There was a blur before the lady's eyes--a buzzing in her ears--and
the footfall she had listened for so long was now unheard as it
came slowly to her side. But the light touch upon her arm--the
well-remembered voice within her ear, calling her "Madam Conway,"
sent through her an electric thrill, and starting up she caught the
wanderer in her arms, crying imploringly, "Not that name, Maggie
darling; call me grandma, as you used to do--call me grandma still,"
and smoothing back the long black tresses, she looked to see if grief
had left its impress upon her fair young face. It was paler now, and
thinner too, than it was wont to be, and while her tears fell fast
upon it, Madam Conway whispered: "You have suffered much, my child,
and so have I. Why did you go away? Say, Margaret, why did you leave
me all alone?"
"To learn how much you loved me," answered Margaret, to whom this
moment brought happiness second only to that which she had felt when
on the river bank she sat with Arthur Carrollton, and heard him tell
how much she had been mourned--how lonesome was the house without
her--and how sad were all their hearts. But that was over now--no more
sadness, no more tears; the lost one had returned; Margaret was home
again--home in the hearts of all, and nothing could dislodge her--not
even the story of her birth, which Arthur Carrollton, spurning at
further deception, told to the listening servants, who, having always
respected old Hagar for her position in the household as well as for
her education, so superior to their own, set up a deafening shout,
first for "Hagar's grandchild," and next for "Miss Margaret forever!"
CHAPTER XXV.
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