Mrs. Verne's voice could still be heard but with increasing distinctness and her marked flattery was painfully distressing, but the girl was careful to avoid the trying ordeal.
"Eve's letter must be written before I sleep," and instantly Marguerite was seated in Cousin Jennie's room, where a bright fire glowed in the grate and everything looked bright and cheerful as the maiden herself.
"No gloom can come in here," said the girl in a manner that showed that she was trying to fortify herself against intruding thoughts.
"Hubert was kind to Eve, she will surely mourn for him. He was more attentive than Montague, and I believe had more sympathy."
It was well for Marguerite that she was ignorant of her sister's sadly altered condition. As she pens the lines she fervently prays that Montague Arnold may take warning from his friend's sad fate and that Evelyn may feel more interested in her husband and give less concern to the fogies and recklessness of fashionable society.
Mr. Verne's condition now appeared more favorable. Marguerite was buoyed up by the thought that it was almost impossible that her father could be taken away from her. "A kind Providence sees fit to restore him to us," murmured she as the door closed upon the venerable benign countenance of their much endeared physician. But the latter did not hold out false hope. When questioned as to his opinion he spoke kindly and said that he was doing all that could be done.
Another week had flown, and Saturday night was ushered in with a quiet that was inspiring, reminding one most forcibly of the lines:
"The cheerfu sapper down, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle form a circle wide,
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace
The big ha' Bible, once his father's pride."
Though Saturday night at "Sunnybank" presented a different scene the faithful picture was often presented to Mr. Verne in a way that filled his soul with a deep religious fervour and inspired him with a filial reverence for the time-honored custom of his worthy ancestors.
But of the present. Marguerite had been reading from the Church Witness, and having finished her task or rather pleasure, sat down upon a low stool beside the grate, gazing upon the red hot coals with a far off look in her violet eyes!