She went from room to room bemoaning her sad lot and wondering if any other mortal ever had such a cross to bear. Poor woman! It was hard to teach submission to such a spirit.
Phillip Lawson was a true comforter. He was not officious, nor was he remiss, but had a happy faculty of being near when he was most needed.
Marguerite was daily losing part of the disagreeable restraint which had hitherto placed such an inseparable barrier between them, and if at times she appeared forced and formal it was from a sense of shame at her mother's undisguised patronage.
None could now execute Mrs. Verne's slightest wish in a manner like Mr. Lawson, none could give such friendly advice, in fact none could do anything but Mr. Lawson.
The pretty suburban cottage into which Mrs. Verne and Marguerite were now removed was indeed worthy the name of home.
Its surroundings alone were sufficient proof. In summer its neat garden front, vine-clad porch and graceful elms guarding the gateway! But it was when one entered the inviting hall and glanced through the several cosey rooms that the home feeling was realized. A tasteful parlor looking out upon the garden is the spot where we now care to linger, for seated in a familiar looking arm-chair is Marguerite.
She is busy over a piece of Kensington work which has to be ready for the approaching bazaar.
"It is well that I am of some service," thought the girl as she stitched away upon the pretty designs, admiring the artistic groups of lilies and fern leaves.
Clad in deep mourning Marguerite was striking in appearance and the man must be a stoic indeed who could look upon her without feelings of tender interest.
Such were Phillip Lawson's sentiments as he was ushered into her presence.