“You have borne more, and been through all the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,” said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. “Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child,—see here—look, look, my dear.” “Not aunt,” cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck: “I’ll never call her aunt—sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first—Rose, dear, darling Rose.” Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained and lost in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup, but there were no bitter tears, for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. “I know it all,” he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. “Dear Rose, I know it all.” “I am not here by accident,” he added after a lengthened silence; “nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday—only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?” “Stay,” said Rose,—“you _do_ know all?” “All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse.” “I did.” “Not to press you to alter your determination,” pursued the young man, “but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself by no word or act to seek to change it.” “The same reasons which influenced me then will influence me now,” said Rose firmly. “If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it as I should to-night? It is a struggle,” said Rose, “but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear.” “The disclosure of to-night—” Harry began. “The disclosure of to-night,” replied Rose softly, “leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.” “You harden your heart against me, Rose,” urged her lover. “Oh, Harry, Harry,” said the young lady, bursting into tears, “I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.” “Then why inflict it on yourself?” said Harry, taking her hand. “Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night.” “And what have I heard! what have I heard!” cried Rose. “That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all—there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.”