But Phillip Lawson was not a mind reader. He could not divine the thoughts that were passing through Jennie Montgomery's ready and active brain. But one thing he did know, that in this warm-hearted girl he had a true friend.
When Marguerite returned to her home a vague, undefined feeling took possession of her, and gladly would she have given herself up to this feeling, and indulged in a good, old-fashioned, time-honored cry.
She felt a sudden pang of remorse. She thought of the lost opportunities when she might have had a stronger hold upon the sympathies of her elder sister.
"Poor Eve," murmured the girl, "she was less to blame than I. We have never had each other's confidence. I hope she will try to love Montague as a woman should love her husband. How I should like to ask mamma what she thinks; but what is the use. She will say it is one of the best matches of the season, and no doubt she will end by advising me as to her anxiety—on my behalf. Oh, dear! why cannot we live in a state of blissful oblivion?"
The miniature bronzed clock on the mantel-shelf caused Marguerite to look up.
"Four o'clock—dear me; I wish this afternoon was over. The house seems as if a funeral had left it. Poor Evelyn."
"You naughty Madge, where are you?"
The speaker was Jennie Montgomery. She had been busy over the arrangement of a number of bouquets for the dinner-table, and assisting Mrs. Verne in many ways, and now made a hasty transit towards Madge's favorite retreat—a pretty boudoir adjoining her mamma's dressing-room.
"Just as auntie said, you old offender. A pretty time for day-dreams when everybody is head over ears in business."
"I have not been here an hour, Jennie," said Madge, in an apologetic manner, putting her arms caressingly around her cousin's waist.