That evening
Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a disturbed slumber. For
a time he took no notice of the disconnected words she uttered in her
dreams, but when at last he heard the sound of his own name he drew
near, and, bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy, sorrow,
and surprise to a secret which, waking, she would never have told
him, above all others. She loved him,--the fair girl he called his
sister,--but not as a sister loves; and now, as he stood by her, with
the knowledge thrilling every nerve, he remembered many bygone scenes,
when but for his blindness he would have seen how every pulsation of
her heart throbbed alone for him whose hand was plighted to another,
and that other no unworthy rival. Beautiful, very beautiful, was the
shadowy form which at that moment seemed standing at his side, and
his heart went out towards her as the one above all others to be his
bride.
"Had I known it sooner," he thought, "known it before I met the
peerless Maggie, I might have taken Rose to my bosom and loved her--it
may be with a deeper love than that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose
is everything to me. She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can
I let her die when I have the power to save her?"
There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was waking, and as her soft
blue eyes unclosed and looked up in his face he wound his arms around
her, kissing her lips as never before he had kissed her.
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