ior to their own, set up a deafening shout,
first for "Hagar's grandchild," and next for "Miss Margaret forever!"

CHAPTER XXV.

HAGAR.

By Theo's request old Hagar had been taken home the day before,
yielding submissively, for her frenzied mood was over--her strength
was gone--her life was nearly spent--and Hagar did not wish to live.
That for which she had sinned had been accomplished, and, though it
had cost her days and nights of anguish, she was satisfied at last.
Margaret was coming home again--would be a lady still--the bride of
Arthur Carrollton, for George Douglas had told her so, and she was
willing now to die, but not until she had seen her once again--had
looked into the beautiful face of which she had been so proud.

Not to-day, however, does she expect her; and just as the sun was
setting, the sun which shines on Margaret at home, she falls away to
sleep. It was at this hour that Margaret was wont to visit her, and
now, as the treetops grew red in the day's departing glory, a graceful
form came down the woodland path, where for many weeks the grass
has not been crushed beneath her feet. They saw her as she left the
house,--Madam Conway, Theo, all,--but none asked whither she was
going. They knew, and one who loved her best of all followed slowly
after, waiting in the woods until that interview should end.

Hagar lay calmly sleeping. The servant was as usual away, and there
was no eye watching Margaret as with burning cheeks and beating heart
she crossed the threshold of the door, pausing not, faltering not,
until the bed was reached--the bed where Hagar lay, her crippled hands
folded meekly upon her breast, her white hair shading a whiter face,
and a look about her half-shut mouth as if the thin, pale lips had
been much used of late to breathe the word "Forgive." Maggie had
never seen her thus before, and the worn-out, aged face had something
touching in its sad expression, and something startling too, bidding
her hasten, if to that woman she would speak.

"Hagar," she essayed to say, but the word died on her lips, for
standing there alone, with the daylight fading from the earth, and the
lifelight fading from the form before her, it seemed not meet that she
should thus address the sleeper. There was a name, however, by which
she called another--a name of love, and it would make the withered
heart of Hagar Warren bound and beat and throb with untold joy.
And Margaret said that name at last,