Nestled among the tall old trees which skirt the borders of Leominster village was the bird’s-nest of a cottage which Rose Warner called her home, and which, with its wealth of roses, its trailing vines and flowering shrubs, seemed fitted for the abode of one like her.  Slight as a child twelve summers old, and fair as the white pond lily when first to the morning sun it unfolds its delicate petals, she seemed too frail for earth; and both her aunt and he whom she called brother watched carefully lest the cold north wind should blow too rudely on the golden curls which shaded her childish brow.  Very, very beautiful was little Rose, and yet few ever looked upon her without a feeling of sadness; for in the deep blue of her eyes there was a mournful, dreamy look, as if the shadow of some great sorrow were resting thus early upon her.

And Rose Warner had a sorrow, too-a grief which none save one had ever suspected.  To him it had come with the words, “I cannot be your wife for I love another; one who will never know how dear he is to me.”

The words were involuntarily spoken, and George Douglas, looking down upon her, guessed rightly that he who would never know how much he was beloved was Henry Warner.  To her the knowledge that Henry was something dearer than a brother had come slowly, filling her heart with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to his bosom, as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow, he thought of her only as a brother thinks of a beautiful and idolized sister.  It had heretofore been some consolation to know that his affections were untrammeled with thoughts of another, that she alone was the object of his love, and hope had sometimes faintly whispered of what perchance might be; but from that dream she was waking now, and her face grew whiter still as there came to her from time to time letters fraught with praises of Margaret Miller; and if in Rose Warner’s nature there had been a particle of bitterness, it would have been called forth toward one who, she foresaw, would be her rival.  But Rose knew no malice, and she felt that she would sooner die than do aught to mar the happiness of Maggie Miller.

For nearly two weeks she had not heard from Henry, and she was beginning to feel very anxious, when one morning, two or three days succeeding the memorable Hillsdale celebration, as she sat in a small arbor so thickly overgrown with the Michigan rose as to render her invisible at a little distance, she was startled by hearing him call her name, as he came in quest of her down the garden walk.  The next moment he held her in his arms, kissing her forehead, her lips, her cheek; then holding her off, he looked to see if there had been in her aught of change since last they met.

“You are paler than you were, Rose darling,” he said, “and your eyes look as if they had of late been used to tears.  What is it, dearest?  What troubles you?”

Rose could not answer immediately, for his sudden coming had taken away her breath, and as he saw a faint blush stealing over her face he continued, “Can it be my little sister has been falling in love during my absence?”

Never before had he spoken to her thus; but a change had come over him, his heart was full of a beautiful image, and fancying Rose might have followed his example he asked her the question he did, without, however, expecting or receiving a definite answer.

“I am so lonely, Henry, when you are gone and do not write to me!” she said; and in the tones of her voice there was a slight reproof, which Henry felt keenly.

He had been so engrossed with Maggie Miller and the free joyous life he led in the Hillsdale woods, that for a time he had neglected Rose, who, in his absence, depended so much on his letters for comfort.

“I have been very selfish, I know,” he said; “but I was so happy, that for a time I forgot everything save Maggie Miller.”

An involuntary shudder ran through Rose’s slender form; but, conquering her emotion, she answered calmly:  “What of this Maggie Miller?  Tell me of her, will you?”

Winding his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to his side, Henry Warner rested her head upon his bosom, where it had often lain, and, smoothing her golden curls, told her of Maggie Miller, of her queenly beauty, of her dashing, independent spirit, her frank, ingenuous manner, her kindness of heart; and last of all, bending very low, lest the vine leaves and the fair blossoms of the rose should hear, he told her of his love; and Rose, the fairest flower of all which bloomed around that bower, clasped her hand upon her heart, lest he should see its wild throbbings, and, forcing back the tears which moistened her long lashes, listened to the knell of all her hopes.  Henceforth her love for him must be an idle mockery, and the time would come when to love him as she loved him then would be a sin-a wrong to herself, a wrong to him, and a wrong to Maggie Miller.

“You are surely not asleep,” he said at last, as she made him no reply, and bending forward he saw the tear-drops resting on her cheek.  “Not asleep, but weeping!” he exclaimed.  “What is it, darling?  What troubles you?” And lifting up her head, Rose Warner answered, “I was thinking how this new love of yours would take you from me, and I should be alone.”

“No, not alone,” he said, wiping her tears away.  “Maggie and I have arranged that matter.  You are to live with us, and instead of losing me you are to gain another-a sister, Rose.  You have often wished you had one, and you could surely find none worthier than Maggie Miller.”

“Will she watch over you, Henry?  Will she be to you what your wife should be?” asked Rose; and Henry answered:  “She is not at all like you, my little sister.  She relies implicitly upon my judgment; so you see I shall need your blessed influence all the same, to make me what your brother and Maggie’s husband ought to be.”

“Did she send me no message?” asked Rose; and taking out the tiny note, Henry passed it to her, just as his aunt called to him from the house, whither he went, leaving her alone.

There were blinding tears in Rose’s eyes as she read the few lines, and involuntarily she pressed her lips to the paper which she knew had been touched by Maggie Miller’s hands.

“My sister-sister Maggie,” she repeated; and at the sound of that name her fast-beating heart grew still, for they seemed very sweet to her, those words “my sister,” thrilling her with a new and strange emotion, and awakening within her a germ of the deep, undying love she was yet to feel for her who had traced those words and asked to be her sister.  “I will do right,” she thought; “I will conquer this foolish heart of mine, or break it in the struggle, and Henry Warner shall never know how sorely it was wrung.”

The resolution gave her strength, and, rising up, she too sought the house, where, retiring to her room, she penned a hasty note to Maggie, growing calmer with each word she wrote.

“I grant your request [she said] and take you for a sister well beloved.  I had a half-sister once, they say, but she died when a little babe.  I never looked upon her face, and connected with her birth there was too much of sorrow and humiliation for me to think much of her, save as of one who, under other circumstances, might have been dear to me.  And yet as I grow older I often find myself wishing she had lived, for my father’s blood was in her veins.  But I do not even know where her grave was made, for we only heard one winter morning, years ago, that she was dead with the mother who bore her.  Forgive me, Maggie dear, for saying so much about that little child.  Thoughts of you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who, had she lived, would have been a young lady now nearly your own age.  So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I would have loved, I adopt you, sweet Maggie Miller, my sister and my friend.  May Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on you forever, and no shadow come between you and the one you have chosen for your husband!  To my partial eyes he is worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly in form though you be, and that you may be happy with him will be the daily prayer of

“Rose.”

The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother, who, after its perusal, kissed her, saying:  “It is right, my darling.  I will send it to-morrow with mine; and now for a ride.  I will see what a little exercise can do for you.  I do not like the color of your face.”

But neither the fragrant summer air, nor yet the presence of Henry Warner, who tarried several days, could rouse the drooping Rose; and when at last she was left alone she sought her bed, where for many weeks she hovered between life and death, while her brother and her aunt hung over her pillow, and Maggie, from her woodland home, sent many an anxious inquiry and message of love to the sick girl.  In the close atmosphere of his counting-room George Douglas too again battled manfully with his olden love, listening each day to hear that she was dead.  But not thus early was Rose to die, and with the waning summer days she came slowly back to life.  More beautiful than ever, because more ethereal and fair, she walked the earth like one who, having struggled with a mighty sorrow, had won the victory at last; and Henry Warner, when he looked on her sweet, placid face, and listened to her voice as she made plans for the future, when Maggie would be his wife, dreamed not of the grave hidden in the deep recesses of her heart, where grew no flower of hope or semblance of earthly joy.

Thus little know mankind of each other!