But there was another who tendered congratulations while a deeper shadow settled down and shut out any approach of joy or gladness.
Marguerite Verne could not fail to see the difference in her mother's reception of Phillip Lawson as he now is, and this thought gave her pain.
The possessor of forty thousand, and a poor penniless lawyer, were indeed two different beings in Mrs. Verne's partial eyes. They were unlike in appearance, character, action—aye, as opposite as two extremes could well be.
Mr. Lawson, in his altered condition, was handsome, was more distinguished looking, could converse more fluently, was more polished and more gallant.
But Marguerite Verne listened to her mother's eulogism with a calm despair, and, save the pallor of her lips, no one could tell the suffering within. What matters it now, thought the girl, as she bent over a sheet of paper and tried to collect her thoughts.
Hubert Tracy eagerly awaited the delicate missive that came as regularly as the mail, and he now was looking forward to the time when he would claim Marguerite Verne forever and forever.
It was so hard to frame each sentence without the conviction that every word conveyed the falsity of the girl's heart. How dare she pen one word such as an affianced lover would expect! Oh, the agony of soul that Marguerite endured as she combated with her honest nature.
Phillip Lawson never lost sight of the doings at "Sunnybank." He was daily around the afflicted household and tried hard to bring cheer along with him.
That Mr. Verne was sinking fast the young man knew well, and he was sorely troubled that the secret grief would never be communicated— perhaps in a way that might give relief.
Would it be wise to force the subject, to venture an allusion to Moses Spriggins, and thus arouse the seemingly comatose condition of the dying man.