The descent was less difficult than she had anticipated, and in an incredibly short space of time she was dipping her pretty velvet cap in the brook, whose sparkling foam had never before been disturbed by the touch of a hand as soft and fair as hers.  To ascend was not so easy a matter; but, chamois-like, Maggie’s feet trod safely the dangerous path, and she soon knelt by the unconscious man, bathing his forehead in the clear cold water, until he showed signs of returning life.  His lips moved slowly at last, as if he would speak; and Maggie, bending low to catch the faintest sound, heard him utter the name of “Rose.”  In Maggie’s bosom there was no feeling for the stranger save that of pity, and yet that one word “Rose” thrilled her with a strange undefinable emotion, awaking at once a yearning desire to know something of her who bore that beautiful name, and who to the young man was undoubtedly the one in all the world most dear.

“Rose,” he said again, “is it you?” and his eyes, which opened slowly, scanned with an eager, questioning look the face of Maggie, who, open-hearted and impulsive as usual, answered somewhat sadly:  “I am nobody but Maggie Miller.  I am not Rose, though I wish I was, if you would like to see her.”

The tones of her voice recalled the stranger’s wandering mind, and he answered:  “Your voice is like Rose, but I would rather see you, Maggie Miller.  I like your fearlessness, so unlike most of your sex.  Rose is far more gentle, more feminine than you, and if her very life depended upon it she would never dare leap that gorge.”

The young man intended no reproof; but Maggie took his words as such, and for the first time in her life began to think that possibly her manner was not always as womanly as might be.  At all events, she was not like the gentle Rose, whom she instantly invested with every possible grace and beauty, wishing that she herself was like her instead of the wild madcap she was.  Then, thinking that her conduct required some apology, she answered, as none save one as fresh and ingenuous as Maggie Miller would have answered:  “I don’t know any better than to behave as I do.  I’ve always lived in the woods—­have never been to school a day in my life—­never been anywhere except to camp-meeting, and once to Douglas’ store in Worcester!”

This was entirely a new phase of character to the man of the world, who laughed aloud, and at the mention of Douglas’ store started so quickly that a spasm of pain distorted his features, causing Maggie to ask if he were badly hurt.

“Nothing but a broken leg,” he answered; and Maggie, to whose mind broken bones conveyed a world of pain and suffering, replied:  “Oh, I am so sorry for you! and it’s my fault, too.  Will you forgive me?” and her hands clasped his so pleadingly that, raising himself upon his elbow so as to obtain a better view of her bright face, he answered, “I’d willingly break a hundred bones for the sake of meeting a girl like you, Maggie Miller.”