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Impatient, restless and cross, Madam Conway lay in Margaret's
room, scolding Theo, and chiding Mrs. Jeffrey; both
of whom, though trying their utmost to suit her, managed
unfortunately to do always just what she wished them not
to do. Mrs. Jeffrey's hands were usually too cold, while
Theo's were too hot. Mrs. Jeffrey made the head of the
bed too high. Theo altogether too low. In short, neither
of them ever did what Margaret would have done had she
been there, and so day after day the lady complained, growing
more and more unamiable, until at last Theo began to
talk seriously of following Margaret's example, and running
away herself, at least as far as Worcester; but the distressed
Mrs. Jeffrey, terrified at the thoughts of being left
there alone, begged of her to stay a little longer, offering
the comforting assurance that “it could not be so bad
always, for Madam Conway would either get better—or
something.”

So Theo staid, enduring with a martyr's patience the caprices
of her grandmother, who kept the whole household in
a constant state of excitement, and who at last began to
blame George Douglas entirely as being the only one in
fault. “He didn't half look,” she said, “and she doubted
whether he knew enough to keep from losing himself in New

[figure description] Page 452.[end figure description]

York. It was the most foolish thing Arthur Carrollton had
ever done, hiring George Douglas to search!”

“Hiring him, grandma!” cried Theo, “George offered his
services for nothing,” and the tears came to her eyes at this
injustice done to her husband.

But Madam Conway persisted in being unreasonable, and
matters grew gradually worse until the day when Margaret
was found at the Falls On that morning Madam Conway
determined upon riding—“fresh air would do her good,”
she said, “and they had kept her in a hot chamber long
enough.”

Accordingly, the carriage was brought out, and Madam
Conway carefully lifted in; but ere fifty rods were passed,
the coachman was ordered to drive back, as “she could not
endure the jolt—she told them she couldn't all the time,”
and her eyes turned reprovingly upon poor Theo, sitting silently
in the opposite corner.

“The Lord help me, if she isn't coming back, so soon,”
sighed Mrs. Jeffrey, as she saw the carriage returning, and
went to meet the invalid who had “taken her death cold,”
just as she knew she should, when they insisted upon her
going out.

That day was far worse than any which had preceded
it. It was probably her last, Madam Conway said, and
numerous were the charges she gave to Theo concerning
Margaret, should she ever be found. The house, the
farm, the furniture and plate, were all to be hers, while
to Theo was given the lady's wardrobe, saving such articles
as Margaret might choose for herself, and if she never were
found, the house and farm were to be Mr. Carrollton's. This
was too much for Theo, who resolved to go home on the
morrow at all hazards, and she had commenced making preparations
for leaving, when to her great joy her husband

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came, and in recounting to him her trials, she forgot in a
measure how unhappy she had been. George Douglas was
vastly amused at what he heard and resolved to experiment
a little with the lady, who was so weak as to notice him
only with a slight nod when he first entered the room. He
saw at a glance that nothing in particular was the matter,
and when towards night she lay panting for breath, with
her eyes half closed, he approached her and said: “Madam,
in case you die”—

“In case I die,” she whispered indignantly. “It doesn't
admit of a doubt. My feet are as cold as icicles now.”

“Certainly,” said he. “I beg your pardon; of course
you'll die.”

The lady turned away rather defiantly for a dying woman,
and George continued: “What I mean to say is this—if
Margaret is never found, you wish the house to be Mr.
Carrollton's?”

“Yes, everything, my wardrobe and all,” came from beneath
the bedclothes, and George proceeded: “Mr. Carrollton
cannot of course take the house to England, and as
he will need a trusty tenant, would you object greatly, if
my father and mother should come here to live? They'd
like it, I”—

The sentence was unfinished—the bunches in the throat,
which for hours had prevented the sick woman from speaking
aloud, and were eventually to choke her to death, disappeared;
Madam Conway found her voice, and starting up,
screamed out, “That abominable woman and heathenish
girl in this house, in my house; I'll live forever, first!” and
her round bright eyes flashed forth their indignation.

“I thought the mention of mother would revive her,” said
George, aside to Theo, who, convulsed with laughter, had
hidden herself behind the window curtain.

[figure description] Page 454.[end figure description]

Mr. Douglas was right, for not again that afternoon did
Madam Conway speak of dying, though she kept her bed
until night-fall, when an incident occurred which brought
her at once to her feet, making her forget that she had ever
been otherwise than well.

In her cottage by the mine, old Hagar had raved, and
sung, and wept, talking much of Margaret, but never telling
whither she had gone. Latterly, however, she had
grown more calm, talking far less than heretofore, and
sleeping a great portion of the day, so that the servant
who attended her became neglectful, leaving her many
hours alone, while she, at the stone house, passed her time
more agreeably than at the lonesome hut. On the afternoon
of which we write, she was as usual at the house, and
though the sun went down, she did not hasten back, for her
patient, she said, was sure to sleep, and even if she woke
she did not need much care.

Meantime old Hagar slumbered on. It was a deep,
refreshing sleep, and when at last she did awake, her reason
was in a measure restored, and she remembered everything
distinctly, up to the time of Margaret's last visit, when she
said she was going away. And Margaret had gone away,
she was sure of that, for she remembered Arthur Carrollton
stood once within that room, and besought of her to tell if
she knew aught of Maggie's destination. She did know,
but she had not told, and perhaps they had not found her
yet. Raising herself in bed, she called aloud to the servant,
but there came no answer; and for an hour or more, she
waited impatiently, growing each moment more and more
excited. If Margaret were found she wished to know it,
and if she were not found, it was surely her duty to go at
once, and tell them where she was. But could she walk?
She stepped upon the floor and tried. Her limbs trembled

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beneath her weight, and sinking into a chair, she cried, “I
can't, I can't.”

Half an hour later, she heard the sound of wheels. A
neighboring farmer was returning home from Richland, and
had taken the cross road as his shortest route. “Perhaps
he will let me ride,” she thought, and hobbling to the door,
she called after him, making known her request. Wondering
what “new freak” had entered her mind, the man consented,
and just as it was growing dark, he set her down at
Madam Conway's gate, where, half fearfully, the bewildered
woman gazed around. The windows of Margaret's room were
open, a figure moved before them, Margaret might be there,
and entering the hall door unobserved, she began to ascend
the stairs, crawling upon her hands and knees, and pausing
several times to rest.

It was nearly dark in the sick-room, and as Mrs. Jeffrey
had just gone out, and Theo, in the parlor below, was enjoying
a quiet talk with her husband, Madam Conway was
quite alone. For a time she lay thinking of Margaret, then
her thoughts turned upon George and his “amazing proposition.”
“Such unheard of insolence!” she exclaimed, and
she was proceeding farther with her soliloquy, when a peculiar
noise upon the stairs without caught her ear, and raising
herself upon her elbow, she listened intently to the sound
which came nearer and nearer, and seemed like some one
creeping slowly, painfully, for she could hear at intervals a
long drawn breath, or groan, and with a vague feeling of uneasiness,
she awaited anxiously the appearance of her visitor;
nor waited long, for the half closed door swung slowly back,
and through the gathering darkness the shape came crawling
on, over the threshold, into the room, towards the corner,
its limbs distorted and bent, its white hair sweeping the
floor. With a smothered cry, Madam Conway hid beneath

[figure description] Page 456.[end figure description]

the bedclothes, looking cautiously out at the singular object
which came creeping on until the bed was reached. It
touched the counterpane, it was struggling to regain its feet,
and with a scream of horror the terrified woman cried out,
“Fiend, why are you here?” while a faint voice replied, “I
am looking for Margaret. I thought she was in bed;” and
rising up from her crouching posture, Hagar Warren stood
face to face with the woman she had so long deceived.

“Wretch!” exclaimed the latter, her pride returning as
she recognized old Hagar, and thought, “She is Maggie's
grandmother. Wretch, how dare you come into my presence?
Leave this room at once,” and a shrill cry of “Theo,
Theo,” rang through the house, bringing Theo at once to
the chamber, where she started involuntarily at the sight
which met her view.

“Who is it? Who is it?” she exclaimed.

“It's Hagar Warren. Take her away!” screamed Madam
Conway; while Hagar, raising her withered hand deprecatingly,
said: “Hear me first. Do you know where Margaret
is? Has she been found?”

“No, no,” answered Theo, bounding to her side, while
Madam Conway forgot to scream, and bent eagerly forward
to listen, her symptoms of dissolution disappearing one by
one, as the strange narrative proceeded, and ere its close,
she was nearly dressed, standing erect as ever, her face glowing,
and her eyes lighted up with joy.

“Gone to Leominster! Henry Warner's half-sister!” she
exclaimed. “Why didn't she add a postscript to that letter,
and tell us so? though the poor child couldn't think of
everything;” and then, unmindful of George Douglas, who
at that moment entered the room, she continued: “I should
suppose Douglas might have found it out ere this. But the
moment I put my eyes upon that woman, I knew no child of

[figure description] Page 457.[end figure description]

hers would ever know enough to find Margaret. The Warners
are a tolerably good family, I presume. I'll go after her
at once. Theo, bring my broché shawl, and wouldn't you
wear my satin hood? 'Twill be warmer than my leghorn.”

“Grandma,” said Theo, in utter astonishment, “what do
you mean? You surely are not going to Leominster to-night,
as sick as you are?”

“Yes, I am going to Leominster to-night,” answered the
decided woman, “and this gentleman,” waving her hand
majestically towards George, “will oblige me much by seeing
that the carriage is brought out.”

Theo was about to remonstrate, when George whispered,
“Let her go; Henry and Rose are probably not at home,
but Margaret may be there. At all events a little airing
will do the old lady good;” and rather pleased than otherwise
with the expedition, he went after John, who pronounced
his mistress “crazier than Hagar.”

But it wasn't for him to dictate, and grumbling at the
prospect before him, he harnessed his horses and drove them
to the door, where Madam Conway was already in waiting.

“See that everything is in order for our return,” she said
to Theo, who promised compliance, and then, herself bewildered,
listened to the carriage as it rolled away; it seemed
so like a dream that the woman, who three hours before
could scarcely speak aloud, had now started for a ride of
many miles in the damp night-air! But love can accomplish
miracles, and it made the eccentric lady strong, buoying
up her spirits, and prompting her to cheer on the coachman,
until just as the dawn grew rosy in the east, Leominster
appeared in view. The house was found, the carriage
steps let down, and then with a slight trembling in her

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limbs, Madam Conway alighted and walked up the gravelled
path, casting eager, searching glances around and commenting
as follows:

“Everything is in good taste; they must be somebody,
these Warners. I'm glad it is no worse.” And with each
now indication of refinement in Margaret's relatives, the
disgrace seemed less and less in the mind of the proud
Englishwoman.

The ringing of the bell brought down Janet, who with an
inquisitive look at the satin hood and bundle of shawls,
ushered the stranger into the parlor, and then went for her
mistress. Taking the card her servant brought, Mrs. Warner
read with some little trepidation, the name, “Madam Conway,
Hillsdale.” From what she had heard, she was not
prepossessed in the lady's favor; but, curious to know why
she was there at this early hour, she hastened the making of
her toilet, and went down to the parlor, where Madam Conway
sat, coiled in one corner of the sofa, which she had
satisfied herself was covered with real brocatelle, as were
also the chairs within the room. The tables of rosewood
and marble, and the expensive curtains had none of them
escaped her notice, and in a mood which more common furniture
would never have produced, Madam Conway arose
to meet Mrs. Warner, who received her politely, and then
waited to hear her errand.

It was told in a few words. She had come for Margaret—
Margaret, whom she had loved for eighteen years, and
could not now cast off, even though she were not of the Conway
and Davenport extraction.

“I can easily understand how painful must have been the
knowledge that Maggie was not your own,” returned Mrs.
Warner, for she is a girl of whom any one might be proud; but
you are laboring under a mistake—Henry is not her brother,”

[figure description] Page 459.[end figure description]

and then, very briefly she explained the matter to Madam
Conway, who having heard so much, was now surprised at
nothing, and who felt, it may be, a little gratified in knowing
that Henry was, after all, nothing to Margaret, save the
husband of her sister. But a terrible disappointment awaited
her. “Margaret was not there,” and so loud were her
lamentations, that some time elasped ere Mrs. Warner could
make her listen, while she explained, that “Mr. Carrollton
had found Maggie the day previous, at the Falls, that they
were probably in Albany now, and would reach Hillsdale
that very day;” such at least was the import of the telegram
which Mrs. Warner had received the evening before. “They
wish to surprise you undoubtedly,” she said, “and consequently
have not telegraphed to you.”

This seemed probable, and forgetting her weariness, Madam
Conway resolved upon leaving John to drive home at his
leisure, while she took the Leominster cars, which reached
Worcester in time for the upward train. This matter adjusted,
she tried to be quiet; but her excitement increased
each moment, and when at last breakfast was served, she
did but little justice to the tempting viands which her
hostess set before her. Margaret's chamber was visited
next, and very lovingly she patted and smoothed the downy
pillows, for the sake of the bright head which had rested
there, while to herself she whispered abstractedly, “Yes,
yes,” though to what she was giving her assent, she could
not tell. She only knew that she was very happy, and very
impatient to be gone, and when at last she did go, it seemed
to her an age ere Worcester was reached.

Resolutely turning her head away, lest she should see the
scene of her disaster, when last she was in that city, she
walked up and down the ladies' room, her satin hood and
heavy broché shawl, on that warm July morning, attracting

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much attention. But little did she care. “Margaret” was
the burden of her thoughts, and the appearance of Mrs.
Douglas herself, would scarcely have disturbed her. Much
less, then, did the presence of a queerly dressed young girl,
who, entering the car with her, occupied from necessity the
same seat, feeling herself a little annoyed at being thus
obliged to sit so near one whom she mentally pronounced
“mighty unsociable,” for not once did Madam Conway turn
her face that way, so intent was she upon watching their
apparent speed, and counting the number of miles they had
come.

When Charlton was reached, however, she did observe
the woman in a shaker, who, with a pail of huckleberries on
her arm, was evidently waiting for some one.

An audible groan from the depths of the satin hood, as
Betsey Jane passed out and the cars passed on, showed plainly
that the mother and sister of George Douglas were recognized,
particularly as the former wore the red and yellow
calico, which, having been used as a “dress up” the summer
before, now did its owner service as a garment of every-day
wear. But not long did Madam Conway suffer her mind to
dwell upon matter so trivial. Hillsdale was not far away,
and she came each moment nearer. Two more stations
were reached—the haunted swamp was passed—Chicopee
River was in sight—the bridge appeared in view—the
whistle sounded, and she was there.

Half an hour later, and Theo, looking from her window,
started in surprise as she saw the village omnibus drive
up to their door.

“'Tis grandmother!” she cried, and running to meet her,
she asked why she had returned so soon.

“They are coming at noon,” answered the excited woman—
then, hurrying into the house, and throwing off her hood,

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she continued, “He's found her at the Falls; they are between
here and Albany now; tell everybody to hurry as fast
as they can; tell Hannah to make a chicken pie—Maggie
was fond of that; and turkey—tell her to kill a turkey—it's
Maggie's favorite dish—and ice cream, too! I wish I had
some this minute,” and she wiped the perspiration from her
burning face.

No more hysterics now; no more lonesome nights; no
more thoughts of death—for Margaret was coming home—
the best-loved of them all. Joyfully the servants told to
each other the glad news, disbelieving entirely the report fast
gaining circulation, that the queenly Maggie was lowly born—
a grandchild of old Hagar. Up and down the stairs
Madam Conway ran, flitting from room to room, and tarrying
longest in that of Margaret, where the sunlight came in
softly through the half closed blinds and the fair summer
blossoms smiled a welcome for the expected one.

Suddenly the noontide stillness was broken by a sound,
deafening and shrill on ordinary occasions, but falling now
like music on Madam Conway's ear, for by that sound she
knew that Margaret was near. Wearily went the half hour
by, and then, from the head of the tower stairs, Theo cried
out, “She is coming!” while the grandmother buried her
face in the pillows of the lounge, and asked to be alone
when she took back to her bosom the child which was not
hers.

Earnestly, as if to read the inmost soul, each looked into
the other's eyes—Margaret and Theo—and while the voice
of the latter was choked with tears, she wound her arms
around the graceful neck, which bent to the caress, and
whispered low, “You are my sister still.”

Against the vine-wreathed balustrade a fairy form was
leaning, holding back her breath lest she should break the

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deep silence of that meeting. In her bosom there was no
pang of fear lest Theo should be loved the best; and even
had there been, it could not surely have remained, for
stretching out her arm, Margaret drew her to her side, and
placing her hand in that of Theo said, “You are both my
sisters now,” while Arthur Carrollton, bending down, kissed
the lips of the three, saying as he did so, “Thus do I
acknowledge your relationship to me.”

“Why don't she come?” the waiting Madam Conway
sighed, just as Theo pointing to the open door, bade Margaret
“go in.”

There was a blur before the lady's eyes—a buzzing in her
ears—and the footfall she had listened for so long, was now
unheard as it came slowly to her side. But the light touch
upon her arm—the well remembered voice within her ear,
calling her “Madam Conway,” sent through her an electric
thrill, and starting up she caught the wanderer in her arms,
crying imploringly, “Not that name, Maggie darling; call
me grandma, as you used to do—call me grandma still,”
and smoothing back the long black tresses, she looked to
see if grief had left its impress upon her fair young face. It
was paler now, and thinner, too, than it was wont to be,
and while her tears fell fast upon it, Madam Conway whispered,
“You have suffered much, my child, and so have I.
Why did you go away? Say, Margaret, why did you leave
me all alone?”

“To learn how much you loved me,” answered Margaret,
to whom this moment brought happiness second only to that
which she had felt when on the river bank she sat with Arthur
Carrollton, and heard him tell how much she had been
mourned—how lonesome was the house without her—and
how sad where all their hearts.

But that was over now; no more sadness—no more

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tears; the lost one had returned; Margaret was home
again—home in the hearts of all, and nothing could dislodge
her—not even the story of her birth, which Arthur Carrollton,
spurning at further deception, told to the listening servants,
who, having always respected old Hagar for her position
in the household as well as for her education, so superior
to their own, sent up a deafening shout, first for “Hagar's
grandchild,” and next for “Miss Margaret forever”

p594-465

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