Maggie Miller | Page 4

reason as she would, Hagar could not shake off the strange feeling, and as she sat half dozing in her chair, with the dim lamplight flickering over her dark face, she fancied that the October wind, sighing so mournfully through the locust trees beneath the window, and then dying away in the distance, bore upon its wing, "'Lead us not into temptation.' Hagar, you have much need to say that prayer."
Aye, Hagar Warren--much need, much need!

CHAPTER II
HAGAR'S SECRET.
The wintry winds were blowing cold and chill around the old stone house, and the deep untrodden snow lay highly piled upon the ground. For many days the gray, leaden clouds had frowned gloomily down upon the earth below, covering it with a thick veil of white. But the storm was over now; with the setting sun it had gone to rest, and the pale moonlight stole softly into the silent chamber, where Madam Conway bent anxiously down to see if but the faintest breath came from the parted lips of her only daughter. There had been born to her that night another grandchild--a little, helpless girl, which now in an adjoining room was Hagar's special care; and Hagar, sitting there with the wee creature upon her lap, and the dread fear at her heart that her young mistress might die, forgot for once to repine at her lot, and did cheerfully whatever was required of her to do.
There was silence in the rooms below--silence in the chambers above,--silence everywhere,--for the sick woman seemed fast nearing the deep, dark river whose waters move onward, but never return.
Almost a week went by, and then, in a room far more humble than where Margaret Miller lay, another immortal being was given to the world; and, with a softened light in her keen black eyes, old Hagar told to her stately mistress, when she met her on the stair, that she too was a grandmother.
"You must not on that account neglect Margaret's child," was Madam Conway's answer, as with a wave of her hand she passed on; and this was all she said--not a word of sympathy or congratulation for the peculiar old woman whose heart, so long benumbed, had been roused to a better state of feeling, and who in the first joy of her newborn happiness had hurried to her mistress, fancying for the moment that she was almost her equal.
"Don't neglect Margaret's child for that!" How the words rang in her ears as she fled up the narrow stairs and through the dark hall, till the low room was reached where lay the babe for whom Margaret's child was not to be neglected. All the old bitterness had returned, and as hour after hour went by, and Madam Conway came not near, while the physician and the servants looked in for a moment only and then hurried away to the other sickroom, where all their services were kept in requisition, she muttered: "Little would they care if Hester died upon my hands. And she will die too," she continued, as by the fading daylight she saw the pallor deepen on her daughter's face.
And Hagar was right, for Hester's sands were nearer run than those of Mrs. Miller. The utmost care might not, perhaps, have saved her; but the matter was not tested; and when the long clock at the head of the stairs struck the hour of midnight she murmured: "It is getting dark here, mother--so dark--and I am growing cold. Can it be death?"
"Yes, Hester, 'tis death," answered Hagar, and her voice was unnaturally calm as she laid her hand on the clammy brow of her daughter.
An hour later, and Madam Conway, who sat dozing in the parlor below, ready for any summons which might come from Margaret's room, was roused by the touch of a cold, hard hand, and Hagar Warren stood before her.
"Come," she said, "come with me;" and, thinking only of Margaret, Madam Conway arose to follow her. "Not there--but this way," said Hagar, as her mistress turned towards Mrs. Miller's door, and grasping firmly the lady's arm she led to the room where Hester lay dead, with her young baby clasped lovingly to her bosom. "Look at her--and pity me now, if you never did before. She was all I had in the world to love," said Hagar passionately.
Madam Conway was not naturally a hard-hearted woman, and she answered gently: "I do pity you, Hagar, and I did not think Hester was so ill. Why haven't you let me know?" To this Hagar made no direct reply, and after a few more inquiries Madam Conway left the room, saying she would send up the servants to do whatever was necessary. When it was known throughout the house that Hester was dead much surprise was expressed and a good