So onward still they went, pausing longest at Montreal, for it was there Arthur Carrollton had been, there a part of his possessions lay, and there Margaret willingly lingered, even after her companions wished to be gone.

“He may be here again,” she said; and so she waited and watched, scanning eagerly the passers-by, and noticing each new face as it appeared at the table of the hotel where they were staying.  But the one she waited for never came.  “And even if he does,” she thought, “he will not come for me.”

So she signified her willingness to depart, and early one bright July morning she left, while the singing birds from the treetops, the summer air from the Canada hills, and, more than all, a warning voice within her, bade her “Tarry yet a little, stay till the sun was set,” for far out in the country, and many miles away, a train was thundering on.  It would reach the city at nightfall, and among its jaded passengers was a worn and weary man.  Hopeless, almost aimless now, he would come, and why he came he scarcely knew.  “She would not be there, so far from home,” he felt sure, but he was coming for the sake of what he hoped and feared when last he trod those streets.  Listlessly he entered the same hotel from whose windows, for five long days, a fair young face had looked for him.  Listlessly he registered his name, then carelessly turned the leaves backward—­backward—­backward still, till only one remained between his hand and the page bearing date five days before.  He paused and was about to move away, when a sudden breeze from the open window turned the remaining leaf, and his eye caught the name, not of Maggie Miller, but of “Henry Warner, lady, and sister.”

Thus it stood, and thus he repeated it to himself, dwelling upon the last word “sister,” as if to him it had another meaning.  He had heard from Madam Conway that neither Henry Warner nor Rose had a sister, but she might be mistaken; probably she was; and dismissing the subject from his mind, he walked away.  Still the names haunted him, and thinking at last that if Mr. Warner were now in Montreal he would like to see him, he returned to the office, asking the clerk if the occupants of Nos. ——­ were there still.

“Left this morning for the Falls,” was the laconic answer; and, without knowing why he should particularly wish to do so, Mr. Carrollton resolved to follow them.

He would as soon be at the Falls as in Montreal, he thought.  Accordingly he left the next morning for Niagara, taking the shortest route by river and lake, and arriving there on the evening of the second day after his departure from the city.  But nowhere could a trace be found of Henry Warner, and determining now to wait until he came Mr. Carrollton took rooms at the International, where after a day or two, worn out with travel, excitement, and hope deferred, he became severely indisposed, and took his bed, forgetting entirely both Henry Warner and the sister, whose name he had seen upon the hotel register.  Thoughts of Maggie Miller, however, were constantly in his mind, and whether waking or asleep he saw always her face, sometimes radiant with healthful beauty, as when he first beheld her, and again, pale, troubled, and sad, as when he saw her last.