Warner, her own aunt.
"Maggie," the lady said, laying her hand on the fevered brow, "I have
heard a strange tale to-day. Heretofore I had supposed Rose to be my
only child, but though you take me by surprise you are not the less
welcome. There is room in my heart for you, Maggie Miller, room for
the youngest-born of my only brother. You are somewhat like him, too,"
she continued, "though more like your mother;" and with the mention of
that name a flush stole over the lady's face, for she, too, was very
proud, and her brother's marriage with a servant girl had never been
quite forgiven.
Mrs. Warner had seen much of the world, and Maggie knew her to be a
woman of refinement, a woman of whom even Madam Conway would not be
ashamed; and, winding her arms around her neck, she said impulsively,
"I am glad you are my aunt; and you will love me, I am sure, even if I
am poor Hagar's grandchild."
Mrs. Warner knew nothing of Hagar save from Henry's amusing
description, the entire truth of which she somewhat doubted; but she
knew that whatever Hagar Warren might be, the beautiful girl before
her was not answerable for it, and very kindly she tried to soothe
her, telling her how happy they would be together. "Rose will leave me
in the autumn," she said, "and without you I should be all alone." Of
Hagar, too, she spoke kindly and considerately, and Maggie, listening
to her, felt somewhat reconciled to the fate which had made her what
she was.
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