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 no disgrace to claim such people as her friends.  With a beating heart she rang the bell, asking for Mr. Warner, and now, trembling in every limb, she awaited his coming.  He was not prepared to meet her, and at first he did not know her, she was so changed; but when, throwing aside her bonnet, she turned her face so that the light from the window opposite shone fully upon her, he recognized her in a moment, and exclaimed, “Margaret-Margaret Miller! why are you here?”

The words reached Rose’s ear, and darting forward she stood within the door, just as Margaret, staggering a step or two towards Henry, answered passionately, “I have come to tell you what I myself but recently have learned”; and wringing her hands despairingly, she continued, “I am not Maggie Miller, I am not anybody; I am Hagar Warren’s grandchild, the child of her daughter and your own father!  Oh, Henry, don’t you see it?  I am your sister.  Take me as such, will you?  Love me as such, or I shall surely die.  I have nobody now in the wide world but you.  They are all gone, all-Madam Conway, Theo too, and-and-” She could not speak that name.  It died upon her lips, and tottering to a chair she would have fallen had not Henry caught her in his arms.

Leading her to the sofa, while Rose, perfectly confounded, still stood within the door, he said to the half-crazed girl:  “Margaret, I do not understand you.  I never had a sister, and my father died when I was six months old.  There must be some mistake.  Will you tell me what you mean?”

Bewildered and perplexed, Margaret began a hasty repetition of Hagar’s story, but ere it was three-fourths told there came from the open door a wild cry of delight, and quick as lightning a fairy form flew across the floor, white arms were twined round Maggie’s neck, kiss after kiss was pressed upon her lips, and Rose’s voice was in her ear, never before half so sweet as now, when it murmured soft and low to the weary girl:  “My sister Maggie-mine you are-the child of my own father, for I was Rose Hamilton, called Warner, first to please my aunt, and next to please my Henry.  Oh, Maggie darling, I am so happy now!” and the little snowy hands smoothed caressingly the bands of hair, so unlike her own fair waving tresses.

It was, indeed, a time of almost perfect bliss to them all, and for a moment Margaret forgot her pain, which, had Hagar known the truth, need not have come to her.  But she scarcely regretted it now, when she 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 much of the world, and Maggie knew her to be a woman of refinement, a woman of whom even Madam Conway would not be ashamed; and, winding her arms around her neck, she said impulsively, “I am glad you are my aunt; and you will love me, I am sure, even if I am poor Hagar’s grandchild.”

Mrs. Warner knew nothing of Hagar save from Henry’s amusing description, the entire truth of which she somewhat doubted; but she knew that whatever Hagar Warren might be, the beautiful girl before her was not answerable for it, and very kindly she tried to soothe her, telling her how happy they would be together.  “Rose will leave me in the autumn,” she said, “and without you I should be all alone.”  Of Hagar, too, she spoke kindly and considerately, and Maggie, listening to her, felt somewhat reconciled to the fate which had made her what she was.  Still, there was much of pride to overcome ere she could calmly think of herself as other than Madam Conway’s grandchild; and when that afternoon, as Henry and Rose were sitting with her, the latter spoke of her mother, saying she had a faint remembrance of a tall, handsome girl who sang her to sleep on the night when her own mother died, there came a visible shadow over Maggie’s face, and instantly changing the conversation she asked why Henry had never told her anything definite concerning himself and family.

For a moment Henry seemed embarrassed.  Both the Hamiltons and the Warners were very aristocratic in their feelings, and by mutual consent the name of Hester Warren was by them seldom spoken.  Consequently, if there existed a reason for Henry’s silence with regard to his own and Rose’s history, it was that he disliked bringing up a subject he had been taught to avoid, both by his aunt and the mother of Mr. Hamilton, who for several years after her son’s death had lived with her daughter in Leominster, where she finally died.  This, however, he could not say to Margaret, and after a little hesitancy he answered laughingly, “You never asked me for any particulars; and, then, you know, I was more agreeably occupied than I should have been had I spent my time in enlightening you with regard to our genealogy”; and the saucy mouth smiled archly, first on Rose, and then on Margaret, both of whom blushed slightly, the one suspecting he had not told her the whole truth, and the other knowing he had not.

Very considerate was Rose of Maggie’s feelings and not again that afternoon did she speak of Hester, though she talked much of their father; and Margaret, listening to his praises, felt herself insensibly drawn towards this new claimant for her filial love.  “I wish I could have seen him,” she said; and, starting to her feet, Rose answered:  “Strange I did not think of it before.  We have his portrait.  Come this way,” and she led the half-unwilling Maggie into an adjoining room, where from the wall a portly, good-humored-looking man gazed down upon the sisters, his eyes seeming to rest with mournful tenderness on the face of her whom in life they had not looked upon.  He seemed older than Maggie had supposed, and the hair upon his head was white, reminding her of Hagar.  But she did not for this turn away from him.  There was something pleasing in the mild expression of his face, and she whispered faintly, “’Tis my father.”

On the right of this portrait was another, the picture of a woman, in whose curling lip and soft brown eyes Maggie recognized the mother of Henry.  To the left was another still, and she gazed upon the angel face, with eyes of violet blue, and hair of golden brown, on which the fading sunlight now was falling, encircling it as it were with a halo of glory.

“You are much like her,” she said to Rose, who made no answer, for she was thinking of another picture, which years before had been banished to the garret by her haughty grandmother, as unworthy a place beside him who had petted and caressed the young girl of plebeian birth and kindred.

“I can make amends for it, though,” thought Rose, returning with Maggie to the parlor.  Then, seeking out her husband, she held with him a whispered consultation, the result of which was that on the morrow there was a rummaging in the garret, an absence from home for an hour or two, and when about noon she returned there was a pleased expression on her face, as if she had accomplished her purpose, whatever it might have been.

All that morning Maggie had been restless and uneasy, wandering listlessly from room to room, looking anxiously down the street, starting nervously at the sound of every footstep, while her cheeks alternately flushed and then grew pale as the day passed on.  Dinner being over she sat alone in the parlor, her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and her thoughts away with one who she vaguely hoped would have followed her ere this.  True, she had added no postscript to tell him of her new discovery; but Hagar knew, and he would go to her for a confirmation of the letter.  She would tell him where Maggie was gone, and he, if his love could survive that shock, would follow her thither; nay, would be there that very day, and Maggie’s heart grew wearier, fainter, as time wore on and he did not come.  “I might have known it,” she whispered sadly.  “I knew that he would nevermore think of me,” and she wept silently over her ruined love.

“Maggie, sister,” came to her ear, and Rose was at her side.  “I have a surprise for you, darling.  Can you bear it now?”

Oh, how eagerly poor Maggie Miller looked up in Rose’s face!  The car whistle had sounded half an hour before.  Could it be that he had come?  Was he there?  Did he love her still?  No, Maggie, no; the surprise awaiting you is of a far different nature, and the tears flow afresh when Rose, in reply to the question “What is it, darling?” answers, “It is this,” at the same time placing in Maggie’s hand an ambrotype which she bade her examine.  With a feeling of keen disappointment Maggie opened the casing, involuntarily shutting her eyes as if to gather strength for what she was to see.

It was a young face-a handsome face-a face much like her own, while in the curve of the upper lip and the expression of the large black eyes there was a look like Hagar Warren.  They had met together thus, the one a living reality, the other a semblance of the dead, and she who held that picture trembled violently.  There was a fierce struggle within, the wildly beating heart throbbing for one moment with a newborn love, and then rebelling against taking that shadow, beautiful though it was, in place of her whose memory she had so long revered.

“Who is it, Maggie?” Rose asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Maggie knew full well whose face it was she looked upon, but not yet could she speak that name so interwoven with memories of another, and she answered mournfully, “It is Hester Hamilton.”

“Yes, Margaret, your mother,” said Rose.  “I never called her by that name, but I respect her for your sake.  She was my father’s pet, so it has been said, for he was comparatively old, and she his young girl-wife.”

“Where did you get this?” Maggie asked; and, coloring crimson, Rose replied, “We have always had her portrait, but grandmother, who was very old and foolishly proud about some things, was offended at our father’s last marriage, and when after his death the portraits were brought here, she-Forgive her, Maggie-she did not know you, or she would not have done it-

“I know,” interrupted Maggie.  “She despised this Hester Warren, and consigned her portrait to some spot from which you have brought it and had this taken from it.”

“Not despised her!” cried Rose, in great distress, as she saw a dark expression stealing over the face of Maggie, in whose heart a chord of sympathy had been struck when she thought of her mother banished from her father’s side.  “Grandma could not despise her,” continued Rose; “she was so good, so beautiful.”

“Yes, she was beautiful,” murmured Maggie, gazing earnestly upon the fair, round face, the soft, black eyes, and raven hair of her who for years had slept beneath the shadow of the Hillsdale woods.  “Oh, I wish I were dead like her!” she exclaimed at last, closing the ambrotype and laying it upon the table.  “I wish I was lying in that little grave in the place of her who should have borne my name, and been what I once was;” and bowing her face upon her hands she wept bitterly, while Rose tried in vain to comfort her.  “I am not sorry you are my sister,” sobbed Margaret through her tears.  “That’s the only comfort I have left me now; but, Rose, I love Arthur Carrollton so much-oh, so much, and how can I give him up!”

“If he is the noble, true-hearted man he looks to be, he will not give you up,” answered Rose, and then for the first time since this meeting she questioned Margaret concerning Mr. Carrollton and the relations existing between them.  “He will not cast you off,” she said, when Margaret had told her all she had to tell.  “He may be proud, but he will cling to you still.  He will follow you, too-not to-day, perhaps, nor to-morrow, but ere long he will surely come;” and, listening to her sister’s cheering words, Maggie herself grew hopeful, and that evening talked animatedly with Henry and Rose of a trip to the seaside that they were intending to make.  “You will go, too, Maggie,” said Rose, caressing her sister’s pale cheek, and whispering in her ear, “Aunt Susan will be here to tell Mr. Carrollton where you are, if he does not come before we go, which I am sure he will.”

Maggie tried to think so too, and her sleep that night was sweeter than it had been before for many weeks-but the next day came, and the next, and Maggie’s eyes grew dim with watching and with tears, for up and down the road, as far as she could see, there came no trace of him for whom she waited.

“I might have known it; it was foolish of me to think otherwise,” she sighed; and, turning sadly from the window where all the afternoon she had been sitting, she laid her head wearily upon the lap of Rose.

“Maggie,” said Henry, “I am going to Worcester to-morrow, and perhaps George can tell me something of Mr. Carrollton.”

For a moment Maggie’s heart throbbed with delight at the thought of hearing from him, even though she heard that he would leave her.  But anon her pride rose strong within her.  She had told Hagar twice of her destination, Hagar had told him, and if he chose he would have followed her ere this; so somewhat bitterly she said:  “Don’t speak to George of me.  Don’t tell him I am here.  Promise me, will you?”

The promise was given, and the next morning, which was Saturday, Henry started for Worcester on the early train.  The day seemed long to Maggie, and when at nightfall he came to them again it was difficult to tell which was the more pleased at his return, Margaret or Rose.

“Did you see Theo?” asked the former; and Henry replied:  “George told me she had gone to Hillsdale.  Madam Conway is very sick.”

“For me! for me!  She’s sick with mourning for me!” cried Maggie.  “Darling grandma! she does love me still, and I will go home to her at once.”

Then the painful thought rushed over her:  “If she wished for me, she would send.  It’s the humiliation, not the love, that makes her sick.  They have cast me off-grandma, Theo, all, all!” and, sinking upon the lounge, she wept aloud.

“Margaret,” said Henry, coming to her side, “but for my promise I should have talked to George of you, for there was a troubled expression on his face when he asked me if I had heard from Hillsdale.”

“What did you say?” asked Maggie, holding her breath to catch the answer, which was, “I told him you had not written to me since my return from Cuba, and then he looked as if he would say more, but a customer called him away, and our conversation was not resumed.”

For a moment Maggie was silent.  Then she said:  “I am glad you did not intrude me upon him.  If Theo has gone to Hillsdale, she knows that I am here, and does not care to follow me.  It is the disgrace that troubles them, not the losing me!” and again burying her head in the cushions of the lounge, she wept bitterly.  It was useless for Henry and Rose to try to comfort her, telling her it was possible that Hagar had told nothing.  “And if so,” said Henry, “you well know that I am the last one to whom you would be expected to flee for protection.”  Margaret would not listen.  She was resolved upon being unhappy, and during the long hours of that night she tossed wakefully upon her pillow, and when the morning came she was too weak to rise; so she kept her room, listening to the music of the Sabbath bells, which to her seemed sadly saying, “Home, home.”  “Alas!  I have no home,” she said, turning away to weep, for in the tolling of those bells there came to her no voice whispering of the darkness, the desolation, and the sorrow that were in the home for which she so much mourned.

Thus the day wore on, and ere another week was gone Rose insisted upon a speedy removal to the seashore, notwithstanding it was so early in the season, for by this means she hoped that Maggie’s health would be improved.  Accordingly, Henry went once more to Worcester, ostensibly for money, but really to see if George Douglas now would speak to him of Margaret.  But George was in New York, they said; and, somewhat disappointed, Henry went back to Leominster, where everything was in readiness for their journey.  Monday was fixed upon for their departure, and at an early hour Margaret looked back on what had been to her a second home, smiling faintly as Rose whispered to her cheerily, “I have a strong presentiment that somewhere in our travels we shall meet with Arthur Carrollton.”