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“Grandma wishes to see you, Maggie, in her room,” said
Theo to her sister one morning, three days after the departure
of their gnests.

“Wishes to see me! For what?” asked Maggie; and
Theo answered, “I don't know, unless it is to talk with
you about Arthur Carrollton.”

“Arthur Carrolton!” repeated Maggie. “Much good it
will do her to talk to me of him. I hate the very sound of
his name;” and rising, she walked slowly to her grandmother's
room, where in her stiff brown satin dress, her golden
spectacles planted firmly upon her nose, and the Valenciennes
border of her cap shading but not concealing the determined
look on her face, Madam Conway sat erect in her
high backed chair, with an open letter upon her lap.

It was from Henry. Maggie knew his handwriting in a
moment, and there was another, too, for her; but she was
too proud to ask for it, and seating herself by the window,
she waited for her grandmother to break the silence, which
she did ere long as follows:

“I have just received a letter from that Warner, asking
me to sanction an engagement which he says exists between
himself and you. Is it true? Are you engaged to him?”

“I am,” answered Maggie, playing nervously with the

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tassel of her wrapper, and wondering why Henry had written
so soon, before she had prepared the way by a little judicious
coaxing.

“Well then,” continued Madam Conway, “the sooner it
is broken the better. I am astonished that you should stoop
to such an act, and I hope you are not in earnest.”

“But I am,” answered Maggie, and in the same cold, decided
manner, her grandmother continued: “Then nothing
remains for me, but to forbid your having any communication
whatever with one whose conduct in my house has been
so unpardonably rude and vulgar. You will never marry him,
Margaret, never! Nay, I would sooner see you dead than
the wife of that low, mean, impertinent fellow.”

In the large dark eyes there was a gleam decidedly
Hagarish as Maggie arose, and standing before her grandmother,
made answer: “You must not, in my presence,
speak thus of Henry Warner. He is neither low, mean, vulgar,
nor impertinent. You are prejudiced against him, because
you think him comparatively poor, and because he
has dared to look at me, who have yet to understand why
the fact of my being a Conway, makes me any better. I
have promised to be Henry Warner's wife, and Margaret
Miller never yet has broken her word.”

“But in this instance you will,” said Madam Conway, now
thoroughly aroused. “I will never suffer it; and to prove I
am in earnest, I will here, before your face, burn the letter
he has presumed to send you; and this I will do to any
others which may come to you from him.”

Maggie offered no remonstrance; but the fire of a volcano
burned within, as she watched the letter blackening upon
the coals; and when next her eyes met those of her grandmother,
there was in them a fierce, determined look, which
prompted that lady at once to change her tactics, and try

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the power of persuasion, rather than of force. Feigning a
smile, she said, “What ails you, child? You look to me
like Hagar. It was wrong in me, perhaps, to burn your
letter, and had I reflected a moment, I might not have
done it; but I cannot suffer you to receive any more. I
have other prospects in view for you, and have only waited a
favorable opportunity to tell you what they are. Sit down
by me, Margaret, while I talk with you on the subject.”

The burning of her letter had affected Margaret strangely,
and with a benumbed feeling at her heart, she sat down
without a word, and listened patiently to praises long and
praises loud of Arthur Carrollton, who was described as
being every way desirable, both as a friend and a husband.
“His father, the elder Mr. Carrollton, was an intimate
friend of my husband,” said Madam Conway, “and wishes
our families to be more closely united, by a marriage between
you and his son Arthur, who is rather fastidious in
his taste, and though twenty-eight years old, has never yet
seen a face which suited him. But he is pleased with you,
Maggie. He liked your picture, imperfect as it is, and he
liked the tone of your letters, which I read to him. They
were so original, he said, so much like what he fancied you
to be. He has a splendid country seat, and more than one
nobleman's daughter would gladly share it with him; but I
think he fancies you. He has a large estate near Montreal,
and some difficulty connected with it will ere long bring him
to America. Of course he will visit here, and with a little
tact on your part, you can, I'm sure, secure one of the best
matches in England. He is fine looking, too. I have his
daguerreotype,” and opening her work-box, she drew it
forth, and held it before Maggie, who resolutely shut her
eyes, lest she should see the face of one she was so determined
to dislike.

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“What do you think of him?” asked Madam Conway,
as her arm began to ache, and Maggie had not yet spoken.

“I haven't looked at him,” answered Maggie, “I hate
him, and if he comes here after me, I'll tell him so, too. I
hate him because he is an Englishman. I hate him because
he is aristocratic. I hate him for everything, and before I
marry him I'll run away!”

Here, wholly overcome, Maggie burst into tears, and precipitately
left the room. An hour later, and Hagar, sitting
by her fire, which the coolness of the day rendered necessary,
was startled by the abrupt entrance of Maggie, who,
throwing herself upon the floor, and burying her face in the
old woman's lap, sobbed bitterly.

“What is it, child? What is it, darling?” asked Hagar;
and in a few words Maggie explained the whole. “She
was persecuted, dreadfully persecuted. Nobody before ever
had so much trouble as she. Grandma had burned a letter
from Henry Warner, and would not give it to her. Grandma
said, too, she should never marry him, should never
write to him, nor see anything he might send to her. Oh,
Hagar, Hagar, isn't it cruel?” and the eyes, whose wrathful,
defiant expression was now quenched in tears, looked
up in Hagar's face for sympathy.

The right chord was touched, and much as Hagar might
have disliked Henry Warner, she was his fast friend now.
Her mistress's opposition and Maggie's tears had wrought a
change, and henceforth all her energies should be given to
the advancement of the young couple's cause.

“I can manage it,” she said, smoothing the long silken
tresses which lay in disorder upon her lap. “Richland post
office is only four miles from here; I can walk double that
distance easy. Your grandmother never thinks of going
there, neither am I known to any one in that neighborhood.

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Write your letter to Henry Warner, and before the sun
goes down, it shall be safe in the letter box. He can write
to the same place, but he had better direct to me, as your
name might excite suspicion.”

This plan seemed perfectly feasible; but it struck Maggie
unpleasantly. She had never attempted to deceive in her
life, and she shrunk from the first deception. She would
rather, she said, try again to win her grandmother's consent.
But this she found impossible, Madam Conway was determined,
and would not listen.

“It grieved her sorely,” she said, “thus to cross her favorite
child, whom she loved better than her life; but 'twas for
her good, and must be done.”

So she wrote a cold, and rather insulting letter to Henry
Warner, bidding him, as she had once done before, “let her
grand-daughter alone,” and saying “it was useless for him
to attempt anything secret, for Maggie would be closely
watched, the moment there were indications of a clandestine
correspondence.”

This letter, which was read to Magaret, destroyed all
hope, and still she wavered, uncertain whether it would be
right to deceive her grandmother. But while she was yet
undecided, Hagar's fingers, of late unused to the pen, traced
a few lines to Henry Warner, who acting at once upon her
suggestion, wrote to Margaret a letter, which he directed to
“Hagar Warren, Richland.”

In it he urged so many reasons why Maggie should avail
herself of this opportunity for communicating with him, that
she yielded at last, and regularly each week, old Hagar
toiled through sunshine and through storm to the Richland
post office, feeling amply repaid for her trouble, when she saw
the bright expectant face which almost always greeted her
return. Occasionally, by way of lulling the suspicions of

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Madam Conway, Henry would direct a letter to Hillsdale,
knowing full well it would never meet the eyes of Margaret,
over whom, for the time being, a spy had been set, in the
person of Anna Jeffrey.

This young lady, though but little connected with our
story, may perhaps deserve a brief notice. Older than
either Theo or Margaret, she was neither remarkable for
beauty or talent. Dark haired, dark eyed, dark browed,
and as the servants said, “dark in her disposition,” she was
naturally envious of those whose rank in life entitled them
to more attention than she was herself accustomed to receive.
For this reason, Maggie Miller had from the first
been to her an object of dislike, and she was well pleased
when Madam Conway, after enjoining upon her the strictest
secrecy, appointed her to watch that young lady, and see
that no letter was ever carried by her to the post office which
Madam Conway had not first examined. In the snaky
eyes there was a look of exultation, as Anna Jeffrey promised
to be faithful to her trust, and for a time she became
literally Maggie Miller's shadow, following her here, following
her there, and following her everywhere, until Maggie
complained so bitterly of the annoyance, that Madam Conway
at last, feeling tolerably sure that no counterplot
was intended, revoked her orders, and bade Anna Jeffrey
leave Margaret free to do as she pleased.

Thus relieved from espionage, Maggie became a little
more like herself, though a sense of the injustice done her
by her grandmother, together with the deception she knew
she was practising, wore upon her; and the servants at
their work listened in vain for the merry laugh they had
loved so well to hear. In the present state of Margaret's
feelings, Madam Conway deemed it prudent to say nothing
of Arthur Carrollton, whose name was never mentioned

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save by Theo and Anna, the latter of whom had seen him in
England, and was never so well pleased as when talking of
his fine country seat, his splendid park, his handsome horses,
and last, though not least, of himself. “He was,” she said,
“without exception, the most elegant and aristocratic young
man she had ever seen;” and then for more than an hour, she
would entertain Theo with a repetition of the many agreeable
things he had said to her during the one day she had
spent at his house, while Madam Conway was visiting
there.

In perfect indifference, Maggie, who was frequently present,
would listen to these stories, sometimes listlessly turning
the leaves of a book, and again smiling scornfully as she
thought how impossible it was that the fastidious Arthur
Carrollton should have been at all pleased with a girl like
Anna Jeffrey; and positive as Maggie was that she hated
him, she insensibly began to feel a very slight degree of interest
in him, “at least, she would like to know how he
looked;” and one day when her grandmother and Theo
were riding, she stole cautiously to the box where she knew
his picture lay, and taking it out, looked to see, “if he were
so very fine looking.”

“Yes he was,” Maggie acknowledged that; and sure that
she hated him terribly, she lingered long over that picture,
admiring the classically shaped head, the finely cut mouth,
and more than all the large dark eyes which seemed so full
of goodness and truth. “Pshaw!” she exclaimed, at last,
restoring the picture to its place, “If Henry were only a
little taller, and had as handsome eyes, he'd be a great deal
better looking. Any way, I like him, and I hate Arthur
Carrollton, who I know is domineering, and would try to
make me mind. He has asked for my daguerreotype,
grandma says, one which looks as I do now. I'll send it

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too,” and she burst into a loud laugh at the novel idea which
had crossed her mind.

That day when Madam Conway returned from her ride,
she was surprised at Maggie's proposing that Theo and herself
should have their likenesses taken for Arthur Carrollton.

“If he wants my picture,” said she, “I am willing he
shall have it. It is all he'll ever get.”

Delighted at this unexpected concession, Madam Conway
gave her consent, and the next afternoon found Theo and
Maggie at the daguerrean gallery in Hillsdale, where the latter
astonished both her sister and the artist by declaring her
intention of not only sitting with her bonnet and shawl on;
but also of turning her back to the instrument! It was in
vain that Theo remonstrated! “That position or none,”
she said; and the picture was accordingly taken, presenting
a very correct likeness when finished, of a bonnet, a veil, and
a shawl, beneath which Maggie Miller was supposed to be.

Strange as it may seem, this freak struck Madam Conway
favorably. Arthur Carrollton knew that Maggie was unlike
any other person, and the joke, she thought, would increase
rather than diminish the interest he already felt in her. So she
made no objection, and in a few days it was on its way to
England, together with a lock of Hagar's snow white hair,
which Maggie had coaxed from the old lady, and unknown
to her grandmother, placed in the casing at the last moment.

Several weeks passed away, and then there came an answer—
a letter so full of wit and humor that Maggie confessed
to herself that he must be very clever to write so many
shrewd things, and be withal so perfectly refined. Accompanying
the package, was a small rosewood box, containing
a most exquisite little pin made of Hagar's frosty hair, and

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richly ornamented with gold. Not a word was written concerning
it, and as Maggie kept her own counsel, both Theo
and her grandmother marvelled greatly, admiring its beauty
and wondering for whom it was intended.

“For me, of course,” said Madam Conway. “The hair
is Lady Carrollton's, Arthur's grandmother. I know it by its
soft silky look. She has sent it as a token of respect, for
she was always fond of me;” and going to the glass,
she very complacently ornamented her Honiton collar with
Hagar's hair, while Maggie, bursting with fun, beat a hasty
retreat from the room, lest she should betray herself.

Thus the winter passed away, and early in the spring,
George Douglas, to whom Madam Conway had long ago
sent a favorable answer, came to visit his betrothed, bringing
to Maggie a note from Rose, who had once or twice
sent messages in Henry's letters. She was in Worcester
now, and her health was very delicate. “Sometimes,” she
wrote, “I fear I shall never see you, Maggie Miller—shall
never look into your beautiful face, or listen to your voice;
but whether in heaven or on earth I am first to meet with
you, my heart claims you as a sister, the one whom of all the
sisters in the world I would rather call my own.”

“Darling Rose!” murmured Maggie, pressing the delicately
traced lines to her lips, “how near she seems to me!
nearer almost than Theo;” and then involuntarily her
thoughts went backward to the night when Henry Warner
first told her of his love, and when in her dreams there had
been a strange blending together of herself, of Rose, and
the little grave beneath the pine!

But not yet was that veil of mystery to be lifted. Hagar's
secret must be kept a little longer, and unsuspicious of the
truth, Maggie Miller must dream on of sweet Rose Warner,
whom she hopes one day to call her sister!

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There was also a message from Henry, and this George
Douglas delivered in secret, for he did not care to displease
his grandmother elect, who, viewing him through a golden
setting, thought he was not to be equalled by any one in
America. “So gentlemanly,” she said, “and so modest,
too,” basing her last conclusion upon his evident unwillingness
to say very much of himself or his family. Concerning
the latter she had questioned him in vain, eliciting nothing
save the fact that they lived in the country several miles
from Worcester, that his father always staid at home, and
consequently his mother went but little into society.

“Despises the vulgar herd, I dare say,” thought Madam
Conway, contemplating the pleasure she should undoubtedly
derive from an acquaintance with Mrs. Douglas, senior!

“There was a sister, too,” he said, and at this announcement
Theo opened wide her blue eyes, asking her name, and
“why he had never mentioned her before.”

“I call her Jenny,” said he, coloring slightly, and adding
playfully, as he caressed Theo's smooth, round cheek,
“wives do not usually like their husband's sisters.”

“But I shall like her, I know,” said Theo. “She has a
beautiful name, Jenny Douglas—much prettier than Rose
Warner, about whom Maggie talks to me so much.”

A gathering frown on her grandmother's face warned
Theo that she had touched upon a forbidden subject, and
as Mr. Douglas manifested no desire to continue the conversation,
it ceased for a time, Theo wishing “she could see
Jenny Douglas,” and George wondering what she would
say when she did see her!

For a few days longer he lingered, and ere his return, it
was arranged that early in July, Theo should be his bride.
On the morning of his departure, as he stood upon the steps
alone with Madam Conway, she said, “I think I can rely

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upon you, Mr. Douglas, not to carry either letter, note, or
message from Maggie to that young Warner. I've forbidden
him my house, and I mean what I say.”

“I assure you, madam, she has not asked me to carry
either,” answered George; who, though he knew perfectly
well of the secret correspondence, had kept it to himself.
“You mistake Mr. Warner, I think,” he continued, after
a moment. “I have known him long and esteem him
highly.”

“Tastes differ,” returned Madam Conway, coldly. “No
man of good breeding would presume to cut up my grandfather's
coat, or drink up my best wine.”

“He inteuded no disrespect, I'm sure,” answered George.
“He only wanted a little fun with the stars and stripes.”

“It was fun for which he will pay most dearly though,”
answered Madam Conway, as she bade Mr. Douglas good
bye; then walking back to the parlor, she continued speaking
to herself, “Stars and stripes!” I'll teach him to
cut up my blue bodice for fun. I wouldn't give him Margaret
if his life depended upon it;” and sitting down she wrote to
Arthur Carrollton, asking if he really intended visiting
America, and when.