“Oh, speak again!” she said, “but not the dreadful words you said to me just now.  Tell me they are false—­say that my father perished in the storm, that my mother was she who held me on her bosom when she died—­that I—­oh, Hagar, I am not—­I will not be the creature you say I am!  Speak to me,” she continued; “tell me; is it true?” and in her voice there was not the olden sound.

Hoarse—­hollow—­full of reproachful anguish it seemed; and, bowing her head in very shame, old Hagar made her answer:  “Would to Heaven ’twere not true—­but it is—­it is!  Kill me, Maggie,” she continued, “strike me dead, if you will, but take your eyes away!  You must not look thus at me, a heartbroken wretch.”

But not of Hagar Warren was Maggie thinking then.  The past, the present, and the future were all embodied in her thoughts.  She had been an intruder all her life; had ruled with a high hand people on whom she had no claim, and who, had they known her parentage, would have spurned her from them.  Theo, whom she had held in her arms so oft, calling her sister and loving her as such, was hers no longer; nor yet the fond woman who had cherished her so tenderly—­neither was hers; and in fancy she saw the look of scorn upon that woman’s face when she should hear the tale, for it must be told—­and she must tell it, too.  She would not be an impostor; and then there flashed upon her the agonizing thought, before which all else seemed as naught—­in the proud heart of Arthur Carrollton was there a place for Hagar Warren’s grandchild?  “No, no, no!” she moaned; and the next moment she lay at Hagar’s feet, white, rigid, and insensible.

“She’s dead!” cried Hagar; and for one brief instant she hoped that it was so.

But not then and there was Margaret to die; and slowly she came back to life, shrinking from the touch of Hagar’s hand when she felt it on her brow.

“There may be some mistake,” she whispered; but Hagar answered, “There is none”; at the same time relating so minutely the particulars of the deception that Maggie was convinced, and, covering her face with her hands, sobbed aloud, while Hagar, sitting by in silence, was nerving herself to tell the rest.

The sun had set, and the twilight shadows were stealing down upon them, when, creeping abjectly upon her knees towards the wretched girl, she said, “There is more, Maggie, more—­I have not told you all.”

But Maggie had heard enough, and, exerting all her strength, she sprang to her feet, while Hagar clutched eagerly at her dress, which was wrested from her grasp, as Maggie fled away—­away—­she knew not, cared not, whither, so that she were beyond the reach of the trembling voice which called after her to return.  Alone in the deep woods, with the darkness falling around her, she gave way to the mighty sorrow which had come so suddenly upon her.  She could not doubt what she had heard.  She knew that it was true, and as proof after proof crowded