"She is too beautiful to die," he murmured, pressing a kiss upon her
lips.
This act awoke her, and, turning towards him she said, "Was I
dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss me as you used to do?"
"Not dreaming, Rose," he answered--then rather hurriedly he added: "I
have a letter from Maggie Miller, and ere I answer it I would read it
to you. Can you hear it now?"
"Yes, yes," she whispered faintly; "read it to me, Henry;" and,
turning her face away, she listened while he read that Maggie Miller,
grown weary of her troth, asked a release from her engagement.
He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear what Rose
would say. But for a time she did not speak. All hope for herself had
long since died away, and now she experienced only sorrow for Henry's
disappointment.
"My poor brother," she said at last, turning her face towards him and
taking his hand in hers; "I am sorry for you--to lose us both, Maggie
and me. What will you do?"
"Rose," he said, bending so low that his brown locks mingled with the
yellow tresses of her hair--"Rose, I do not regret Maggie Miller's
decision, neither do I blame her for it. She is a noble, true-hearted
girl, and so long as I live I shall esteem her highly; but I too have
changed--have learned to love another. Will you sanction this new
love, dear Rose? Will you say that it is right?"
The white lids closed over the eyes of blue, but they could not keep
back the tears which rolled down her face, as she asked somewhat
sadly, "Who is it, Henry?"
There was another moment of silence, and then he whispered in her ear:
"People call her Rose; I once called her sister; but my heart now
claims her for something nearer.
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