“But he need not fear,” he said somewhat bitterly, “he need not fear for her, for it is over now.  She has refused me, this Rose Warner, and though it touched my pride to hear her tell me no, I cannot hate her for it.  She had given her love to another, she said, and Warner is blind or crazy that he does not see the truth.  But it is not for me to enlighten him.  He may call her sister if he likes, though there is no tie of blood between them.  I’d far rather it would be thus, than something nearer;” and, slowly rising up, George Douglas retired to dream of a calm, almost heavenly face which but the day before had been bathed in tears as he told to Rose Warner the story of his love.  Mingled, too, with that dream was another face, a laughing, sparkling, merry face, upon which no man ever yet had looked and escaped with a whole heart.

The morning light dispelled the dream, and when in the store old Safford inquired, “What news from the boy?” the senior partner answered gravely that he was lying among the Hillsdale hills, with a broken leg caused by a fall from his horse.

“Always was a careless rider,” muttered old Safford, mentally deploring the increased amount of labor which would necessarily fall upon him, but which he performed without a word of complaint.

The fair May blossoms were faded, and the last June roses were blooming ere George Douglas found time or inclination to accept the invitation indirectly extended to him by Theo Miller.  Rose Warner’s refusal had affected him more than he chose to confess, and the wound must be slightly healed ere he could find pleasure in the sight of another.  Possessed of many excellent qualities, he had unfortunately fallen into the error of thinking that almost anyone whom he should select would take him for his money.  And when Rose Warner, sitting by his side in the shadowy twilight, had said, “I cannot be your wife,” the shock was sudden and hard to bear.  But the first keen bitterness was over now, and remembering “the wild girls of the woods,” as he mentally styled both Theo and Maggie, he determined at last to see them for himself.

Accordingly, on the last day of June he started for Hillsdale, where he intended to remain until after the Fourth.  To find the old house was an easy matter, for almost everyone in town was familiar with its locality, and towards the close of the afternoon he found himself upon its broad steps applying vigorous strokes to the ponderous brass knocker, and half hoping the summons would be answered by Maggie herself.  But it was not, and in the bent, white-haired woman who came with measured footsteps we recognize old Hagar, who spent much of her time at the house, and who came to the door in compliance with the request of the young ladies, both of whom, from an upper window, were curiously watching the stranger.

“Just the old witch one would expect to find in this out-of-the-way place,” thought Mr. Douglas, while at the same time he asked if that were Madam Conway’s residence, and if a young man by the name of Warner were staying there.