"Yes, and watching to see which side to jump on in the coming election," cried the old lawyer who had hitherto remained a listener.
A burst of merriment arose from the trio on the other side of the room and rang out in peals of laughter.
"Oh, papa, you naughty man to make such an unscrupulous remark about one of our sex," cried Edith, assuming an air of injured innocence and trying to look very severe.
"I take it all back my dear. Come let us have some music. It is too bad to be wasting so much time when one has an opportunity of having so much ability on hand."
"Do you allude to Marguerite or myself, papa," cried Edith gaily, while she arose and playfully led her companion, to the piano.
"It is dangerous to say much here unless one very carefully considers ere he speaks," said the fond father, casting a glance at his daughter that was worthy of the most ardent lover.
"Well, well, papa, you will go scot-free this time. Of course
Marguerite will favor us."
The latter needed no coaxing. She played a selection of old-fashioned airs that were more appreciated than the most brilliant fantasia or classic opera. Then followed a few of the songs she used to sing for her father and one which had caused the heart of Phillip Lawson to beat wildly as he stood listening to the voice he loved so well and bitterly thought of the world that lay between him and his buried love.
"Miss Verne, you have certainly much power of expression," said the
New Brunswick gentleman as the last note had died away, and, Edith
Stanhope sat silent as if fearing to break the spell.
"I seldom sing except to amuse my father, and the class of music I practise is simple," was the quiet reply.