"Let them fall into other hands than mine. It would do no good. Poor wretches, I envy them not their ill-gotten gains. There is a day of reckoning, and may God cleanse their guilty souls." Such were the lawyer's remarks as he sat alone in his office with a heavy load off his mind.
He had just returned from witnessing Marguerite Verne's departure, and he felt calm and content.
Mr. Verne had accompanied the young man to his door and left with many kind invitations for "Sunnybank."
How comforting was his kind, cheery voice and his parting: "Now don't fail to drop in often, for I shall be very lonely, indeed."
Mr. Verne is a thorough gentleman and true friend, thought Phillip, as he turned over the last half-hour's conversation. "How thoughtful to explain Marguerite's failure to see me last evening." Then a slight frown settled upon the broad brow, showing that some disagreeable subject had in turn claimed the young lawyer's thoughts.
"Perhaps she may be better than I give her credit for. Are there any of us perfect?" Then musing for a few minutes he arose, the poet's words recurring to his mind—
"The best of what we do, and are,
Just God, forgive."
On opening the daily mail the color rose upon Phillip Lawson's cheek, and his fingers became tremulous as he seized a letter showing the unsteady chirography of Hubert Tracy.
"I will never open it," he thought, and instantly the missive lay a mass of shreds in the waste basket. "'Out of evil good may come.' Hubert Tracy has taught me to be more grateful to the God who has done so much for me."
"Keep your temper, old boy," murmured the young man afresh as his eyes ran over the next letter—one dated from Winnipeg.