“And do you like my sister Helen?” Roger asked, a doubt beginning to cross his mind as to the propriety of carrying out a plan which had recently suggested itself to him. Mrs. Walter Scott, who never did anything without a motive, had petted and caressed and flattered Magdalen ever since she had fitted her out for school, and served herself so well by the means. She had called upon her twice at the seminary, had written her several affectionate letters, and it was natural that Magdalen, who was wholly unsuspicious, should like her; and she expressed her liking in such strong terms, that Roger’s olden feeling of distrust,—if it could be called by so harsh a name,—gave way, and he spoke of what his sister had said to him in New York with regard to Magdalen having a companion or _chaperone_ at Millbank. “You know, perhaps,” he said, “that the world has established certain codes of propriety, one of which says that a young lady like you should not live alone with an old bachelor like me. I don’t see the harm myself, but sister Helen does, and she knows what is proper, of course. She has made propriety the business of her life, and it has occurred to me that it might be well for her to stay at Millbank altogether,—that is, if it would please you to have her here.” Magdalen felt that she was competent to take care of herself, but if she _must_ have a companion she preferred Mrs. Irving, and assented readily to a plan which had originated wholly in Mrs. Walter Scott’s fertile brain, and to the accomplishment of which all her energies had been directed for the last few years. “It is fortunate that she is here,” Roger said, “as we can talk it over together better than we could write about it. I shall be glad to assist Helen in that way, and it may prove a pleasant arrangement for all parties.” They were walking back to the house now, across the pleasant fields which were a part of Roger’s inheritance, and if in the young man’s heart there was a feeling that it would be hard to give up all this, it was but the natural result of his recent conversation concerning the imaginary will. That such a document existed, he did not believe, however; and his momentary disquiet had passed before he reached the house, which looked so cool and inviting amid the dense shade of the maples and elms. “Come this way, Magdalen,” Roger said, as they entered the hall; and Magdalen went with him into the music-room, starting with surprise, and uttering an exclamation of delight as she saw a beautiful new piano in place of the old rattling instrument which had occupied that corner in the morning. “Oh, I am so glad! I can now play with some satisfaction to myself and pleasure to others,” she said, running her fingers rapidly over the keys, then as her eye fell upon the silver plate, with her name, “Magdalen Lennox,” engraved upon it, she stopped suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears at once as she said: