Mr. Verne's face caused Marguerite to clutch the chair beside her for support.
"Is he dying!" thought she, "dying, and our clergyman from home. Oh, if he were here to give us comfort."
But Marguerite was mistaken. Her father's voice was stronger than usual and his eye kindled with something of the old fervor, then drawing from beneath his pillow a slip of paper raised it to Marguerite.
The latter did not faint or indulge in any hysterical outbreaks as is fashionable on such occasions but quietly read the lines and with calm composure stood for a moment as if waiting for some one to speak.
"May God have mercy upon his soul! Poor fellow, he had passed away ere the letter could have reached its destination."
Mr. Verne spoke these words in a deep reverential air. They were sacred to the memory of Hubert Tracy.
Poor misguided young man. He had gone out one bright Sunday afternoon flashed with the anticipation of his fondest hopes and as he stepped gaily on board the saucy-looking yacht that awaited him at the pier a boisterous shout went up from merry-making companions.
Who among the lookers-on, glancing at the calm sky, would have then predicted the approaching storm.
Sad to relate none who went out ever returned to tell the sad story.
Some waterman who afterwards passed the spot brought back the tidings that the trim little craft was a complete wreck and that so far the bodies had not been recovered.