But Maggie Miller was equal to any emergency, and venturing
out to the very edge of the rock she poised herself on one foot, and
looked down the dizzy height to see if it were possible to descend.
"I can try at least," she said, and glancing at the pale face of the
stranger unhesitatingly resolved to attempt it.
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.
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