“He will come to me by and by,” thought Maggie, but he did not, and when Worcester was reached the fare was still uncollected. Bewildered and uncertain what to do next, she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at the depot until morning, when a train would leave for Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her brother. Taking a seat in the ladies’ room, she abandoned herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say could she see her then. But Theo, though dreaming it may be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had followed her—nay, was bending over her now and whispering in her ear, “Wake, Maggie, wake.”
Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton, but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked her where she wished to go.
“To Leominster,” she answered, turning her face fully towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling her when the train would leave, and saying that she must go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not better wait at some hotel.
But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitchburg depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil over her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed for the cars to leave. Then, weary and faint, she entered the train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was drawing near to those who would love her for what she was and not for what she had been. Rose would comfort her, and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing one whom she believed to be her brother’s wife, for Henry had written that ere his homeward voyage was made Rose would be his bride.
Ah, Maggie! there is for you a greater happiness in store—not a brother, but a sister—your father’s child is there to greet your coming. And even at this early hour her snow-white fingers are arranging the fair June blossoms into bouquets, with which she adorns her home, saying to him who hovers at her side that somebody, she knows not whom, is surely coming to-day; and then, with a blush stealing over her cheek, she adds, “I wish it might be Margaret”; while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical mouth, winds his arm around her waist, and playfully responds, “Anyone save her.”