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