“It must be something terrible to affect her so,” thought Maggie, and, taking the bony hands between her own, she said, “I would not tell it, Hagar; I do not wish to hear.”

The voice aroused the half-fainting woman, and, withdrawing her hand from Maggie’s grasp, she replied, “Turn away your face, Margaret Miller, so I cannot see the hatred settling over it, when I tell you what I must.”

“Certainly; my back if you prefer it,” answered Maggie, half playfully; and turning round she leaned her head against the feeble knees of Hagar.

“Maggie, Maggie,” began the poor old woman, lingering long and lovingly over that dear name, “nineteen years ago, next December, I took upon my soul the secret sin which has worn my life away, but I did it for the love I had for you.  Oh, Margaret, believe it, for the love I had for you, more than for my own ambition;” and the long fingers slid nervously over the bands of shining hair just within her reach.

At the touch of those fingers, Maggie shuddered involuntarily.  There was a vague, undefined terror stealing over her, and, impatient to know the worst, she said, “Go on, tell me what you did.”

“I can’t—­I can’t—­and yet I must!” cried Hagar.  “You were a beautiful baby, Maggie, and the other one was sickly, pinched, and blue.  I had you both in my room the night after Hester died; and the devil—­Maggie, do you know how the devil will creep into the heart, and whisper, whisper till the brain is all on fire?  This thing he did to me, Maggie, nineteen years ago, he whispered—­whispered dreadful things, and his whisperings were of you!”

“Horrible, Hagar!” exclaimed Maggie.  “Leave the devil, and tell me of yourself.”

“That’s it,” answered Hagar.  “If I had but left him then, this hour would never have come to me; but I listened, and when he told me that a handsome, healthy child would be more acceptable to the Conways than a weakly, fretful one—­when he said that Hagar Warren’s grandchild had far better be a lady than a drudge—­that no one would ever know it, for none had noticed either—­I did it, Maggie Miller; I took you from the pine-board cradle where you lay—­I dressed you in the other baby’s clothes—­I laid you on her pillow—­I wrapped her in your coarse white frock—­I said that she was mine, and Margaret—­oh, Heaven! can’t you see it?  Don’t you know that I, the shriveled, skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother!”

There was no need for Maggie Miller to answer that appeal.  The words had burned into her soul—­scorching her very life-blood, and maddening her brain.  It was a fearful blow—­crushing her at once.  She saw it all, understood it all, and knew there was no hope.  The family pride at which she had often laughed was strong within her, and could not at once be rooted out.  All the fond household memories, though desecrated and trampled down, were not so soon to be forgotten.  She could not own that half-crazed woman for her grandmother!  As Hagar talked Maggie had risen, and now, tall, and erect as the mountain ash which grew on her native hills, she stood before Hagar, every vestige of color faded from her face, her eyes dark as midnight and glowing like coals of living fire, while her hands, locked despairingly together, moved slowly towards Hagar, as if to thrust her aside.