The vow had passed his lips. Henry Warner never broke his word, and henceforth Maggie Miller was as safe with him as if she had been an only and well-beloved sister. Thinking him to be asleep, Maggie started to leave the room, but he called her back, saying, "Don't go; stay with me, won't you?"
"Certainly," she answered, drawing a chair to the bedside. "I supposed you were sleeping."
"I was not," he replied. "I was thinking of you and of Rose. Your voices are much alike. I thought of it yesterday when I lay upon the rock."
"Who is Rose?" trembled on Maggie's lips, while at the sound of that name she was conscious of the same undefinable emotion she had once before experienced. But the question was not asked. "If she were his sister he would tell me," she thought; "and if she is not his sister—"
She did not finish the sentence, neither did she understand that if Rose to him was something dearer than a sister, she, Maggie Miller, did not care to know it.
"Is she beautiful as her name, this Rose?" she asked at last.
"She is beautiful, but not so beautiful as you. There are few who are," answered Henry; and his eyes fixed themselves upon Maggie to see how she would bear the compliment.
But she scarcely heeded it, so intent was she upon knowing something more of the mysterious Rose. "She is beautiful, you say. Will you tell me how she looks?" she continued; and Henry Warner answered, "She is a frail, delicate little creature, almost dwarfish in size, but perfect in form and feature."
Involuntarily Maggie shrunk back in her chair, wishing her own queenly form had been a very trifle shorter, while Mr. Warner continued, "She has a sweet, angel face, Maggie, with eyes of lustrous blue and curls of golden hair."
"You must love her very dearly," said Maggie, the tone of her voice indicating a partial dread of what the answer might be.