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Two days only remained ere the first of June, and in the
solitude of her chamber, Maggie was weeping bitterly.
“How can I tell them who I am?” she thought. “How
bear their pitying scorn, when they learn that she whom
they call Maggie Miller has no right to that name?—that
Hagar Warren's blood is flowing in her veins—and Madam
Conway thinks so much of that! Oh, why was Hagar left
to do me this great wrong? why did she take me from the
pine-board cradle, where she says I lay, and make me what
I was not born to be?” and falling on her knees the wretched
girl prayed that it might prove a dream, from which she
would ere long awake.

Alas for thee, poor Maggie Miller! It is not a dream,
but a stern reality, and you who oft have spurned at birth
and family, why should you murmur now when both are
taken from you? Are you not still the same, beautiful,
accomplished and refined, and can you ask for more?
Strange that theory and practice so seldom should accord.
And yet it was not the degradation which Maggie felt so
keenly, it was rather the loss of love she feared; and without
that, the blood of royalty could not avail to make her
happy.

Maggie was a warm-hearted girl, and she loved the
stately lady she had been wont to call her grandmother,

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with a filial, clinging love, which could not be severed, and
still this love was naught compared to what she felt for
Arthur Carrollton, and the giving up of him was the hardest
part of all. But it must be done, she thought; he had
told her once that were she Hagar Warren's grandchild, he
should not be riding with her—how much less then would
he make that child his wife! and rather than meet the look
of proud disdain his face would wear, when first she stood
confessed before him, she resolved to go away where no one
had ever heard of her or Hagar Warren. She would leave
behind a letter telling why she went, and commending to
Madam Conway's care poor Hagar, who had been sorely
punished for her sin. “But whither shall I go, and what
shall I do, when I get there?” she cried, trembling at the
thoughts of a world of which she knew so little. Then, as
she remembered how many young girls of her age went out
as teachers, she determined to go at all events. “It will
be better than staying here where I have no claim,” she
thought, and nerving herself for the task, she sat down to
write the letter, which, on the first of June, should tell to
Madam Conway and Arthur Carrollton the story of her
birth.

It was a harder task than she supposed, the writing that
farewell, for it seemed like severing every hallowed tie.
Three times she wrote, “My dear grandma,” then with a
throb of anguish, she dashed her pen across the revered
name, and wrote simply, “Madam Conway.” It was a rambling,
impassioned letter, full of tender love—of hope destroyed—
of deep despair—and though it shadowed forth no
expectation that Madam Conway or Mr. Carrollton would
ever take her to their hearts again, it begged of them most
touchingly to think sometimes of “Maggie,” when she was
gone forever. Hagar was then commended to Madam

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Conway's forgiveness and care. “She is old,” wrote Maggie,
“her life is nearly ended, and if you have in your heart
one feeling of pity for her, who used to call you grandma,
bestow it, I pray you, on poor old Hagar Warren.”

The letter was finished, and then suddenly remembering
Hagar's words, that “all had not been told,” and feeling
it her duty to see once more the woman who had
brought her so much sorrow, Maggie stole cautiously from
the house, and was soon walking down the woodland road,
slowly, sadly, for the world had changed to her since last
she trod that path. Maggie, too, was changed, and when at
last she stood before Hagar, who was now able to sit up,
the latter could scarcely recognize in the pale, haggard
woman, the blooming, merry-hearted girl, once known as
Maggie Miller.

“Margaret,” she cried, “you have come again—come to
forgive your poor old grand—No, no,” she added, as she
saw the look of pain flash over Maggie's face, “I'll never
insult you with that name. Only say that you forgive, me,
will you, Miss Margaret?” and the trembling voice was
choked with sobs, while the aged form shook as with a palsied
stroke.

Hagar had been ill. Exposure to the damp air on that
memorable night had brought on a second severe attack of
rheumatism, which had bent her nearly double. Anxiety
for Margaret, too, had wasted her to a skeleton, and her
thin, sharp face, now of a corpse-like pallor, contrasted
strangely with her eyes, from which the wildness all was
gone. Touched with pity, Maggie drew a chair to her
side, and thus replied, “I do forgive you, Hagar, for I know
that what you did was done in love; but by telling me what
you have, you've ruined all my hopes of happiness. In the
new scenes to which I go, and the new associations I shall

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form, I may become contented with my lot, but never can I
forget that I once was Maggie Miller.”

“Margaret,” gasped Hagar, and in her dim eye there was
something of its olden fire, “if by new associations you mean
Henry Warner, it must not be. Alas, that I should tell
this! but Henry is your brother—your father's only son. Oh,
horror, horror!” and dreading what Margaret would say,
she covered her face with her cramped, distorted hands.

But Margaret was not so much affected as Hagar had
anticipated. She had suffered severely, and could not now
be greatly moved. There was an involuntary shudder as
she thought of her escape, and then her next feeling was
one of satisfaction in knowing that she was not quite friendless
and alone, for Henry would protect her, and Rose,
indeed, would be to her a sister.

“Henry Warner my brother!” she exclaimed, “how
came you by this knowledge?” And very briefly Hagar
explained to her what she knew, saying that Hester had
told her of two young children, but she had forgotten
entirely their existence, and now that she was reminded of
it, she could not help fancying that Hester said the step-child
was a boy. But the peddler knew, of course, and she
must have forgotten.

“When the baby they thought was you, died,” said
Hagar, “I wrote to the minister in Meriden, telling him of
it, but I did not sign my name, and I thought that was the
last I should ever hear of it. Why don't you curse me?”
she continued. “Haven't I taken from you your intended
husband, as well as your name?”

Maggie understood perfectly now why the secret had
been revealed, and involuntarily she exclaimed, “Oh, had I
told you first, this never need have been;” and then hurriedly
she explained to the repentant Hagar how at the

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very moment when the dread confession was made, she,
Maggie Miller, was free from Henry Warner.

From the window Maggie saw in the distance the servant
who had charge of Hagar, and dreading the presence of a
third person, she arose to go. Offering her hand to Hagar
she said, “Good bye. I may never see you again, but if I
do not, remember that I forgive you freely.”

“You are not going away, Maggie. Oh, are you going
away!” and the crippled arms were stretched imploringly
towards Maggie, who answered, “Yes, Hagar, I must go.
Honor requires me to tell Madam Conway who I am, and
after that, you know that I cannot stay. I shall go to my
brother.”

Three times old Hagar essayed to speak, and at last,
between a whisper and a moan, she found strength to say,
“Will you kiss me once, Maggie darling? 'Twill be something
to remember, in the lonesome nights when I am all
alone. Just once, Maggie. Will you?”

Maggie could not refuse, and gliding to the bowed
woman's side, she put back the soft hair from off the wrinkled
brow, and left there token of her forgiveness.

The last May sun had set, and ere the first June morning
rose Maggie Miller would be nowhere found in the home
her presence had made so bright. Alone, with no eye upon
her save that of the Most High, she had visited the two
graves, and while her heart was bleeding at every pore, had
wept her last adieu over the sleeping dust so long held
sacred as her mother's. Then kneeling at the other grave,
she murmured, “Forgive me, Hester Hamilton, if in this
parting hour my heart clings most to her whose memory I

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was first taught to revere; and if in the better world you
know and love each other, oh, will both bless and pity me,
poor, wretched Maggie Miller!”

Softly the night air moved through the musical pine overshadowing
the humble grave, while the moonlight, flashing
from the tall marble, which stood a sentinel over the other
mound, bathed Maggie's upturned face as with a flood of
glory, and her throbbing heart grew still as if indeed at that
hushed moment the two mothers had come to bless their
child. The parting with the dead was over, and Margaret
sat again in her room, waiting until all was still about the
old stone house. She did not add to her letter another line
telling of her discovery, for she did not think of it; her
mind was too intent upon escaping unobserved; and when
sure the family had retired, she moved cautiously down the
stairs, noiselessly unlocked the door, and without once
daring to look back, lest she should waver in her purpose,
she went forth, heart-broken and alone, from what for
eighteen happy years had been her home. Very rapidly
she proceeded, coming at last to an open field through which
the railroad ran, the depot being nearly a quarter of a
mile away. Not until then had she reflected that her
appearance at the station at that hour of the night would
excite suspicion, and she was beginning to feel uneasy, when
suddenly around a curve the cars appeared in view. Fearing
lest she should be too late, she quickened her footsteps,
when to her great surprise, she saw that the train was stopping!
But not for her they waited, in the bright moonlight
the engineer had discovered a body lying across the track
and had stopped the train in time to save the life of the
man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had falled asleep. The
movement startled the passengers, many of whom alighted,
and gathered around the inebriate.

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In the meantime, Margaret had come near, and knowing
she could not now reach the depot in time, she mingled
unobserved in the crowd, and entering the rear car, took her
seat near the door. The train at last moved on, and as at
the station no one save the agent was in waiting, it is not
strange that the conductor passed unheeded the veiled figure
which in the dark corner sat ready to pay her fare.

“He will come to me by and by,” thought Maggie, but
he did not, and when Worcester was reached, she was
still debtor to the Boston & Albany Railroad for the sum of
seventy cents. Bewildered and uncertain what to do next,
she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at
the depot until morning, when a train would leave for
Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her
brother. Taking a seat in the ladies' room, she abandoned
herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say
could she see her then. But Theo, though dreaming it may
be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the
night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and
dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had
followed her—nay, was bending over her now and whispering
in her ear, “Wake, Maggie, wake.”

Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a
faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton,
but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked
“where she wished to go?”

“To Leominster,” she answered, turning her face fully
towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling
her when the train would leave, and saying that she must
go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not
better wait at some hotel.

But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitchburg
depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil over

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her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city
should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed
for the cars to leave. Then, weary and faint, she entered the
train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was,
drawing near to those who would love her for what she was
and not for what she had been. Rose would comfort her,
and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing
one whom she believed to be her brother's wife, for Henry
had written that ere this his homeward voyage was made,
Rose would be his bride.

Ah, Maggie! there is for you a greater happiness in store—
not a brother, but a sister—your father's child is there to
greet your coming. And even at this early hour, her snow
white fingers are arranging the fair June blossoms into bouquets,
with which she adorns her house, saying to him who
hovers at her side, “that somebody, she knows not whom,
is surely coming there to-day;” and then, with a blush stealing
over her cheek, she adds: “I wish it might be Margaret;”
while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical
mouth, winds his arm around her waist, and playfully responds,
“Any one save her.”

p594-421

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