Two days only remained ere the first of June, and in the solitude of her chamber Maggie was weeping bitterly.  “How can I tell them who I am?” she thought.  “How bear their pitying scorn, when they learn that she whom they call Maggie Miller has no right to that name?-that Hagar Warren’s blood is flowing in her veins?-and Madam Conway thinks so much of that!  Oh, why was Hagar left to do me this great wrong? why did she take me from the pine-board cradle where she says I lay, and make me what I was not born to be?” and, falling on her knees, the wretched girl prayed that it might prove a dream from which she would ere long awake.

Alas for thee, poor Maggie Miller!  It is not a dream, but a stern reality; and you who oft have spurned at birth and family, why murmur now when both are taken from you?  Are you not still the same,-beautiful,-accomplished, and refined,-and can you ask for more?  Strange that theory and practice so seldom should accord.  And yet it was not the degradation which Maggie felt so keenly, it was rather the loss of love she feared; without that the blood of royalty could not avail to make her happy.

Maggie was a warm-hearted girl, and she loved the stately lady she had been wont to call her grandmother with a filial, clinging love which could not be severed, and still this love was naught compared to what she felt for Arthur Carrollton, and the giving up of him was the hardest part of all.  But it must be done, she thought; he had told her once that were she Hagar Warren’s grandchild he should not be riding with her-how much less, then, would he make that child his wife! and rather than meet the look of proud disdain on his face when first she stood confessed before him, she resolved to go away where no one had ever heard of her or Hagar Warren.  She would leave behind a letter telling why she went, and commending to Madam Conway’s care poor Hagar, who had been sorely punished for her sin.  “But whither shall I go, and what shall I do when I get there?” she cried, trembling at the thoughts of a world of which she knew so little.  Then, as she remembered how many young girls of her age went out as teachers, she determined to go at all events.  “It will be better than staying here where I have no claim,” she thought; and, nerving herself for the task, she sat down to write the letter which, on the first of June, should tell to Madam Conway and Arthur Carrollton the story of her birth.

It was a harder task than she supposed, the writing that farewell, for it seemed like severing every hallowed tie.  Three times she wrote “My dear grandma,” then with a throb of anguish she dashed her pen across the revered name, and wrote simply “Madam Conway.”  It was a rambling, impassioned letter, full of tender love-of hope destroyed-of deep despair-and though it shadowed forth no expectation that Madam Conway or Mr. Carrollton would ever take her to their hearts again, it begged of them most touchingly to think sometimes of “Maggie” when she was gone forever.  Hagar was then commended to Madam Conway’s forgiveness and care.  “She is old,” wrote Maggie, “her life is nearly ended, and if you have in your heart one feeling of pity for her who used to call you grandma, bestow it, I pray you, on poor old Hagar Warren.”

The letter was finished, and then suddenly remembering Hagar’s words, that “all had not been told,” and feeling it her duty to see once more the woman who had brought her so much sorrow, Maggie stole cautiously from the house, and was soon walking down the woodland road, slowly, sadly, for the world had changed to her since last she trod that path.  Maggie, too, was changed, and when at last she stood before Hagar, who was now able to sit up, the latter could scarcely recognize in the pale, haggard woman the blooming, merry-hearted girl once known as Maggie Miller.

“Margaret!” she cried, “you have come again-come to forgive your poor old grand-No, no,” she added, as she saw the look of pain flash over Maggie’s face, “I’ll never insult you with that name.  Only say that you forgive me, will you, Miss Margaret?” and the trembling voice was choked with sobs, while the aged form shook as with a palsied stroke.

Hagar had been ill.  Exposure to the damp air on that memorable night had brought on a second severe attack of rheumatism, which had bent her nearly double.  Anxiety for Margaret, too, had wasted her to a skeleton, and her thin, sharp face, now of a corpse-like pallor, contrasted strangely with her eyes, from which the wildness all was gone.  Touched with pity, Maggie drew a chair to her side, and thus replied:  “I do forgive you, Hagar, for I know that what you did was done in love; but by telling me what you have you’ve ruined all my hopes of happiness.  In the new scenes to which I go, and the new associations I shall form, I may become contented with my lot, but never can I forget that I once was Maggie Miller.”

“Magaret,” gasped Hagar, and in her dim eye there was something of its olden fire, “if by new associations you mean Henry Warner, it must not be.  Alas, that I should tell this! but Henry is your brother-your father’s only son.  Oh, horror! horror!” and dreading what Margaret would say, she covered her face with her cramped, distorted hands.

But Margaret was not so much affected as Hagar had anticipated.  She had suffered severely, and could not now be greatly moved.  There was an involuntary shudder as she thought of her escape, and then her next feeling was one of satisfaction in knowing that she was not quite friendless and alone, for Henry would protect her, and Rose, indeed, would be to her a sister.

“Henry Warner my brother!” she exclaimed; “how came you by this knowledge?” And very briefly Hagar explained to her what she knew, saying that Hester had told her of two young children, but she had forgotten entirely of their existence, and now that she was reminded of it she could not help fancying that Hester said the stepchild was a boy.  But the peddler knew, of course, and she must have forgotten.

“When the baby they thought was you died,” said Hagar, “I wrote to the minister in Meriden, telling him of it, but I did not sign my name, and I thought that was the last I should ever hear of it.  Why don’t you curse me?” she continued.  “Haven’t I taken from you your intended husband, as well as your name?”

Maggie understood perfectly now why the secret had been revealed, and involuntarily she exclaimed, “Oh, had I told you first, this never need have been!” and then hurriedly she explained to the repentant Hagar how at the very moment when the dread confession was made she, Maggie Miller, was free from Henry Warner.

From the window Maggie saw in the distance the servant who had charge of Hagar, and, dreading the presence of a third person, she arose to go.  Offering her hand to Hagar, she said:  “Good-by.  I may never see you again, but if I do not, remember that I forgive you freely.”

“You are not going away, Maggie.  Oh, are you going away!” and the crippled arms were stretched imploringly towards Maggie, who answered:  “Yes, Hagar, I must go.  Honor requires me to tell Madam Conway who I am, and after that you know that I can not stay.  I shall go to my brother.”

Three times old Hagar essayed to speak, and at last between a whisper and a moan, she found strength to say:  “Will you kiss me once, Maggie darling?  ’Twill be something to remember, in the lonesome nights when I am all alone.  Just once, Maggie!  Will you?”

Maggie could not refuse, and gliding to the bowed woman’s side she put back the soft hair from off the wrinkled brow, and left there token of her forgiveness.

The last May sun had set, and ere the first June morning rose Maggie Miller would be nowhere found in the home her presence had made so bright.  Alone, with no eye upon her save that of the Most High, she had visited the two graves, and, while her heart was bleeding at every pore, had wept her last adieu over the sleeping dust so long held sacred as her mother’s.  Then kneeling at the other grave, she murmured, “Forgive me, Hester Hamilton, if in this parting hour my heart clings most to her whose memory I was first taught to revere; and if in the better world you know and love each other-oh, will both bless and pity me, poor, wretched Maggie Miller!”

Softly the night air moved through the pine that overshadowed the humble grave, while the moonlight, flashing from the tall marble, which stood a sentinel over the other mound, bathed Maggie’s upturned face as with a flood of glory, and her throbbing heart grew still as if indeed at that hushed moment the two mothers had come to bless their child.  The parting with the dead was over, and Margaret sat again in her room, waiting until all was still about the old stone house.  She did not add to her letter another line telling of her discovery, for she did not think of it; her mind was too intent upon escaping unobserved; and when sure the family had retired she moved cautiously down the stairs, noiselessly unlocked the door, and without once daring to look back, lest she should waver in her purpose, she went forth, heartbroken and alone, from what for eighteen happy years had been her home.  Very rapidly she proceeded, coming at last to an open field through which the railroad ran, the depot being nearly a quarter of a mile away.  Not until then had she reflected that her appearance at the station at that hour of the night would excite suspicion, and she was beginning to feel uneasy, when suddenly around a curve the cars appeared in view.  Fearing lest she should be too late, she quickened her footsteps, when to her great surprise she saw that the train was stopping!  But not for her they waited; in the bright moonlight the engineer had discovered a body lying across the track, and had stopped in time to save the life of a man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had fallen asleep.  The movement startled the passengers, many of whom alighted and gathered around the inebriate.

In the meantime Margaret had come near, and, knowing she could not now reach the depot in time, she mingled unobserved in the crowd, and entering the rear car, took her seat near the door.  The train at last moved on, and as at the station no one save the agent was in waiting, it is not strange that the conductor passed unheeded the veiled figure which in the dark corner sat ready to pay her fare.

“He will come to me by and by,” thought Maggie, but he did not, and when Worcester was reached the fare was still uncollected.  Bewildered and uncertain what to do next, she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at the depot until morning, when a train would leave for Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her brother.  Taking a seat in the ladies’ room, she abandoned herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say could she see her then.  But Theo, though dreaming it may be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had followed her-nay, was bending over her now and whispering in her ear, “Wake, Maggie, wake.”

Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton, but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked her where she wished to go.

“To Leominster,” she answered, turning her face fully towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling her when the train would leave, and saying that she must go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not better wait at some hotel.

But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitchburg depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil over her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed for the cars to leave.  Then, weary and faint, she entered the train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was drawing near to those who would love her for what she was and not for what she had been.  Rose would comfort her, and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing one whom she believed to be her brother’s wife, for Henry had written that ere his homeward voyage was made Rose would be his bride.

Ah, Maggie! there is for you a greater happiness in store-not a brother, but a sister-your father’s child is there to greet your coming.  And even at this early hour her snow-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.”