Mrs. Verne, with the tactics of a shrewd diplomatist, had arranged matters to enable her to perform her part without opposition.
Marguerite had to devote much time to the pressing duties devolving upon her, and when Mr. Lawson called at "Sunnybank" it always happened that she was out making her farewell calls.
It was the last evening that Marguerite should gladden her home, perhaps, for many months to come. The bronze clock on the mantel shelf struck the hour of eight. The drawing-room was unoccupied, and Marguerite stealthily glided towards the piano and sat down.
Her beautifully-moulded hands rivalled the ivory keys before her, and would have tempted the genius of a Phidias or a Lysippus.
Soon a low, soft symphony sounded through the room a music that had power to move the soul and hold it entranced.
"Marguerite, darling, do not play like that. I cannot hear such music without feeling sad, and sadness must not intrude to-night."
"Perhaps this will suit you, papa," and instantly Marguerite commenced to sing the old-time ballad, "The Campbells are Coming," in the liveliest manner possible, looking indeed the picture of happiness.
"How is it that my little girl cannot attend to the social demands that press so lightly upon her?" said Mr. Verne, as the last notes of the song were ended.
"I do not understand you, papa dear."
"Mr. Lawson called and I heard one of the maids tell him that you were not at home."