Marguerite's plain black cashmere with bodice of rich velvet harmonized most exquisitely with her soft spirituelle beauty and set off the purity of the purely transparent complexion.
How many have gazed with tearful eye upon that most bewitching of portraits, that of Mary Queen of Scots in costume of black velvet, time-honored ruff, and as reminder of her belief, the massive jet crucifix was suspended from the most perfect neck that was ever fashioned by the hand of the Divine Craftsman.
It is while gazing upon Marguerite Verne that our thoughts carry us back to the ill-fated queen and as we note the striking personal resemblance, thank a kind Providence that the maiden's lot has been cast in happier days and in a land not blighted by the harrowing associations of those stormy times.
But to our subject. The dutiful daughter goes softly toward the bed and raising the shrivelled hand from the snowy coverlid looks into the languid eyes as if she would read the thoughts which she now longed to hear.
"Papa I want to say something. Will you promise me that you will not get excited. You know I am under orders."
"Nothing will excite me now my child. Excitement is only fit for the people of the earth, and I am now already on the verge of another and I trust a better world."
Marguerite would fain have urged her father to forbear, but she knew full well that it was the truth.
"Well, papa, we are all in the hands of God. He will do what he thinks is best for us."
The quivering lips and tremulous tones gave expression to the overflowing heart, but the girl bore up bravely.
"Papa, here is my accuser," said she, grasping Cousin Jennie by the hand and drawing her forcibly to his side. "Now, dearest, tell papa what you told me in the library."