Come now over the hills to the westward.  Come to the Hillsdale woods, to the stone house by the mill, where all the day long there is heard but one name, the servants breathing it softly and low, as if she who had borne it were dead, the sister, dim-eyed now, and paler faced, whispering it oft to herself, while the lady, so haughty and proud, repeats it again and again, shuddering as naught but the echoing walls reply to the heartbroken cry of, “Margaret, Margaret, where are you now?”

Yes, there was mourning in that household-mourning for the lost one, the darling, the pet of them all.

Brightly had the sun arisen on that June morning which brought to them their sorrow, while the birds in the tall forest trees caroled as gayly as if no storm-cloud were hovering near.  At an early hour Mr. Carrollton had arisen, thinking, as he looked forth from his window, “She will tell me all to-day,” and smiling as he thought how easy and pleasant would be the task of winning her back to her olden gayety.  Madam Conway, too, was unusually excited, and very anxiously she listened for the first sound of Maggie’s footsteps on the stairs.

“She sleeps late,” she thought, when breakfast was announced, and taking her accustomed seat she bade a servant see if Margaret were ill.

“She is not there,” was the report the girl brought back.

“Not there!” cried Mr. Carrollton.

“Not there!” repeated Madam Conway, a shadowy foreboding of evil stealing over her.  “She seldom walks at this early hour,” she continued; and, rising, she went herself to Margaret’s room.

Everything was in perfect order, the bed was undisturbed, the chamber empty; Margaret was gone, and on the dressing-table lay the fatal letter telling why she went.  At first Madam Conway did not see it; but it soon caught her eye, and tremblingly she opened it, reading but the first line, “I am going away forever.”

Then a loud shriek rang through the silent room, penetrating to Arthur Carrollton’s listening ear, and bringing him at once to her side.  With the letter still in her hand, and her face of a deathly hue, and her eyes flashing with fear, Madam Conway turned to him as he entered, saying, “Margaret has gone, left us forever-killed herself it may be!  Read!” And she handed him the letter, herself bending eagerly forward to hear what he might say.

But she listened in vain.  With lightning rapidity Arthur Carrollton read what Maggie had written-read that she, his idol, the chosen bride of his bosom, was the daughter of a servant, the grandchild of old Hagar!  And for this she had fled from his presence, fled because she knew of the mighty pride which now, in the first bitter moment of his agony, did indeed rise up, a barrier between himself and the beautiful girl he loved so well.  Had she lain dead before him, dead in all her youthful beauty, he could have folded her in his arms, and then buried her from his sight, with a feeling of perfect happiness compared to that which he now felt.

“Oh, Maggie, my lost one, can it be!” he whispered to himself, and pressing his hand upon his chest, which heaved with strong emotion, he staggered to a seat, while the perspiration stood in beaded drops upon his forehead and around his lips.

“What is it, Mr. Carrollton?  ’Tis something dreadful, sure,” said Mrs. Jeffrey, appearing in the door, but Madam Conway motioned her away, and, tottering to his side, said, “Read it to me-read.”

The Sound of her voice recalled his wandering mind, and covering his face with his hands he moaned in anguish; then, growing suddenly calm, he snatched up the letter, which had fallen to the floor, and read it aloud; while Madam Conway, stupefied with horror, sank at his feet, and clasping her hands above her head, rocked to and fro, but made no word of comment.  Far down the long ago her thoughts were straying, and gathering up many bygone scenes which told her that what she heard was true.

“Yes, ’tis true,” she groaned; and then, powerless to speak another word, she laid her head upon a chair, while Mr. Carrollton, preferring to be alone, sought the solitude of his own room, where unobserved he could wrestle with his sorrow and conquer his inborn pride, which whispered to him that a Carrollton must not wed a bride so far beneath him.

Only a moment, though, and then the love he bore for Maggie Miller rolled back upon him with an overwhelming power, while his better judgment, with that love, came hand in hand, pleading for the fair young girl, who, now that he had lost her, seemed a thousandfold dearer than before.  But he had not lost her; he would find her.  She was Maggie Miller still to him, and though old Hagar’s blood were in her veins he would not give her up.  This resolution once made, it could not be shaken, and when half an hour or more was passed he walked with firm, unfaltering footsteps back to the apartment where Madam Conway still sat upon the floor, her head resting upon the chair, and her frame convulsed with grief.

Her struggle had been a terrible one, and it was not over yet, for with her it was more than a matter of pride and love.  Her daughter’s rights had been set at naught; a wrong had been done to the dead; the child who slept beneath the pine had been neglected; nay, in life, had been, perhaps, despised for an intruder, for one who had no right to call her grandmother; and shudderingly she cried, “Why was it suffered thus to be?” Then as she thought of white-haired Hagar Warren, she raised her hand to curse her, but the words died on her lips, for Hagar’s deed had brought to her much joy; and now, as she remembered the bounding step, the merry laugh, the sunny face, and loving words which had made her later years so happy, she involuntarily stretched out her arms in empty air, moaning sadly:  “I want her here.  I want her now, just as she used to be.”  Then, over the grave of her buried daughter, over the grave of the sickly child, whose thin, blue face came up before her just as it lay in its humble coffin, over the deception of eighteen years, her heart bounded with one wild, yearning throb, for every bleeding fiber clung with a deathlike grasp to her who had been so suddenly taken from her.  “I love her still!” she cried; “but can I take her back?” And then commenced the fiercest struggle of all, the battling of love and pride, the one rebelling against the child of Hagar Warren, and the other clamoring loudly that without that child the world to her was nothing.  It was the hour of Madam Conway’s humiliation, and in bitterness of spirit she groaned:  “That I should come to this!  Theo first, and Margaret, my bright, my beautiful Margaret, next!  Oh, how can I give her up when I loved her best of all-best of all!”

This was true, for all the deeper, stronger love of Madam Conway’s nature had gone forth to the merry, gleeful girl whose graceful, independent bearing she had so often likened to herself and the haughty race with which she claimed relationship.  How was this illusion dispelled!  Margaret was not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport.  A servant-girl had been her mother, and of her father there was nothing known.  Madam Conway was one who seldom wept for grief.  She had stood calmly at the bedside of her dying husband, had buried her only daughter from her sight, had met with many reverses, and shed for all no tears, but now they fell like rain upon her face, burning, blistering as they fell, but bringing no relief.

“I shall miss her in the morning,” she cried, “miss her at noon, miss her in the lonesome nights, miss her everywhere-oh, Margaret, Margaret, ’tis more than I can bear!  Come back to me now, just as you are.  I want you here-here where the pain is hardest,” and she clasped her arms tightly over her heaving bosom.  Then her pride returned again, and with it came thoughts of Arthur Carrollton.  He would scoff at her as weak and sentimental; he would never take beyond the sea a bride of “Hagarish” birth; and duty demanded that she too should be firm, and sanction his decision.  “But when he’s gone,” she whispered, “when he has left America behind, I’ll find her, if my life is spared.  I’ll find poor Margaret, and see that she does not want, though I must not take her back.”

This resolution, however, did not bring her comfort, and the hands pressed so convulsively upon her side could not ease her pain.  Surely never before had so dark an hour infolded that haughty woman, and a prayer that she might die was trembling on her lips when a footfall echoed along the hall, and Arthur Carrollton stood before her.  His face was very pale, bearing marks of the storm he had passed through; but he was calm, and his voice was natural as he said:  “Possibly what we have heard is false.  It may be a vagary of Hagar’s half-crazed brain.”

For an instant Madam Conway had hoped so too; but when she reflected, she knew that it was true.  Old Hagar had been very minute in her explanations to Margaret, who in turn had written exactly what she had heard, and Madam Conway, when she recalled the past, could have no doubt that it was true.  She remembered everything, but more distinctly the change of dress at the time of the baptism.  There could be no mistake.  Margaret was not hers, and so she said to Arthur Carrollton, turning her head away as if she too were in some way answerable for the disgrace.

“It matters not,” he replied, “whose she has been.  She is mine now, and if you feel able we will consult together as to the surest method of finding her.”  A sudden faintness came over Madam Conway, and, while the expression of her face changed to one of joyful surprise, she stammered out:  “Can it be I hear aright?  Do I understand you?  Are you willing to take poor Maggie back?”

“I certainly have no other intention,” he answered.  “There was a moment, the memory of which makes me ashamed, when my pride rebelled; but it is over now, and though Maggie cannot in reality be again your child, she can be my wife, and I must find her.”

“You make me so happy-oh, so happy!” said Madam Conway.  “I feared you would cast her off, and in that case it would have been my duty to do so too, though I never loved a human being as at this moment I love her.”

Mr. Carrollton looked as if he did not fully comprehend the woman who, loving Margaret as she said she did, could yet be so dependent upon his decision; but he made no comment, and when next he spoke he announced his intention of calling upon Hagar, who possibly could tell him where Margaret had gone.  “At all events,” said he, “I may ascertain why the secret, so long kept, was at this late day divulged.  It may be well,” he continued, “to say nothing to the servants as yet, save that Maggie has gone.  Mrs. Jeffrey, however, had better be let into the secret at once.  We can trust her, I think.”

Madam Conway bowed, and Mr. Carrollton left the room, starting immediately for the cottage by the mine.  As he approached the house he saw the servant who for several weeks had been staying there, and who now came out to meet him, telling him that since the night before Hagar had been raving crazy, talking continually of Maggie, who, she said, had gone where none would ever find her.

In some anxiety Mr. Carrollton pressed on, until the cottage door was reached, where for a moment he stood gazing silently upon the poor woman before him.  Upon the bed, her white hair falling over her round, bent shoulders, and her large eyes shining with delirious light, old Hagar sat, waving back and forth, and talking of Margaret, of Hester, and “the little foolish child,” who, with a sneer upon her lip, she said, “was a fair specimen of the Conway race.”

“Hagar,” said Mr. Carrollton; and at the sound of that voice Hagar turned toward him her flashing eyes, then with a scream buried her head in the bedclothes, saying:  “Go away, Arthur Carrollton!  Why are you here?  Don’t you know who I am?  Don’t you know what Margaret is, and don’t you know how proud you are?”

“Hagar,” he said again, subduing, by a strong effort, the repugnance he felt at questioning her, “I know all, except where Margaret has gone, and if on this point you can give me any information, I shall receive it most thankfully.”

“Gone!” shrieked Hagar, starting up in bed; “then she has gone.  The play is played out, the performance is ended-and I have sinned for nothing!”

“Hagar, will you tell me where Maggie is?  I wish to follow her,” said Mr. Carrollton; and Hagar answered:  “Maggie, Maggie-he said that lovingly enough, but there’s a catch somewhere.  He does not wish to follow her for any good-and though I know where she has gone I’ll surely never tell.  I kept one secret nineteen years.  I can keep another as long”; and, folding her arms upon her chest, she commenced singing, “I know full well, but I’ll never tell.”

Biting his lips with vexation, Mr. Carrollton tried first by persuasion, then by flattery, and lastly by threats, to obtain from her the desired information, but in vain.  Her only answer was, “I know full well, but I’ll never tell,” save once, when tossing towards him her long white hair, she shrieked:  “Don’t you see a resemblance-only hers is black-and so was mine nineteen years ago-and so was Hester’s too-glossy and black as the raven’s wing.  The child is like the mother-the mother was like the grandmother, and the grandmother is like-me, Hagar Warren.  Do you understand?”

Mr. Carrollton made no answer, and with a feeling of disappointment walked away, shuddering as he thought, “And she is Margaret’s grandmother.”

He found Madam Conway in hysterics on Margaret’s bed, for she had refused to leave the room, saying she would die there, or nowhere.  Gradually the reality of her loss had burst upon her, and now, gasping, choking, and wringing her hands, she lay upon the pillows, while Mrs. Jeffrey, worked up to a pitch of great nervous excitement, fidgeted hither and thither, doing always the wrong thing, fanning the lady when she did not wish to be fanned, and ceasing to fan her just when she was “dying for want of air.”

As yet Mrs. Jeffrey knew nothing definite, except that something dreadful had happened to Margaret; but very candidly Mr. Carrollton told her all, bidding her keep silent on the subject; then, turning to Madam Conway, he repeated to her the result of his call on old Hagar.

“The wretch!” gasped Madam Conway, while Mrs. Jeffrey, running in her fright from the window to the door, and from the door back to the window again, exclaimed:  “Margaret not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport, after all!  It is just what I expected.  I always knew she came honestly by those low-bred ways!”

“Jeffrey,” and the voice of the hysterical woman on the bed was loud and distinct, as she grasped the arm of the terrified little governess, who chanced to be within her reach.  “Jeffrey, either leave my house at once, or speak more deferentially of Miss Miller.  You will call her by that name, too.  It matters not to Mr. Carrollton and myself whose child she has been.  She is ours now, and must be treated with respect.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” meekly answered Jeffrey, rubbing her dumpy arm, which bore the mark of a thumb and finger, and as her services were not just then required she glided from the room to drown, if possible, her grievance in the leather-bound London edition of Baxter!

Meanwhile Madam Conway was consulting with Mr. Carrollton as to the best mode of finding Margaret.  “She took the cars, of course,” said Mr. Carrollton, adding that he should go at once to the depot and ascertain which way she went.  “If I do not return to-night you need not be alarmed,” he said, as he was leaving the room, whereupon Madam Conway called him back, bidding him telegraph for Theo at once, as she must have someone with her besides that vexatious Jeffrey.

Mr. Carrollton promised compliance with her request, and then went immediately to the depot, where he learned that no one had entered the cars from that place on the previous night, and that Maggie, if she took the train at all, must have done so at some other station.  This was not unlikely, and before the day was passed Mr. Carrollton had visited several different stations, and had talked with the conductors of the several trains, but all to no purpose; and, very much disheartened, he returned at nightfall to the old stone house, where to his surprise he found both Theo and her husband.  The telegram had done its mission, and feeling anxious to know the worst George had come up with Theo to spend the night.  It was the first time that Madam Conway had seen him since her memorable encounter with his mother, for though Theo had more than once been home, he had never before accompanied her, and now when Madam Conway heard his voice in the hall below she groaned afresh.  The sight of his good-humored face, however, and his kind offer to do whatever he could to find the fugitive, restored her composure in a measure, and she partially forgot that he was in any way connected with the blue umbrella, or the blue umbrella connected with him!  Never in her life had Theo felt very deeply upon any subject, and now, though she seemed bewildered at what she heard, she manifested no particular emotion, until her grandmother, wringing her hands, exclaimed, “You have no sister now, my child, and I no Margaret!” Then, indeed, her tears flowed, and when her husband whispered to her, “We will love poor Maggie all the same,” she cried aloud, but not quite as demonstratively as Madam Conway wished; and, in a very unamiable frame of mind, the old lady accused her of being selfish and hard-hearted.

At this stage of proceedings Mr. Carrollton returned, bringing no tidings of Maggie, whereupon another fit of hysterics ensued, and as Theo behaved much worse than Mrs. Jeffrey had done, the latter was finally summoned again to the sickroom, and at last succeeded in quieting the excited woman.  The next morning George Douglas visited old Hagar, but he too was unsuccessful, and that afternoon he returned to Worcester, leaving Theo with her grandmother, who, though finding fault with whatever she did, refused to let her go until Margaret was found.

During the remainder of the week Mr. Carrollton rode through the country, making the most minute inquiries, and receiving always the same discouraging answer.  Once he thought to advertise, but from making the affair thus public he instinctively shrank, and, resolving to spare neither his time, his money, nor his health, he pursued his weary way alone.  Once, too, Madam Conway spoke of Henry Warner, saying it was possible Maggie might have gone to him, as she had thought so much of Rose; but Mr. Carrollton “knew better.”  A discarded lover, he said, was the last person in the world to whom a young girl like Margaret would go, particularly as Theo had said that Henry was now the husband of another.

Still the suggestion haunted him, and on the Monday following Henry Warner’s first visit to Worcester, he, too, went down to talk with Mr. Douglas, asking him if it were possible that Maggie was in Leominster.

“I know she is not,” said George, repeating the particulars of his interview with Henry, who, he said, was at the store on Saturday.  “Once I thought of telling him all,” said he, “and then, considering the relation which formerly existed between them, I concluded to keep silent, especially as he manifested no desire to speak of her, but appeared, I fancied, quite uneasy when I casually mentioned Hillsdale.”

Thus was that matter decided, and while not many miles away Maggie was watching hopelessly for the coming of Arthur Carrollton, he, with George Douglas, was devising the best means for finding her, George generously offering to assist in the search, and suggesting finally that he should himself go to New York City, while Mr. Carrollton explored Boston and its vicinity.  It seemed quite probable that Margaret would seek some of the large cities, as in her letter she had said she could earn her livelihood by teaching music; and quite hopeful of success, the young men parted, Mr. Carrollton going immediately to Boston, while Mr. Douglas, after a day or two, started for New York, whither, as the reader will remember, he had gone at the time of Henry’s last visit to Worcester.

Here for a time we leave them, Hagar raving mad, Madam Conway in strong hysterics, Theo wishing herself anywhere but at Hillsdale, Mrs. Jeffrey ditto, George Douglas threading the crowded streets of the noisy city, and Mr. Carrollton in Boston, growing paler and sadder as day after day passed by, bringing him no trace of the lost one.  Here, I say, we leave them, while in another chapter we follow the footsteps of her for whom this search was made.