with a camp-meeting held in the Hillsdale woods last year, is the extent of her travels, and one would think so to see her.  A perfect child of nature, full of fun, beautiful as a Hebe, and possessing the kindest heart in the world.  If you wish to know more of her come and see for yourself; but again I warn you, hands off; nobody is to flirt with her but myself, and it is very doubtful whether even I can do it peaceably, for that old Hagar, who, by the way, is a curious specimen, gave me to understand when I lay on the rock, with her sitting by, as a sort of ogress, that so long as she lived no city chap with strapped pants (do pray, bring me a pair, George, without straps!) and sneering mouth was going to fool with Margaret Miller.

“So you see my mouth is at fault again.  Hang it all, I can’t imagine what ails it, that everybody should think I’m making fun of them.  Even old Safford mutters about my making mouths at him when I haven’t thought of him in a month!  Present my compliments to the old gentleman and tell him one of ‘the boys’ thinks seriously of following his advice, which you know is ‘to sow our wild oats and get a wife.’  Do, pray, come, for I am only half myself without you.

“Yours in the brotherhood,

“Henry Warner.”

For a time after reading the above George Douglas sat wrapped in thought, then bursting into a laugh as he thought how much the letter was like the jovial, light-hearted fellow who wrote it, he put it aside, and leaning back in his chair mused long and silently, not of Theo, but of Maggie, half wishing he were in Warner’s place instead of being there in the dusty city.  But as this could not be, he contented himself with thinking that at some time not far distant he would visit the old stone house-would see for himself this wonderful Maggie-and, though he had been warned against it, would possibly win her from his friend, who, unconsciously perhaps, had often crossed his path, watching him jealously lest he should look too often and too long upon the fragile Rose, blooming so sweetly in her bird’s-nest of a home among the tall old trees of Leominster.

“But he need not fear,” he said somewhat bitterly, “he need not fear for her, for it is over now.  She has refused me, this Rose Warner, and though it touched my pride to hear her tell me no, I cannot hate her for it.  She had given her love to another, she said, and Warner is blind or crazy that he does not see the truth.  But it is not for me to enlighten him.  He may call her sister if he likes, though there is no tie of blood between them.  I’d far rather it would be thus, than something nearer;” and, slowly rising up, George Douglas retired to dream of a calm, almost heavenly face which but the day before had been bathed in tears as he told to Rose Warner the story of his love.  Mingled, too, with that dream was another face, a laughing, sparkling, merry face, upon which no man ever yet had looked and escaped with a whole heart.

The morning light dispelled the dream, and when in the store old Safford inquired, “What news from the boy?” the senior partner answered gravely that he was lying among the Hillsdale hills, with a broken leg caused by a fall from his horse.

“Always was a careless rider,” muttered old Safford, mentally deploring the increased amount of labor which would necessarily fall upon him, but which he performed without a word of complaint.

The fair May blossoms were faded, and the last June roses were blooming ere George Douglas found time or inclination to accept the invitation indirectly extended to him by Theo Miller.  Rose Warner’s refusal had affected him more than he chose to confess, and the wound must be slightly healed ere he could find pleasure in the sight of another.  Possessed of many excellent qualities, he had unfortunately fallen into the error of thinking that almost anyone whom he should select would take him for his money.  And when Rose Warner, sitting by his side in the shadowy twilight, had said, “I cannot be your wife,” the shock was sudden and hard to bear.  But the first keen bitterness was over now, and remembering “the wild girls of the woods,” as he mentally styled both Theo and Maggie, he determined at last to see them for himself.

Accordingly, on the last day of June he started for Hillsdale, where he intended to remain until after the Fourth.  To find the old house was an easy matter, for almost everyone in town was familiar with its locality, and towards the close of the afternoon he found himself upon its broad steps applying vigorous strokes to the ponderous brass knocker, and half hoping the summons would be answered by Maggie herself.  But it was not, and in the bent, white-haired woman who came with measured footsteps we recognize old Hagar, who spent much of her time at the house, and who came to the door in compliance with the request of the young ladies, both of whom, from an upper window, were curiously watching the stranger.

“Just the old witch one would expect to find in this out-of-the-way place,” thought Mr. Douglas, while at the same time he asked if that were Madam Conway’s residence, and if a young man by the name of Warner were staying there.

“Another city beau!” muttered Hagar, as she answered in the affirmative, and ushered him into the parlor.  “Another city beau-there’ll be high carryings-on now, if he’s anything like the other one, who’s come mighty nigh turning the house upside down.”

“What did you say?” asked George Douglas, catching the sound of her muttering, and thinking she was addressing himself.

“I wasn’t speaking to you.  I was talking to a likelier person,” answered old Hagar in an undertone, as she shuffled away in quest of Henry Warner, who by this time was able to walk with the help of a cane.

The meeting between the young men was a joyful one, for though George Douglas was a little sore on the subject of Rose, he would not suffer a matter like that to come between him and Henry Warner, whom he had known and liked from boyhood.  Henry’s first inquiries were naturally of a business character, and then George Douglas spoke of the young ladies, saying he was only anxious to see Maggie, for he knew of course he should dislike the other.

Such, however, is wayward human nature that the fair, pale face, and quiet, dignified manner of Theo Miller had greater attractions for a person of George Douglas’ peculiar temperament than had the dashing, brilliant Maggie.  There was a resemblance, he imagined, between Theo and Rose, and this of itself was sufficient to attract him towards her.  Theo, too, was equally pleased; and when, that evening, Madam Jeffrey faintly interposed her fast-departing authority, telling her quondam pupils it was time they were asleep, Theo did not, as usual, heed the warning, but sat very still beneath the vine-wreathed portico, listening while George Douglas told her of the world which she had never seen.  She was not proud towards him, for he possessed the charm of money, and as he looked down upon her, conversing with him so familiarly, he wondered how Henry could have called her cold and haughty-she was merely dignified, high-bred, he thought; and George Douglas liked anything which savored of aristocracy.

Meanwhile Henry and Maggie had wandered to a little summer-house, where, with the bright moonlight falling upon them, they sat together, but not exactly as of old, for Maggie did not now look up into his face as she was wont to do, and if she thought his eye was resting upon her she moved uneasily, while the rich blood deepened on her cheek.  A change has come over Maggie Miller; it is the old story, too-old to hundreds of thousands, but new to her, the blushing maiden.  Theo calls her nervous-Mrs. Jeffrey calls her sick-the servants call her mighty queer-while old Hagar, hovering ever near, and watching her with a jealous eye, knows she is in love.

Faithfully and well had Hagar studied Henry Warner, to see if there were aught in him of evil; and though he was not what she would have chosen for the queenly Maggie she was satisfied if Margaret loved him and he loved Margaret.  But did he?  He had never told her so; and in Hagar Warren’s wild black eyes there was a savage gleam, as she thought, “He’ll rue the day that he dares trifle with Maggie Miller.”

But Henry Warner was not trifling with her.  He was only waiting a favorable opportunity for telling her the story of his love; and now, as they sit together in the moonlight, with the musical flow of the mill-stream falling on his ear, he essays to speak-to tell how she has grown into his heart; to ask her to go with him where he goes; to make his home her home, and so be with him always; but ere the first word was uttered Maggie asked if Mr. Douglas had brought the picture of his sister.

“Why, yes,” he answered; “I had forgotten it entirely.  Here it is;” and taking it from his pocket he passed it to her.

It was a face of almost ethereal loveliness that through the moonlight looked up to Maggie Miller, and again she experienced the same undefinable emotion, a mysterious, invisible something drawing her towards the original of the beautiful likeness.

“It is strange how thoughts of Rose always affect me,” she said, gazing earnestly upon the large eyes of blue shadowed forth upon the picture.  “It seems as though she must be nearer to me than an unknown friend.”

“Seems she like a sister?” asked Henry Warner, coming so near that Maggie felt his warm breath upon her cheek.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” she answered, with something of her olden frankness.  “And had I somewhere in the world an unknown sister I should say it was Rose Warner!”

There were a few low, whispered words, and when the full moon, which for a time had hidden itself behind the clouds, again shone forth in all its glory, Henry had asked Maggie Miller to be the sister of Rose Warner, and Maggie had answered “Yes”!

That night in Maggie’s dreams there was a strange commingling of thoughts.  Thoughts of Henry Warner, as he told her of his love-thoughts of the gentle girl whose eyes of blue had looked so lovingly up to her, as if between them there was indeed a common bond of sympathy-and, stranger far than all, thoughts of the little grave beneath the pine where slept the so-called child of Hester Hamilton-the child defrauded of its birthright, and who, in the misty vagaries of dreamland, seemed to stand between her and the beautiful Rose Warner!