Maggie Miller: The Story of Old Hagar's Secret

by Mary Jane Holmes

"I can make amends for it, though," thought Rose, returning with Maggie to the parlor. Then, seeking out her husband, she held with him a whispered consultation, the result of which was that on the morrow there was a rummaging in the garret, an absence from home for an hour or two, and when about noon she returned there was a pleased expression on her face, as if she had accomplished her purpose, whatever it might have been.

All that morning Maggie had been restless and uneasy, wandering listlessly from room to room, looking anxiously down the street, starting nervously at the sound of every footstep, while her cheeks alternately flushed and then grew pale as the day passed on. Dinner being over she sat alone in the parlor, her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and her thoughts away with one who she vaguely hoped would have followed her ere this. True, she had added no postscript to tell him of her new discovery; but Hagar knew, and he would go to her for a confirmation of the letter. She would tell him where Maggie was gone, and he, if his love could survive that shock, would follow her thither; nay, would be there that very day, and Maggie's heart grew wearier, fainter, as time wore on and he did not come. "I might have known it," she whispered sadly. "I knew that he would nevermore think of me," and she wept silently over her ruined love.

"Maggie, sister," came to her ear, and Rose was at her side. "I have a surprise for you, darling. Can you bear it now?"

Oh, how eagerly poor Maggie Miller looked up in Rose's face! The car whistle had sounded half an hour before. Could it be that he had come? Was he there? Did he love her still? No, Maggie, no; the surprise awaiting you is of a far different nature, and the tears flow afresh when Rose, in reply to the question "What is it, darling?" answers, "It is this," at the same time placing in Maggie's hand an ambrotype which she bade her examine. With a feeling of keen disappointment Maggie opened the casing, involuntarily shutting her eyes as if to gather strength for what she was to see.

It was a young face—a handsome face—a face much like her own, while in the curve of the upper lip and the expression of the large black eyes there was a look like Hagar Warren. They had met together thus, the one a living reality, the other a semblance of the dead, and she who held that picture trembled violently. There was a fierce struggle within, the wildly beating heart throbbing for one moment with a newborn love, and then rebelling against taking that shadow, beautiful though it was, in place of her whose memory she had so long revered.

"Who is it, Maggie?" Rose asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Maggie knew full well whose face it was she looked upon, but not yet could she speak that name so interwoven with memories of another, and she answered mournfully, "It is Hester Hamilton."

"Yes, Margaret, your mother," said Rose. "I never called her by that name, but I respect her for your sake. She was my father's pet, so it has been said, for he was comparatively old, and she his young girl-wife."

"Where did you get this?" Maggie asked; and, coloring crimson, Rose replied, "We have always had her portrait, but grandmother, who was very old and foolishly proud about some things, was offended at our father's last marriage, and when after his death the portraits were brought here, she—Forgive her, Maggie—she did not know you, or she would not have done it—"

"I know," interrupted Maggie. "She despised this Hester Warren, and consigned her portrait to some spot from which you have brought it and had this taken from it."