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It was a rainy April day—a day which precluded all out-door
exercise, and Hagar Warren, from the window of her
lonely cabin, watched in vain for the coming of Maggie
Miller. It was now more than a week since she had been
there, for both Arthur Carrollton and herself had accompanied
the disappointed Anna Jeffrey to New York, going
with her on board the vessel which was to take her from a
country she so affected to dislike.

“I dare say you'll be Maggie somebody else ere I meet you
again,” she said to Maggie, at parting, and Mr. Carrollton,
on her journey home, found it hard to keep from asking her
if for the “somebody else,” she would substitute his name
and so be “Maggie Carrollton.”

This, however, he did not do; but his attentions were so
marked, and his manner toward her so affectionate, that
ere Hillsdale was reached, there was in Maggie's mind no
longer a doubt as to the nature of his feelings toward her.
Arrived at home, he kept her constantly at his side, while
Hagar, who was suffering from a slight attack of rheumatism,
and could not go up to the stone house, waited and watched,
thinking herself almost willing to be teased for the secret, if
she could once more hear the sound of Maggie's voice. The
secret, however, had been forgotten in the exciting scenes,

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through which Maggie had passed since first she learned of
its existence; and it was now a long, long time since she
had mentioned it to Hagar, who each day grew more and
more determined never to reveal it.

“My life is almost ended,” she thought, “and the secret
shall go with me to my grave. Margaret will be happier
without it, and it shall not be revealed.”

Thus she reasoned on that rainy afternoon, when she sat
waiting for Maggie, who, she heard, had returned the day
before. Slowly the hours dragged on, and the night
shadows fell at last upon the forest trees, creeping into the
corners of Hagar's room, resting upon the hearth-stone
falling upon the window pane, creeping up the wall, and
affecting Hagar with a nameless fear of some impending
evil. This fear not even the flickering flame of the lamp,
which she lighted at last, and placed upon the mantel, was
able to dispel, for the shadows grew darker, folding themselves
around her heart, until she covered her eyes with her
hands, lest some goblin shape should spring into life before
her.

The sound of the gate latch was heard, and footsteps
were approaching the door; not the bounding step of Maggie,
but a tramping tread, followed by a heavy knock, and the
next moment a tall, large man appeared before her, asking
shelter for the night. The pack he carried showed him at
once to be a peddler, and upon a nearer view, Hagar recognized
in him a stranger who, years before, had craved her
hospitality. He had been civil to her then; she did not
fear him now, and she consented to his remaining, thinking
his presence there might dispel the mysterious terror hanging
around her. But few words passed between them that
night, for Martin, as he called himself, was tired, and after
partaking of the supper she prepared, he retired to rest. The

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next morning, however, he was more talkative, kindly enlightening
her with regard to his business, his family and
his place of residence, which last he said was in Meriden,
Connecticut.

It was a long time since Hagar had heard that name, and
now, turning quickly towards him, she said, “Meriden?
That is where my Hester lived, and where her husband died.”

“I want to know,” returned the Yankee peddler. “What
might have been his name?”

“Hamilton, Nathan Hamilton. Did you know him?
He died nineteen years ago, this coming summer.”

“Egzactly!” ejaculated the peddler, setting down his pack,
and himself taking a chair, preparatory to a long talk.
“Egzactly; I knowed him like a book. Old Squire Hampleton,
the biggest man in Meriden, and you don't say his
last wife, that tall, handsome gal, was your darter?”

“Yes, she was my daughter,” answered Hagar, her whole
face glowing with the interest she felt, in talking for the
first time in her life with one who had known her daughter's
husband, Maggie's father. “You knew her. You have
seen her?” she continued; and Martin answered, “Seen her
a hundred times, I'll bet. Any how, I sold her the weddin'
gown, and now I think on't, she favored you. She was a
likely person, and I allus thought that proud sister of his'n,
the widder Warner, might have been in better business than
takin' them children away as she did, because he married
his hired gal. But it's as well for them, I s'pose, particularly
for the boy, who is one of the fust young men in
Wooster, now. Keeps a big store!”

“Warner, Warner!” interrupted old Hagar, the nameless
terror of the night before creeping again into her heart.
“Whose name did you say was Warner?”

“The hull on 'em, boy, girl and all, is called Warner,

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now—one Rose, and t'other Henry,” answered the peddler,
perfectly delighted with the interest manifested by his auditor,
who, grasping at the bedpost and moving her hand rapidly
before her eyes, as if to clear away a mist which had
settled there, continued, “I remember now Hester told me
of the children; but one, she said, was a step-child, that
was the boy, wasn't it?” and her wild, black eyes had in
them a look of unutterable anxiety, wholly incomprehensible
to the peddler, who, instead of answering her question
said, “What ails you woman? Your face is as white as a
piece of paper?”

“Thinking of Hester always affects me so,” she answered;
and stretching her hands beseechingly towards him, she
entreated him to say if Henry were not the step-child.

“No marm, he warn't,” answered the peddler, who, like a
great many talkative people, pretended to know more than
he really did, and who in this particular instance, was certainly
mistaken. “I can tell you egzactly how that is;
Henry was the son of Mr. Hampleton's first marriage, Henry
Hampleton. The second wife, the one your darter lived
with, was the widder Warner, and had a little gal, Rose,
when she married Mr. Hampleton. This widder Warner's
husband's brother married Mr. Hampleton's sister, the
woman who took the children, and had Henry change his
name to Warner. The Hampletons and Warners were
mighty big fellin' folks, and the old Squire's match mortified
'em dreadfully.”

“Where are they now?” gasped Hagar, hoping there
might be some mistake.

“There you've got me!” answered Martin. “I haven't
seen 'em this dozen year; but the last I heard, Miss Warner
and Rose was livin' in Leominster, and Henry was in a big
store in Wooster. But what the plague is the matter?” he

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continued, alarmed at the expression of Hagar's face, as
well as at the strangeness of her manner.

Wringing her hands as if she would wrench her fingers
from their sockets, she clutched at her long white hair, and
rocking to and fro, moaned “woe is me, and woe the day
when I was born.”

From every one save her grandmother, Margaret had
kept the knowledge of her changed feelings towards Henry
Warner; and looking upon a marriage between the two as
an event surely expected, old Hagar was overwhelmed with
grief and fear. Falling at last upon her knees, she cried,
“Had you cut my throat from ear to ear, old man, you
could not have hurt me more. Oh, that I had died years and
years ago! but I must live now, live!” she screamed, springing
to her feet—“live to prevent the wrong my own wickedness
has caused.”

Perfectly astonished at what he saw and heard, the peddler
attempted to question her, but failing to obtain any satisfactory
answers, he finally left, mentally pronouncing her,
“as crazy as a loon.” This opinion was confirmed by the
people on whom he next called, for, chancing to speak of
Hagar, he was told that nothing which she did or said was
considered strange, as she had been called insane for years.
This satisfied Martin, who made no further mention of her,
and thus the scandal, which his story might otherwise have
produced, was prevented.

In the meantime, on her face old Hagar lay, moaning bitterly.
“My sin has found me out, found me out; and just
when I thought it never need be known. For myself, I do
not care; but Maggie, Maggie, how can I tell her that she
is bone of my bone, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh—
and me, old Hagar Warren!”

It would be impossible to describe the scorn and intense

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loathing concentrated in the tones of Hagar's voice as she
uttered these last words, “and me, old Hagar Warren!”
Had she indeed been the veriest wretch on earth, she could
not have hated herself more than she did in that hour of her
humiliation, when, with a loud voice, she cried, “let me die,
oh, let me die, and it will never be known!” Then, as she
reflected upon the terrible consequence which would ensue
were she to die and make no sign, she wrung her hands
despairingly, crying, “Life, life, yes, give me life to tell her
of my guilt; and then it will be a blessed rest to die. Oh,
Margaret, my precious child, I'd give my heart's blood, drop
by drop, to save you; but it can't be; you must not wed
your father's son; oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!”

Fainter and fainter grew each succeeding word, and
when the last was spoken, she fell again upon her face,
unconscious and forgetful of her woe. Higher and higher
in the heavens rose the morning sun, stealing across the window-sill,
and shining aslant the floor, where Hagar still lay
in a deep, deathlike swoon. An hour passed on, and then
the wretched woman came slowly back to life, her eyes
lighting up with joy, as she whispered, “it was a dream,
thank heaven, 'twas a dream;” and then growing dim with
tears, as the dread reality came over her. The first fearful
burst of grief was passed, for Hagar now could weep, and
tears did her good, quelling the feverish agony at her heart.
Not for herself did she suffer so much as for Mag, trembling
for the effect the telling of the secret would have on her.
For it must be told. She knew that full well, and as the
sun fast neared the western horizon, she murmured, “Oh,
will she come to-night, will she come to-night?”

Yes, Hagar, she will. Even now her feet, which, when
they backward turn, will tread less joyously, are threading

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the woodland path. The half-way rock is reached—nearer
and nearer she comes—her shadow falls across the floor—
her hand is on your arm—her voice is in your ear—Maggie
Miller is at your side—Heaven help you both!

p594-402

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