Maggie Miller: The Story of Old Hagar's Secret

by Mary Jane Holmes

He would as soon be at the Falls as in Montreal, he thought. Accordingly he left the next morning for Niagara, taking the shortest route by river and lake, and arriving there on the evening of the second day after his departure from the city. But nowhere could a trace be found of Henry Warner, and determining now to wait until he came Mr. Carrollton took rooms at the International, where after a day or two, worn out with travel, excitement, and hope deferred, he became severely indisposed, and took his bed, forgetting entirely both Henry Warner and the sister, whose name he had seen upon the hotel register. Thoughts of Maggie Miller, however, were constantly in his mind, and whether waking or asleep he saw always her face, sometimes radiant with healthful beauty, as when he first beheld her, and again, pale, troubled, and sad, as when he saw her last.

"Oh, shall I ever find her?" he would sometimes say, as in the dim twilight he lay listening to the noisy hum which came up from the public room below.

And once, as he lay there thus, he dreamed, and in his dreams there came through the open window a clear, silvery voice, breathing the loved name of Maggie. Again he heard it on the stairs, then little tripping feet went past his door, followed by a slow, languid tread, and with a nervous start the sick man awoke. The day had been cloudy and dark, but the rain was over now, and the room was full of sunshine—sunshine dancing on the walls, sunshine glimmering on the floor, sunshine everywhere. Insensibly, too, there stole over Mr. Carrollton's senses a feeling of quiet, of rest, and he slept ere long again, dreaming this time that Margaret was there.

Yes, Margaret was there—there, beneath the same roof which sheltered him and the same sunshine which filled his room with light had bathed her white brow, as, leaning from her window, she listened to the roar of the falling water. They had lingered on their way, stopping at the Thousand Isles, for Margaret would have it so; but they had come at last, and the tripping footsteps in the hall, the silvery voice upon the stairs, was that of the golden-haired Rose, who watched over Margaret with all a sister's love and a mother's care. The frequent jokes of the fun-loving Henry, too, were not without their good effect, and Margaret was better now than she had been for many weeks.

"I can rest here," she said, and a faint color came to her cheeks, making her look more like herself than at any time since that terrible night of sorrow in the woods.

And so three days went by, and Mr. Carrollton, on his weary bed, dreamed not that the slender form which sometimes, through his half-closed door, cast a shadow in his room, was that of her for whom he sought. The tripping footsteps, too, went often by, and a merry, childish voice, which reminded him of Maggie, rang through the spacious halls, until at last the sick man came to listen for that party as they passed. They were a merry party, he thought, a very merry party; and he pictured to himself her of the ringing voice; she was dark-eyed, he said, with braids of shining hair, and when, as they were passing once, he asked of his attendant if it were not as he had fancied, he felt a pang of disappointment at the answer, which was, "The girl the young gentleman hears so much has yellow curls and dark blue eyes."

"She is not like Maggie, then," he sighed, and when again he heard that voice a part of its music was gone. Still, it cheered his solitude, and he listened for it again, just as he had done before.

Once, when he knew they were going out, he went to the window to see them, but the large straw hats and close carriage revealed no secret, and disappointed he turned away.

"It is useless to stay here longer," he said; "I must be about my work. I am able to leave, and I will go to-morrow. But first I will visit the Falls once more. I may never see them again."

Accordingly, next morning, after Margaret and Rose had left the house, he came down the stairs, sprang into an open carriage, and was driven to Goat Island, which, until his illness, had been his favorite resort.