Nestled among the tall old trees which skirt the borders of Leominster
village was the bird's-nest of a cottage which Rose Warner called her
home, and which, with its wealth of roses, its trailing vines and
flowering shrubs, seemed fitted for the abode of one like her. Slight
as a child twelve summers old, and fair as the white pond lily when
first to the morning sun it unfolds its delicate petals, she seemed
too frail for earth; and both her aunt and he whom she called brother
watched carefully lest the cold north wind should blow too rudely on
the golden curls which shaded her childish brow. Very, very beautiful
was little Rose, and yet few ever looked upon her without a feeling of
sadness; for in the deep blue of her eyes there was a mournful, dreamy
look, as if the shadow of some great sorrow were resting thus early
upon her.

And Rose Warner had a sorrow, too--a grief which none save one had
ever suspected. To him it had come with the words, "I cannot be your
wife for I love another; one who will never know how dear he is to
me."

The words were involuntarily spoken, and George Douglas, looking down
upon her, guessed rightly that he who would never know how much he
was beloved was Henry Warner. To her the knowledge that Henry was
something dearer than a brother had come slowly, filling her heart
with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to his bosom,
as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow, he thought of her
only as a brother thinks of a beautiful and idolized sister. It had
heretofore been some consolation to know that his affections were
untrammeled with thoughts of another, that she alone was the object of