Henry Warner, as the stranger was called, was the junior partner of the firm of Douglas & Co., Worcester, and his object in visiting the Hillsdale neighborhood was to collect several bills which for a long time had been due.  He had left the cars at the depot, and, hiring a livery horse, was taking the shortest route from the east side of town to the west, when he came accidentally upon Maggie Miller, and, as we have seen, brought his ride to a sudden close.  All this he told to her on the morning following the accident, retaining until the last the name of the firm of which he was a member.

“And you were once at our store?” he said.  “How long ago?”

“Five years,” answered Maggie; “when I was eleven, and Theo thirteen;” then, looking earnestly at him, she exclaimed.  “And you are the very one, the clerk with the saucy eyes whom grandma disliked so much because she thought he made fun of her; but we didn’t think so—­Theo and I,” she added hastily, as she saw the curious expression on Henry’s mouth, and fancied he might be displeased.  “We liked them both very much, and knew they must of course be annoyed with grandma’s English whims.”

For a moment the saucy eyes studied intently the fair girlish face of Maggie Miller, then slowly closed, while a train of thought something like the following passed through the young man’s mind:  “A woman, and yet a perfect child—­innocent and unsuspecting as little Rose herself.  In one respect they are alike, knowing no evil and expecting none; and if I, Henry Warner, do aught by thought or deed to injure this young girl may I never again look on the light of day or breathe the air of heaven.”

The vow had passed his lips.  Henry Warner never broke his word, and henceforth Maggie Miller was as safe with him as if she had been an only and well-beloved sister.  Thinking him to be asleep, Maggie started to leave the room, but he called her back, saying, “Don’t go; stay with me, won’t you?”

“Certainly,” she answered, drawing a chair to the bedside.  “I supposed you were sleeping.”

“I was not,” he replied.  “I was thinking of you and of Rose.  Your voices are much alike.  I thought of it yesterday when I lay upon the rock.”

“Who is Rose?” trembled on Maggie’s lips, while at the sound of that name she was conscious of the same undefinable emotion she had once before experienced.  But the question was not asked.  “If she were his sister he would tell me,” she thought; “and if she is not his sister—­”

She did not finish the sentence, neither did she understand that if Rose to him was something dearer than a sister, she, Maggie Miller, did not care to know it.

“Is she beautiful as her name, this Rose?” she asked at last.

“She is beautiful, but not so beautiful as you.  There are few who are,” answered Henry; and his eyes fixed themselves upon Maggie to see how she would bear the compliment.

But she scarcely heeded it, so intent was she upon knowing something more of the mysterious Rose.  “She is beautiful, you say.  Will you tell me how she looks?” she continued; and Henry Warner answered, “She is a frail, delicate little creature, almost dwarfish in size, but perfect in form and feature.”