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.
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