“I have a distinct recollection of your grandmother,” he continued, “and now I think of it I believe Douglas has once or twice mentioned the elder of the two girls.  That must be you?” and he looked at Theo, whose face brightened perceptibly.

“Douglas,” she repeated.  “He is the owner of the store; and the one I saw, with black eyes and black hair, was only a clerk.”

“The veritable man himself!” cried Mr. Warner.  “George Douglas, the senior partner of the firm, said by some to be worth two hundred thousand dollars, and only twenty-eight years old, and the best fellow in the world, except that he pretends to dislike women.”

By this time Theo’s proud blue eyes shone with delight, and when, after a little further conversation, Mr. Warner expressed a wish to write to his partner, she brought her own rosewood writing desk for him to use, and then, seating herself by the window, waited until the letter was written.

“What shall I say for you, Miss Theo?” he asked, near the close; and, coloring slightly, she answered, “Invite him to come out and see you.”

“Oh, that will be grand!” cried Maggie, who was far more enthusiastic, though not more anxious, than her sister.

Of her Henry Warner did not ask any message.  He would not have written it had she sent one; and folding the letter, after adding Theo’s invitation, he laid it aside.

“I must write to Rose next,” he said; “’tis a whole week since I have written, and she has never been so long without hearing from me.”

Instantly there came a shadow over Maggie’s face, while Theo, less scrupulous, asked who Rose was.

“A very dear friend of mine,” said Henry; and, as Mrs. Jeffrey just then sent for Theo, Maggie was left with him alone.

“Wait one moment,” she said, as she saw him about to commence the letter.  “Wait till I bring you a sheet of gilt-edged paper.  It is more worthy of Rose, I fancy, than the plainer kind.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “I will tell her of your suggestion.”

The paper was brought, and then seating herself by the window Maggie looked out abstractedly, seeing nothing, and hearing nothing save the sound of the pen, as it wrote down words of love for the gentle Rose.  It was not a long epistle; and, as at the close of the Douglas letter he had asked a message from Theo, so now at the close of this he claimed one from Maggie.

“What shall I say for you?” he asked; and, coming toward him, Margaret answered, “Tell her I love her, though I don’t know who she is!”

“Why have you never asked me?” queried Henry; and, coloring crimson, Maggie answered hesitatingly, “I thought you would tell me if you wished me to know.”

“Read this letter, and that will explain who she is,” the young man continued, offering the letter to Maggie, who, grasping it eagerly, sat down opposite, so that every motion of her face was clearly visible to him.