Another glance and a murmured "Thank God," Marguerite Verne's prayer was answered.
"Marguerite."
"My father."
What comfort in these words? What tongue could tell of the happiness that now filled the maiden's heart. She could not utter another word, but put her arms around her father's neck and pressed upon his wasted lips one long lingering kiss—so tender, so pure and so sacred that it might well have accorded with the salutation of the angels in heaven!
And Marguerite Verne clad in robes of dazzling whiteness was indeed a fit representation of an angelic being, whose sole mission on earth was the doing of good and making others happy, but at a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice that a maiden can endure—the sacrifice of all her earthly hope.
Yes, Marguerite could and would make such a sacrifice. She had strength given her from the highest source, and she had faith in her heavenly father. He would carry her through all she had now undertaken.
Mr. Verne had rallied sufficiently to recognize his child. He gazed into the face he loved so well, and a faint smile overspread his countenance. He lay with his hands clasped in those of his child and seemed supremely happy.
"It is almost a pity that he should be aroused from this happy, trance-like state," said Mrs. Montgomery as she quietly raised the sick man to administer the medicine that had been consigned to her care.
Marguerite once more pressed the thin lips and stood at a distance, as if trying to think whether it were reality or dreamland.
Other eyes looked upon the maiden and other hands clasped in prayer were indeed very near.