When Charlton was reached, however, she did observe the women in a shaker, who, with a pail of huckleberries on her arm, was evidently waiting for someone.
An audible groan from the depths of the satin hood, as Betsy Jane passed out and the cars passed on, showed plainly that the mother and sister of George Douglas were recognized, particularly as the former wore the red and yellow calico, which, having been used as a "dress up" the summer before, now did its owner service as a garment of everyday wear. But not long did Madam Conway suffer her mind to dwell upon matters so trivial. Hillsdale was not far away, and she came each moment nearer. Two more stations were reached—the haunted swamp was passed—Chicopee River was in sight—the bridge appeared in view—the whistle sounded, and she was there.
Half an hour later, and Theo, looking from her window, started in surprise as she saw the village omnibus drive up to their door.
"'Tis grandmother!" she cried, and running to meet her she asked why she had returned so soon.
"They are coming at noon," answered the excited woman—then, hurrying into the house and throwing off her hood, she continued: "He's found her at the Falls; they are between here and Albany now; tell everybody to hurry as fast as they can; tell Hannah to make a chicken pie—Maggie was fond of that; and turkey—tell her to kill a turkey—it's Maggie's favorite dish—and ice cream, too! I wish I had some this minute," and she wiped the perspiration from her burning face.
No more hysterics now; no more lonesome nights; no more thoughts of death—for Margaret was coming home—the best loved of them all. Joyfully the servants told to each other the glad news, disbelieving entirely the report fast gaining circulation that the queenly Maggie was lowly born—a grandchild of old Hagar. Up and down the stairs Madam Conway ran, flitting from room to room, and tarrying longest in that of Margaret, where the sunlight came in softly through the half-closed blinds and the fair summer blossoms smiled a welcome for the expected one.
Suddenly the noontide stillness was broken by a sound, deafening and shrill on ordinary occasions, but falling now like music on Madam Conway's ear, for by that sound she knew that Margaret was near. Wearily went the half-hour by, and then, from the head of the tower stairs, Theo cried out, "She is coming!" while the grandmother buried her face in the pillows of the lounge, and asked to be alone when she took back to her bosom the child which was not hers.
Earnestly, as if to read the inmost soul, each looked into the other's eyes—Margaret and Theo—and while the voice of the latter was choked with tears she wound her arms around the graceful neck, which bent to the caress, and whispered low, "You are my sister still."
Against the vine-wreathed balustrade a fairy form was leaning, holding back her breath lest she should break the deep silence of that meeting. In her bosom there was no pang of fear lest Theo should be loved the best; and, even had there been, it could not surely have remained, for stretching out her arm Margaret drew Rose to her side, and placing her hand in that of Theo said, "You are both my sisters now," while Arthur Carrollton, bending down, kissed the lips of the three, saying as he did so, "Thus do I acknowledge your relationship to me."
"Why don't she come?" the waiting Madam Conway sighed, just as Theo, pointing to the open door, bade Margaret go in.