“Maggie,” the lady said, laying her hand on the fevered brow, “I have heard a strange tale to-day.  Heretofore I had supposed Rose to be my only child, but though you take me by surprise you are not the less welcome.  There is room in my heart for you, Maggie Miller, room for the youngest-born of my only brother.  You are somewhat like him, too,” she continued, “though more like your mother;” and with the mention of that name a flush stole over the lady’s face, for she, too, was very proud, and her brother’s marriage with a servant girl had never been quite forgiven.

Mrs. Warner had seen much of the world, and Maggie knew her to be a woman of refinement, a woman of whom even Madam Conway would not be ashamed; and, winding her arms around her neck, she said impulsively, “I am glad you are my aunt; and you will love me, I am sure, even if I am poor Hagar’s grandchild.”

Mrs. Warner knew nothing of Hagar save from Henry’s amusing description, the entire truth of which she somewhat doubted; but she knew that whatever Hagar Warren might be, the beautiful girl before her was not answerable for it, and very kindly she tried to soothe her, telling her how happy they would be together.  “Rose will leave me in the autumn,” she said, “and without you I should be all alone.”  Of Hagar, too, she spoke kindly and considerately, and Maggie, listening to her, felt somewhat reconciled to the fate which had made her what she was.  Still, there was much of pride to overcome ere she could calmly think of herself as other than Madam Conway’s grandchild; and when that afternoon, as Henry and Rose were sitting with her, the latter spoke of her mother, saying she had a faint remembrance of a tall, handsome girl who sang her to sleep on the night when her own mother died, there came a visible shadow over Maggie’s face, and instantly changing the conversation she asked why Henry had never told her anything definite concerning himself and family.

For a moment Henry seemed embarrassed.  Both the Hamiltons and the Warners were very aristocratic in their feelings, and by mutual consent the name of Hester Warren was by them seldom spoken.  Consequently, if there existed a reason for Henry’s silence with regard to his own and Rose’s history, it was that he disliked bringing up a subject he had been taught to avoid, both by his aunt and the mother of Mr. Hamilton, who for several years after her son’s death had lived with her daughter in Leominster, where she finally died.  This, however, he could not say to Margaret, and after a little hesitancy he answered laughingly, “You never asked me for any particulars; and, then, you know, I was more agreeably occupied than I should have been had I spent my time in enlightening you with regard to our genealogy”; and the saucy mouth smiled archly, first on Rose, and then on Margaret, both of whom blushed slightly, the one suspecting he had not told her the whole truth, and the other knowing he had not.