"Ah, you silly little Madge, you will soon find other attractions than your prosy dull old father, but you must reserve one little spot for him."
Mr. Verne glanced at his pure and lovely child, and inwardly invoked God's blessing, and prayed that she might pass through the many temptations and dazzling allurements of fashionable follies unharmed.
"Darling papa, believe me, I care so little for society, so called, that I would rather spend a few hours each day among my dear home friends than be lionized in the highest courts in Europe."
"I believe you, my child," said Mr. Verne, placing his hand reverentially upon Marguerite's head, "but it appears that it is a duty to go."
"Yes, papa, but I am inclined to be rebellious, and ask you to pray for me. Sometimes I feel that I am not doing my duty in any way. It seems so hard to know the way before us."
Marguerite's face had a perplexed look and a shade of gloomy foreboding succeeded.
"Put your trust in God, my child—never forget Him. He will be your best Friend, when earthly friends will fail you."
Mr. Verne was what is generally known as a "good-living man." He made no parade of his profession, but he tried to live at peace with his God and do right to each and every man. His religion was not put on with his Sunday coat. He wore it into the counting-room as well, and carried it to Chubb's Corner, aye to every business resort and doled it out on every opportunity by acts of charity and Christian benevolence.
But of the departure.
Mrs. Verne was in ecstacies of delight. Everything pleased her. She superintended the manifold duties as if her whole soul was in the work, and beaming with smiles, flitted from one room to another with the playfulness of a child just setting out on its holiday season.