"
The words were involuntarily spoken, and George Douglas, looking down
upon her, guessed rightly that he who would never know how much he
was beloved was Henry Warner. To her the knowledge that Henry was
something dearer than a brother had come slowly, filling her heart
with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to his bosom,
as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow, he thought of her
only as a brother thinks of a beautiful and idolized sister. It had
heretofore been some consolation to know that his affections were
untrammeled with thoughts of another, that she alone was the object of
his love, and hope had sometimes faintly whispered of what perchance
might be; but from that dream she was waking now, and her face grew
whiter still as there came to her from time to time letters fraught
with praises of Margaret Miller; and if in Rose Warner's nature there
had been a particle of bitterness, it would have been called forth
toward one who, she foresaw, would be her rival. But Rose knew no
malice, and she felt that she would sooner die than do aught to mar
the happiness of Maggie Miller.
For nearly two weeks she had not heard from Henry, and she was
beginning to feel very anxious, when one morning, two or three days
succeeding the memorable Hillsdale celebration, as she sat in a small
arbor so thickly overgrown with the Michigan rose as to render her
invisible at a little distance, she was startled by hearing him call
her name, as he came in quest of her down the garden walk.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101