Phillip Lawson remained for a moment to contemplate the picture. The girl looked so guileless and so childlike. The pale-grey cashmere, draped in graceful folds, gave her an air peculiar to some self-sacrificing Sister of Mercy, whose presence brought life and light into the home of the afflicted ones.
As she stooped to pick up a stray rose that had fallen from the fragrant bouquet, Phillip saw the delicate hands become tremulous, while the lips parted and the beautiful eyes were raised to heaven.
"Oh, heaven!" murmured the young man "I cannot endure this," and instantly he dashed forward with an impetuosity altogether foreign to his gentle and, at times, grave demeanor.
Marguerite was quick to detect the abruptness, but not a gesture betrayed curiosity.
"Papa has been sleeping for more than two hours—really Mr. Lawson, I have such good news. The doctor has just gone out and he says that every symptom is favorable and that he has every reason to believe that he may rally very soon."
"God grant it Miss Verne," said Philip, going on tiptoe towards the couch, and gazing wistfully upon the emaciated features of his old friend.
"This is my night to remain with papa, but the doctor bade me ask you to take my place. He seemed very anxious that I should do so and I am willing to do anything that may be deemed necessary."
"Strange that I came here purposely to make the same request," said the young man, looking gravely into the girl's face.
"How good of you, Mr. Lawson."
But Phillip Lawson needs no praise, and Marguerite goes on with her work, occasionally glancing at the time-piece to see how long her father had been sleeping.