Leading her to the sofa, while Rose, perfectly confounded, still stood within the door, he said to the half-crazed girl:  “Margaret, I do not understand you.  I never had a sister, and my father died when I was six months old.  There must be some mistake.  Will you tell me what you mean?”

Bewildered and perplexed, Margaret began a hasty repetition of Hagar’s story, but ere it was three-fourths told there came from the open door a wild cry of delight, and quick as lightning a fairy form flew across the floor, white arms were twined round Maggie’s neck, kiss after kiss was pressed upon her lips, and Rose’s voice was in her ear, never before half so sweet as now, when it murmured soft and low to the weary girl:  “My sister Maggie—­mine you are—­the child of my own father, for I was Rose Hamilton, called Warner, first to please my aunt, and next to please my Henry.  Oh, Maggie darling, I am so happy now!” and the little snowy hands smoothed caressingly the bands of hair, so unlike her own fair waving tresses.

It was, indeed, a time of almost perfect bliss to them all, and for a moment Margaret forgot her pain, which, had Hagar known the truth, need not have come to her.  But she scarcely regretted it now, when she felt Rose Warner’s heart throbbing against her own, and knew their father was the same.

“You are tired,” Rose said, at length, when much had been said by both.  “You must have rest, and then I will bring to you my aunt, our aunt, Maggie—­our father’s sister.  She has been a mother to me.  She will be one to you.  But stay,” she continued, “you have had no breakfast.  I will bring you some,” and she tripped lightly from the room.

Maggie followed her with swimming eyes, then turning to Henry she said, “You are very happy, I am sure.”

“Yes, very,” he answered, coming to her side.  “Happy in my wife, happy in my newly found sister,” and he laid his hand on hers with something of his former familiarity.

But the olden feeling was gone, and Maggie could now meet his glance without a blush, while he could talk with her as calmly as if she had never been aught to him save the sister of his wife.  Thus often changeth the human heart’s first love.

After a time Rose returned, bearing a silver tray heaped with the most tempting viands:  but Maggie’s heart was too full to eat, and after drinking a cup of the fragrant black tea, which Rose herself had made, she laid her head upon the pillow which Henry brought, and, with Rose sitting by, holding lovingly her hand, she fell into a quiet slumber.  For several hours she slept, and when she awoke at last the sun was shining in at the western window, casting over the floor a glimmering light, and reminding her so forcibly of the dancing shadows on the grass which grew around the old stone house that her eyes filled with tears, and, thinking herself alone, she murmured, “Will it never be my home again?”

A sudden movement, the rustling of a dress, startled her, and lifting up her head she saw standing near a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman, who, she rightly guessed, was Mrs. Warner, her own aunt.