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.

"I do indeed love her," was Mr. Warner's reply--"love her better than
all the world beside. And she has made me what I am; but for her I
should have been a worthless, dissipated fellow. It's my natural
disposition; but Rose has saved me, and I almost worship her for it.
She is my good angel--my darling--my--"

Here he paused abruptly, and leaning back upon his pillows rather
enjoyed than otherwise the look of disappointment plainly visible on
Maggie's face. She had fully expected to learn who Rose was; but this
knowledge he purposely kept from her. It did not need a very close
observer of human nature to read at a glance the ingenuous Maggie,
whose speaking face betrayed all she felt. She was unused to the
world. He was the first young gentleman whose acquaintance she had
ever made, and he knew that she already felt for him a deeper interest
than she supposed. To increase this interest was his object, and this
he thought to do by withholding from her, for a time, a knowledge of
the relation existing between him and the Rose of whom he had talked
so much. The ruse was successful, for during the remainder of the day
thoughts of the golden-haired Rose were running through Maggie's mind,
and it was late that night ere she could compose herself to sleep, so
absorbed was she in wondering what Rose was to Henry Warner. Not that
she cared particularly, she tried to persuade herself; but she would
very much like to be at ease upon the subject.