One of the picnic party—a vinegar-faced woman of forty-five, with two eligibles at her side—declared to a very intimate friend that she thought it very queer that Miss Verne should be following at Mr. Lawson's heels all the time. "For the life of me I can't see why girls will make themselves so ridiculous. Why, I often see her cutting across the Square to overtake him."
"Oh, indeed; the girls now-a-days don't have much modesty. Just see how she is laughing and talking now," exclaimed the confederate.
"Yes," retorted the first speaker "and that country-looking cousin is just a cloak for them. She is watching a chance to catch some others of the firm."
"Nice looking, did you say? Not a bit of it. For my part, I think she is homely; her face is too round and red."
The last remark was made by a saucy-looking maiden of sixteen, who owned to nothing being good that did not belong to herself.
Marguerite was utterly unconscious of the comments made upon herself and companion.
In the minutes that Mr. Lawson remained they found much to say, and there was an absence of coquetry that was gracious to see. The thoughtful, yet bright, expression of Marguerite's eyes had power to magnetize the most callous-hearted, and on this morn they were truly dangerous. The graceful form, attired in pretty travelling costume, could not fail to attract notice, and we see her repeatedly acknowledge the recognitions of many of the sterner sex with her quaint rare smile.
Just as the train was starting a voice exclaimed, "Miss Verne here are some violets, I brought them purposely to match your eyes." The fairy-like child placed the treasures in Marguerite's hand and bounded away without further comment.
"She is a good child," said Phillip, waving adieu to his companion and hurrying towards the carriage awaiting him.
Cousin Jennie now came forward demanding a share of the violets.