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The large establishment of Douglas & Co. was closed for
the night. The clerks had gone each to his own place;
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

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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 slily 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 sprung 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 $200,000. 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

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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

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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.

For a time after reading the above, George Douglas sat
wrapt 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 'mong
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

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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
any one 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

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Hillsdale, where he intended to remain until after the 4th. To find
the old house was an easy matter, for almost every one 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 this were Madam Conway's residence, and
if a young man by the name of Warner were staying here?”

“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 under tone, 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

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of a business character, and then George Douglas spoke of
the young ladies, saying he was only anxious to see Mag,
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's peculiar
temperament than had the dashing, brilliant Mag. 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 Mag 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.

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