"Madge has been indulged in idleness quite long enough, now we are to have some music," and sweeping across the room to the music-stand Mrs. Arnold began selecting her favorite pieces.

"Anything except conversation," thought Marguerite, and she played some exquisite, old Scotch selections, which under any other circumstances would act as a healing balm to a sore heart.

She thought of the hours when she had no audience save the quiet, silent man whom she loved so tenderly—that dear parent who had sacrificed so much for his family, and the thought was almost more than she could endure.

"Why can I live on and pass through this dreadful ordeal, when so many with bright, happy lives are suddenly cut off? But it is all for his sake, and he has suffered more for me. Yes, papa, I will make you happy, and you shall never know that I made any sacrifice for your dear sake."

As the hours crept stealthily on, Hubert Tracy was determined to offer his heart and hand to the woman of his choice.

Marguerite felt that her freedom was now gone forever, and resolved to appear at her best, and on the following morning, when her mother entered the breakfast-room, wreathed in smiles, and informed her that Mr. Tracy had gained her permission to urge his suit, she dreamily nodded assent, and tried hard to wear a bright and reassuring smile.

"Strength is given us from heaven," cried the girl when once the privacy of her own room was gained, "and if ever I needed such it is now. Merciful God, teach, me thy ways. Oh, give me the light of thy countenance to brighten my darkened path." A handsomely-bound volume lay on the dressing-case. It was the Book of Common Prayer.

Marguerite lifted it in reverential tenderness. It was a keepsake from her beloved parent, and she cherished it as something too sacred for other hands to touch.

As she opened it her eyes fell upon the collect for the eighth Sunday after Trinity, commencing thus:——"O, God, whose never-failing providence ordereth all things both in heaven and earth."

"Precious truth," cried Marguerite as she read the words over several times, then murmured, "How simple of me to repine when it is my Heavenly Father who ordereth all things," and from that moment Marguerite Verne found strength given from above, as she bowed her head in meek submission, and resolved to lead a higher and better life.

"Madge, my child, you are looking radiant," cried the worldly mother, as she glanced at her daughter, for no other reason than to admire the style of the dress she had chosen for the reception of Mr. Tracy.

"And that corsage is so becoming, my darling. It alone would be enough to charm the most prosaic suitor, and that bracelet shows off so prettily on your white arm. I am so glad you put it on."

"Mamma, please be less lavish of your compliments, I cannot stand flattery. I would rather you would see some of my failings, and teach me how to do what is right."

Marguerite meant not to convey a reproof, but if Mrs. Verne had been at all sensitive, she would have felt somewhat uneasy. She would have felt that she had not given a thought to anything that concerned the proper guidance of her children, and she would have felt that the beauty of Marguerite's character was alone due to the inherent goodness that possessed her and made her in all respects a true, noble and beautiful woman.

Marguerite has now made up her mind and she will not swerve from the duty that lies nearest her. She meets Hubert Tracy with a calm composure and a steady light in her soft expressive eyes and when she had listened to his ardent declaration of love calmly replied:—"Hubert Tracy I will be your wife but only on these conditions—you will save my father from bankruptcy and ruin. Yes, save and protect his gray hairs and I will bless you until my dying hour."

"I will do that and more Marguerite, if you will only promise to love me—give me your whole and undivided thoughts," and falling down upon his knees before her Hubert Tracy for once meant what he said.

True indeed the redeeming trait in his character was his love for Marguerite Verne and any goodness that remained was now visible upon his brow. Some trace of true manhood still lingered there and arrested the gaze of the pure-minded maiden as she looked upon him and prayed that the Omnipotent One would obliterate the earthy incrustations so firmly impressed there and instead cause His image to shine with undimmed lustre.

The young man divined the maiden's thoughts and he bent forward exclaiming:—"Madge, I am undeserving of you, God knows, but I will try and be worthy of you. Will you trust me?"

"Put your trust in God, Hubert. He alone can give you the support you need," cried the girl in earnest tones.

"God bless you, my precious darling. It is hard for you now, but remember ere long you will bless the hour that you promised to be my wife."

Marguerite Verne now felt the pressure of her lover's embrace and listened to his renewed protestations of love with a sad aching void at her heart which she had hitherto never felt and she dared not question herself as to the cause.

None knew it better than her affianced husband, but in the great selfishness of his nature he could look on with proud indifference and stifle his badly seared conscience with the thought that one day Marguerite would be the happier for her present choice.

Truly it may be said—

"God moves in a mysterious way."

Ah, Marguerite never once dreamt that a destiny was before her other than that she had pictured out in frightfully vivid character. She little thought that in a certain sense Hubert Tracy's predictions should come true, and that she could one day exclaim—

"How natural is joy, my heart, How easy after sorrow! For once, the best has come that hope Promised them to-morrow."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

DARK DAYS AT "SUNNYBANK."

As Marguerite received the congratulations of her friends, who can paint the suffering which the heroic maiden was trying to live through. With pallid lips and thoughtful brow she received her affianced, and permitted his endearments with a passiveness that piqued him sorely; yet he comforted himself with the thought that, like all other girls, she would soon get over it, and he would be the subject of her entire devotion.

Hubert Tracy knew full well that Marguerite had a secret recess within her heart, where was hid away a very dear picture, but he knew she was too conscientious to allow herself to look into that chamber when the step she had now taken forbade all communication.

He fully trusted her, and well he might. Marguerite had written her father informing him of her betrothal and asking for his blessing.

The letter was hopeful, and referred to the generosity of her future husband in such a manner that one not in the possession of such proof of Hubert Tracy's villainy would have gladly welcomed him with a "God bless you, my son. Take my child and keep her happy until death do you part."

Mr. Verne clutched the missive within his trembling hands and sat crouching over it an object of pity.

"My God! is it possible that my child loves the demon? Oh, heavens! am I spared to wreck her happiness as well as my own? Why did I not die ere this fatal news had reached me? It may be all for the best, but it is hard for me to bear. I must, and will, revenge the dreadful wrong done to Phillip Lawson, and I must save my child from what is worse than death! Death, did I say?" exclaimed Mr. Verne, in hysterical tones. "I could see her decked in the robes of the grave without a murmur, and strew flowers over her form without a sigh—but to give her up to that monster of deception. Oh, God! it is dreadful!" And the heart-broken man uttered a groan that would have aroused the pity of the most callous wretch that ever-breathed.

Dead silence reigned, and the affectionate spaniel looked into his master's face with a sympathetic look in his eyes, and then began to lick the weary trembling hands that were crossed upon the troubled breast.

"Poor brute, you feel for me," said Mr. Verne caressing the animal, and being aroused to a sense of feeling.

"It must never be—no never," and glancing at his watch he arose and staggered to the other side of the room.

"I shall see Phillip, God helping me. I now see the error in keeping the fact from him so long, but it may be all for the best God keep us faithful."

It was well that Mr. Verne made that prayer, for his faith was growing weak, and the words gave him strength, and as he wends his way to Phillip Lawson's office, smiling upon each acquaintance that he meets, none would suspect the desperate state into which he was so suddenly plunged.

"Phillip will help me," murmured he with a hopeful gleam in his eye. "Yes, Phillip will help me—he is my good angel, he will not forsake me now!"

Great was Mr. Verne's disappointment on hearing that the young lawyer had gone out of town on business, and would not return until the following day.

"God keep me faithful," again murmured the man, as he stole softly up to his chamber, and quietly shut himself in, giving strict orders that none be allowed to gain admission.

But how often do we deceive ourselves; how often do we find that all our plans come to naught, and we prove ourselves miserable failures—altogether unfitted to accomplish the great task we have so vainly aspired to.

Mr. Verne had a worthy project in view, but he was not equal to the effort.

A domestic of "Sunnybank" being engaged at work in the upper hall heard a faint noise in the direction of Mr. Verne's dressing room. With feelings of alarm she ran to the spot and summoning all her courage entered and found her much respected master in a swoon his eyes wide open and his face rigid as death.

Within a few moments the entire household were trying to administer such restoratives as they deemed proper while awaiting the family physician who had been telephoned for with all haste.

When Mr. Verne gained consciousness he did not gain speech and when his physician arrived it was found that he had been prostrated by paralysis.

"It is indeed a sad case," said the venerable looking physician as he stood beside the afflicted man and read in the passive face and benumbed limbs the story of an injured and cruelly outraged man.

It was not the first time that the sharp but kind bluish eyes looked down on such a wreck, and as they shed a silent tear we noiselessly steal away.

With the next day came the well tried friend Phillip Lawson. Sadly he stood and watched the half-conscious man. A gentle pressure of the hand was the only recognition, yet the young lawyer cherished hopes that were solely attributive to himself. "He will yet come around all right, sir?" said Phillip questioningly, but a grave shake of the hoary head was the physician's only reply.

Mrs. Montgomery (dear good soul) had now arrived and her presence seemed to bring cheer into the house of gloom.

At intervals the patient would watch her as she flitted noiselessly in and out unceasing in her labors of love, and a faint smile would light up his pallid face as if in recognition of such devotion.

It was the hour preceding midnight and Mrs. Montgomery had been persuaded to take a few hours rest while Phillip Lawson took her place beside the bedside.

Something in the wan face arrested the watcher's attention and stooping closely down he saw that the man was trying to communicate something that was on his mind.

"Is it anything that I know of," cried Phillip in almost desperate tones; "anything that I can do for you?"

Mr. Verne gazed wildly upon him, then tried to raise his hand, but he was unable for the task, and relapsed into his former state of unconsciousness.

"I will make another trial," thought Phillip, "when he becomes himself again. Poor man! whatever it may be I'm afraid the secret will die with him," and the silent watcher was indeed sad at the thought.

The young man's reverie was indeed a painful one. It had lasted for more than an hour when he was aroused by a servant who now approached him, bearing a tray upon which was a cup of delicious coffee and some tempting cakes, which Mrs. Montgomery had thoughtfully ordered ere she sought repose.

"Such women are never half appreciated," thought Phillip as he sat over the contents of the tray wondering why it was that two sister could be of such opposite nature; then he thought of the still great difference between mother and child—Mrs. Verne and the peerless Marguerite. It were well known that he knew not of the circumstances which had been the cause of the sudden prostration.

Providence had been kind to Philip Lawson through the sacrifice of a friend, yet the former knew it not, and when he had puzzled his brains in every conceivable manner to assist Mr. Verne in communicating to him the important message, he little knew it was the hand of mercy that kept it back.

What fervent prayers went up at that bedside; what supplications to the throne of God; what anxious enquiries.

Day after day found Phillip Lawson wending his way to "Sunnybank." What a mockery the name seemed to convey. The golden sunshine was afraid to enter, save by stealthy glimpses through the barred windows and closed doors.

"If Marguerite can only get here soon," said Mrs. Montgomery in impatient tones. "You know Mr. Lawson it is the only remedy. Poor man, it will either kill or cure. Poor Stephen, we must hope for the best, but I'm afraid he has seen the best of his days," and the corner of the linen handkerchief stayed the falling tears.

"Poor girl," replied the young man, "she will take it very hard, but Miss Verne is not one who will easily succumb."

"Far from it, Mr. Lawson. She has the spirit of a martyr. I am not afraid to say that Marguerite Verne would put us all to shame. Many a time I have studied her character, and each time I found some new beauties to admire."

"There is just such a mixture of poetry and romance as is appreciable," said Mr. Lawson, a slight color betraying his interest.

"Though I am a practical, matter-of-fact woman, I really admire the vein of superstitious fervour that gives coloring to her many daily acts."

"I remember one day," added Mrs. Montgomery, "of asking her why she wore such an ugly looking bracelet when she had so many pretty ones. I can see the graceful figure, and the sweet smiling face, as the girl turned upon me the full force of her powerfully magnetic eyes, and with great earnestness replied: 'Dear Auntie, there is a story attached to that bracelet, and you shall hear it," and taking a seat beside me she began——

"Mamma always told us that you were an apt student in history, and of course you know the story of James the Fourth of Scotland and his iron belt, and how each year he added an ounce to its weight, that it might inflict the greater penance."

"I then said that when I was twelve years of age I had read the Lady of the Lake for the sixth time, and that I had made Fitz James my greatest hero, and notwithstanding his many short-comings, I yet looked upon the benefactor of the noble Douglas, and the lovely Ellen, with fond admiration."

"What a glow kindled in Marguerite's cheek," added Mrs. Montgomery, as she listened, and then with exclamation of delight she cried, "Aunt Hester, I really adore Scott, and I think that I outdo you, for I have committed to memory nearly all of the Lady of the Lake."

"But about the bracelet," I said, remindingly.

"Well, you know, Aunt Hester, I was not at all times a very good girl," said Marguerite, with a sympathetic glance, "and, indeed, found opportunity to make myself very disagreeable. It is indeed true, Auntie. Well, one day papa brought in a very handsome bracelet as a birthday present for Evelyn. It was a cluster of garnets in gold setting, and at night time, when the light fell upon it, shone brilliantly. I envied Eve her pretty bauble, and as I saw my sister, many admirers glanced upon it. I felt uncharitable. Why could papa not have given me one as well, I thought; and bitter feelings were cherished against my dear papa, and indeed, Aunt Hester," exclaimed the girl in all humility, "they might have rankled there, and made me worse than I would care to acknowledge, when a little circumstance, or trivial accident, came to my aid and taught me to rise above it. Like you, Aunt Hester, I am fond of history, and being out of reading matter, came across a volume entitled Tales from Scottish History."

"The very thing I have been seeking for months," I exclaimed, taking down the work from the bookshelf, and admiring the substantial binding of heavy dark blue morocco. Then I thought of the donor. I turned to the title page and saw my name neatly inscribed in papa's own handwriting.

"My darling papa, I exclaimed he sees every want. Not a wish of mine but is gratified; he has overheard me saying I should like just such a work, and has lost no time in getting it.

"I secured my favorite nook in the library and sitting down, the first thing that caught my eye was an adventure of James the Fourth—Scotland's Coeur-de-Lion in very deed. I read the story, and it filled me with remorse. The prince, was guilty of rebellious acts against his father, and I am guilty of rebellious thoughts. He wore an iron belt as a reminder of the sad fact. Well, my dearest and best of fathers, I shall have something likewise to remind me of my ingratitude."

"And you bought that homely bracelet, my child?" I said smiling at her earnestness.

"I did Aunt Hester, and when I feel that I am not doing what is right I just run to my dressing case and slip that on my arm," pointing at the same moment to the curious construction of bronze and steel that encircled her alabaster-like arm.

"And why are you wearing it to-day, my dear?" I asked.

"I felt inclined to be moody, Aunt Hester."

"I never remember of seeing such a bracelet worn by Miss Verne," ventured Mr. Lawson who had hitherto remained a silent listener.

"The occasion to which I refer, happened more than three years ago. I remember sometime afterward of asking Marguerite if she had her moody fits yet, and she smilingly said that the bracelet had been consigned to a resting place among her store of relics."

"Miss Verne now looks to a higher source. She needs no such talisman," said Mr. Lawson with an air of deep reverence.

"Yes, I believe Marguerite Verne is a Christian, though she makes no loud demonstration of the fact. No one possessing the sweet simplicity of character, the truly charitable spirit, and that universal good will to her fellow creatures can be otherwise than a Christian."

Mrs. Montgomery had given emphasis to her speech, as she never was weary in extolling the virtues of her favorite niece.

A slight movement on the part of the prostrate man called Phillip to the bedside.

Mr. Verne had awoke to consciousness, and no doubt had listened to the words so lately uttered.

A smile was upon his face as he extended his left hand to Mr. Lawson, and tried hard to regain his speech.

"Do not exert yourself, sir," said the latter putting his arm around the invalid with the tenderness of a woman. "All you must do is try to get a little stronger before Miss Verne arrives, after that you will be all right. It is enough to make any one sick to be alone in this big house."

Mrs. Montgomery watched the effect of the speech and felt sore at heart. "Poor man," thought she, "he will never live to see it," and as she looked a second time saw that Mr. Verne had suddenly relapsed into that comatose state sadly akin to death.

"Thy will be done," murmured the watcher, and tenderly replacing the coverlid committed the prostrate form to the mercy of an Almighty Father.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

DARK HOURS INDEED.

It is nearly midnight. Mrs. Verne had been prevailed upon (to use her own words) to attend a musical soiree given by a fashionable young matron in honor of her fifth wedding anniversary.

Hubert Tracy now danced attendance upon his mother-in-law, elect and on the present occasion was her beau chevalier.

He had taken leave of Marguerite with much reluctance. Her wearied and sadly pale face upbraided him but he kept stifling his conscience with the thought that she would be happier when the first impressions wore off.

"I am beginning to believe all women are alike," exclaimed he petulantly as he was awaiting Mrs. Verne's appearance, "made up of April showers and ready to transfer themselves into a vale of tears whenever they think of their boy lovers but when they've made a good haul in the matrimonial net once and forever they forget all their swains and live for one grand purpose—to impress their friends with the greatness of their position. And I'm not going to be fooled either I tell you, Miss Marguerite. You've got to toe the mark too. None of your groaning over that chuckle-headed fool of a Lawson who has no more sense than he needs."

"I beg pardon Hubert, for the detention," exclaimed Mrs. Verne who now made her appearance rustling in gros grain silk and sparkling with superb brilliants, while the cleverly artistic touches administered to deface the inroad of merciless Time would lead one at first glimpse to suppose that the radiant matron was none other than a pretty woman of twenty.

"There is not the slightest need for apology," said the young man bowing to the lady with the grace of a Crichton.

"I grieve to leave Madge this evening, but you know, my dear Hubert, that society is a merciless tyrant. Its mandates are cruel in the extreme," and affecting the air of an injured woman Mrs. Verne ensconsed herself amid the luxuriant cushions.

"Marguerite is not looking well," said the affianced glancing; at his companion to see that all was settled for her comforts.

"The poor child has such severe headaches, but in confidence, my dear, Hubert, I sometimes think she brings them on herself, for you know that she is too much given to reading, not that kind of reading that is needed or recreation, but works beyond what a woman should attempt."

Hubert Tracy was not altogether in a talking mood, and was glad that his companion had claimed the floor.

"I for one do not believe in women making such a display in the literary line. There is no sense in it, Hubert."

"You never yet saw a man in love with a literary star of the first magnitude. Literature is not for women, and when I see one setting up with an air of importance, and discussing science, history, biography, aye, and even religion, I just think, well, my lady, if you could see yourself as other see you, you would not get off your stuff in that style. To tell the truth I despise literary women, and if I had my way I would consign them to some seventh-class place of refuge, where they could howl and shout until they become what they generally end in—nothing."

"I fear you would not make a bad attempt in that sort of business yourself," said the young man much amused at the adroit manner which Mrs. Verne sought to gain a compliment.

"Heaven forbid it my dear, Hubert. From a child I always had a holy horror of blue stockings, and when I looked upon their coarse masculine faces I always experienced a feeling of disgust that I must confess increased with the years."

"And you have met many I presume."

"I merely refer to the works of the photographer or the artist, such, as you see on the vignette of their works. I am sure that they are ugly enough to frighten any sensitive child."

"But Marguerite is not one of that class," said the young man, lazily readjusting a cushion that had slipped out beneath his head.

"She is an exception so far as appearance is concerned, but that does not excuse her," said Mrs. Verne, with a haughty toss of the head, then suddenly changing her voice to a very tender and confidential tone, exclaimed, "My dear Hubert, I am going to give you a little bit of advice, and I know you will receive it kindly, as you value my child's happiness. I wish you to have a warm interest in everything that tends to her comfort; but above all things, do not encourage in her that desire to be in seclusion, and to mope and groan over imaginary grievances. It is, I am sorry to say, a failing which she has inherited from her father; and though I do not wish to speak disparagingly of my dear husband, I must say that he is in many respects a very peculiar man. It is, indeed, very discouraging for a woman to find that she has married a man who takes not the least interest in society and prefers to remain, night after night shut up in his own rooms, with no companion but a musty old ledger and a filthy pipe. Ugh! the very thought make me sick."

As Mrs. Verne's speech was accompanied by expressions of contempt and disgust, the impression made upon Hubert Tracy was not of the most flattering kind. He merely smiled, but gave no expression to his thoughts. They were not what would please his mother-in-law elect, and he had enough policy to conceal them.

And now for a second scene. The carriage had rolled away and Mrs. Verne had ascended the lofty stairway. As she stood in the corridor to throw aside the heavy wrap that enfolded her, she heard a confused din of voices. It startled her and caused her heart to beat violently.

"What a fool I am to get in such a state for nothing," but just as the last word was uttered, a servant opened the door leading from the inner hall. It was Marguerite's waiting maid.

The girl's face spoke sad news.

"In heaven's name what is the matter, Maria?" cried Mrs. Verne, thinking that a murder had taken place in their midst.

"It is Miss Verne, ma'am; but she is some better now. Oh! I thought, ma'am, that you would never come—and she was asking for you."

The poor girl was deeply attached to her young mistress and was nearly bereft of her senses when she found the latter lying upon the sofa in an apparently lifeless condition.

A physician had been summoned, who pronounced the girl in no imminent danger, but said that there was some anxiety to be feared as regards nervous prostration.

Marguerite had been quickly restored to consciousness, but she was white as the coverlid that overspread the luxurious bed upon which she lay so calm and still.

"My child, what has done this," exclaimed Mrs. Verne looking wildly around her as if for answer from some other than those that stood about.

"Don't be alarmed, mamma, I am better," said the girl, attempting to raise herself upon the pillow, but she fell back exhausted, and closed her eyelids, looking sad and wretched.

Mrs. Verne was ill at ease as she watched at Marguerite's bedside. Remorse for once seized upon her as she pictured herself moving about the gay throng, and her child, perhaps, on the verge of death.

"I might have known that she did not look herself, for those great circles around her mouth and eyes ought to have told me of her illness; but I trust she will soon be all right."

Mrs. Verne took a second glance at the pale face to gain more assurance and hope, and as she stood there tried hard to impute her daughter's present indisposition to every source, but the real one.

"The poor girl is fretting herself to death over her father's failure, for she knows that it will affect his reputation in society. She will not acknowledge it, but I am certain that she would feel the snubs of our most intimate friends more titan I would. Indeed, they would kill the poor sensitive Madge; and to think that Stephen Verne brought all this upon his family by his own slackness. Talk about honesty! It makes fools of people. A man who is so honest that he must trust every other man he meets is a fool, and worse than a fool, he's not only a fool towards himself, but a fool towards his family."

Such was an outline of the woman's soliloquy. She considered herself the most unfortunate woman in the whole world, and wondered why it was that some people are born to trouble while others never have a care to ruffle their placid brow.

The kind-hearted physician watched with deep interest the welfare of his patient.

He admired the sweet, pure face and the spirituelle eyes awaiting his coming with eager anticipation.

"You must have brooded over some mental trouble my child, and you know that is not what brings the roses to a maiden's cheek," and the disciple of Aesculapius once more patted the pale cheek to force back the roseate blush of youth and beauty.

"Doctor, you surely cannot say that I am to remain here many days longer when I am so anxious to see my father. I know that he will get better if I can only be near him to become his nurse."

"I see where part of the trouble is, but there is a greater one beneath that," thought the doctor as he sat writing out a prescription.

But like that great student of human nature he could not help exclaiming, though in undertone, "'who can minister to a mind diseased.' This is indeed one of the stubborn cases that I often have to deal with—administer drugs and pills ad infinitum when the gentle pressure of a sympathetic hand or the soft tender glances of a bright eye would act more effectually than all the compounds which the London dispensaries can boast of."

A bouquet of exquisite beauty had arrived and with it a nicely folded note.

Marguerite took the flowers within her trembling fingers and inhaled the rich fragrance with a sort of reverence. Nature claimed a large share of the girl's sympathies. She worshipped it as only the student of nature should. She

"Looked from Nature up to Nature's God."

But when she had unfolded the delicate looking missive and looked at the neatly formed letters not a ray of feeling was emitted from the expressive face.

"I see how it is," mused the man of experience; "poor child your's has not been the only aching heart. You think one way and your aspirations run another, or worse than that they accord and leave you to the tender mercies of worldly and narrow-minded parents whose sole motive is the accomplishment of their own sordid ends."

Mrs. Verne's entrance solved the problem, to the entire satisfaction of the physician. She had been detained in the drawing-room, and now came to offer apology for delaying in the sick chamber.

"Don't worry, mamma. I really am not so ill as you imagine," said the girl, hopefully.

"The invigorating New Brunswick breeze is the best tonic I can prescribe," exclaimed the doctor, eyeing Mrs. Verne with close study, "but this one must be taken first."

A merry twinkle of the keen blue eye was directed upon Marguerite, who now took the proffered slip of paper, and, to the very great amusement of the practitioner, noted the Latin abbreviation.

"Don't be too modest over it," said the latter, laughing. "I begin to think my patient has been drawn into the mysteries of our lore."

Marguerite reached out her hand to receive the kind goodbye, and how pale and wan that little hand?

Poor child, murmured the genial-hearted man as he shut the door so softly and went forth in his daily rounds whenever and anon the sweet face would rise up before him and shut out all the visible surroundings.

"The old, old story—poor thing—many such have I prescribed for in vain, but it has been so from the beginning, and I suppose, will be so to the end."

But Dr. Refern's soliloquy was lost upon a desert air, and as he pronounced Miss Verne convalescent he felt a tender pity in his large, warm heart, and fervently prayed that the girl's future might be made brighter and happier, and that she yet might return thanks for his interest in her recovery.

* * * * *

"My Father!"

What a scene.

Marguerite is once more with her idolized parent, but the poor girl is almost overcome with grief as she looked upon the altered looks of the prostrate form.

"My darling father," she murmurs, and vainly attempts to gain a look of fond recognition.

"Oh! father! try to speak to me," she cried, sobbing like a child, "speak to your own Marguerite."

It was a scene too sacred for other eyes, and Mrs. Montgomery turned away.

"Father in heaven," prayed the girl with arms uplifted and her eyes raised in devout supplication, "forsake me not now; oh, give me back my father—the father to whom I owe so much; Oh, grant that his senses be restored, and I can hear his voice once more." Marguerite threw herself prostrate beside the bed, and remained for some moments in fervent meditation.

The silence was indeed impressive, when suddenly Marguerite cast a glance at the loved form, and a half-smothered cry burst from her lips.

Another glance and a murmured "Thank God," Marguerite Verne's prayer was answered.

"Marguerite."

"My father."

What comfort in these words? What tongue could tell of the happiness that now filled the maiden's heart. She could not utter another word, but put her arms around her father's neck and pressed upon his wasted lips one long lingering kiss—so tender, so pure and so sacred that it might well have accorded with the salutation of the angels in heaven!

And Marguerite Verne clad in robes of dazzling whiteness was indeed a fit representation of an angelic being, whose sole mission on earth was the doing of good and making others happy, but at a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice that a maiden can endure—the sacrifice of all her earthly hope.

Yes, Marguerite could and would make such a sacrifice. She had strength given her from the highest source, and she had faith in her heavenly father. He would carry her through all she had now undertaken.

Mr. Verne had rallied sufficiently to recognize his child. He gazed into the face he loved so well, and a faint smile overspread his countenance. He lay with his hands clasped in those of his child and seemed supremely happy.

"It is almost a pity that he should be aroused from this happy, trance-like state," said Mrs. Montgomery as she quietly raised the sick man to administer the medicine that had been consigned to her care.

Marguerite once more pressed the thin lips and stood at a distance, as if trying to think whether it were reality or dreamland.

Other eyes looked upon the maiden and other hands clasped in prayer were indeed very near.

What subtle power caused Marguerite to look around? What subtle power caused her to hold her breath as if oppressed with some invisible presence?

"Miss Verne, I'm glad you are here."

"Thank you Mr. Lawson," was the quiet reply, but in the look there was a world of sympathy that smote deeply into Phillip Lawson's heart.



CHAPTER XXXV.

A MINISTERING ANGEL—A SUDDEN REVELATION.

Phillip Lawson was not surprised at the great change which had been wrought in Marguerite Verne. She was kind and thoughtful, but there was a restraint that made him feel ill at ease.

"Poor girl," thought he, "she feels her father's failure very keenly, not I believe from a selfish view but from her relation to others."

The young man had not divined aright.

He was not aware that Marguerite was the affianced wife of Hubert Tracy. He did not know the nature of the blow that had made such dire havoc upon the constitution of Mr. Verne. He did not know that all the anxious moments of the latter were spent in vainly trying to make known the bitter truth. He did not know that within Mr. Verne's desk was concealed a document which might remain there until too late!

Mrs. Verne had arrived in a state bordering on distraction.

She did not wish to meet any of her former friends lest she would hear something that would grate harshly on her nerves. She suffered much from headache and consequently remained most of the time in her own apartments.

"If your papa were at all times conscious of our presence, my dear, there would be some sense in my remaining with him, but really Madge I think the more quiet he is kept the better."

"But mamma dear, one of us should be near so that with returning consciousness he would recognize us."

"But that is not very often, Madge."

"Aunt Hester says that he asked for me very soon after I returned last night. I am so sorry that she did not awaken me." The girl looked sad indeed and to a more sensitive woman it would have been a keen reproach, but Mrs. Verne was wrapt up in self and wished no other feeling to find a shelter within her breast.

Some days passed and no great change had taken place in Mr. Verne yet the physician did not pronounce his case as hopeless.

"We are all doing our best and I trust that there will soon be a favorable change."

Marguerite Verne heard those words with a deep sigh, yet she was calm, and composed and even smiled at the eulogism passed upon her skill in the many duties of the sick chamber.

It was only when in her own room and none were near to witness her grief that she showed the weak side of her nature.

Many weary hours she lay and prayed that God would give her strength to go through the sad and painful duty that ever and anon rose up before her with a vividness that was cruel as death.

"I cannot meet Mr. Lawson without a shudder!" she murmured between sobs of deep and poignant anguish, "and I love him as I shall never love another—but he shall never know it—ah no. I shall become the wife of Hubert Tracy and try to be happy—yes, happy. And I shall receive the warmest congratulations and I will smile as they think me so happy and look upon me with eyes of envy."

Marguerite now drew her hand across her eyes as if to shut out the reality of the scene, while a chill made her shiver as if seized with ague.

"How foolish to be so weak," she murmurs, "darling papa, I would make a sacrifice ten times as great for his dear sake," and instantly the tears were dried and the girl was calm.

"Poor, dear papa, I shall receive such glowing accounts of his perfect restoration to health, and I can visit him often. Oh! if I could live with him always!"

Marguerite instantly smothered the half-formed sigh and sought a momentary respite in carefully combing out the waves of soft, silken and luxuriant hair.

Such was the manner in which she passed the first fortnight after her arrival.

She became accustomed to the young lawyer's daily visits, and though she knew it was not right, she could not resist a desire to await his coming with all the eagerness of her nature. But further she dare not go. The civilities exchanged were of a nature that fell like lead upon the young man's honest heart, but he was attentive to every word and wish, and always appeared with a kind voice and quiet but cheery smile.

But Phillip Lawson had a more bitter draught to swallow ere many hours had passed over his head.

Mr. Verne began to show signs of recovery, which the good old physician smilingly attributed to the "ministering angel," as he gaily dubbed Marguerite.

The latter was quietly arranging some delicacies upon a silver tray that stood on the pretty five o'clock.

Phillip Lawson remained for a moment to contemplate the picture. The girl looked so guileless and so childlike. The pale-grey cashmere, draped in graceful folds, gave her an air peculiar to some self-sacrificing Sister of Mercy, whose presence brought life and light into the home of the afflicted ones.

As she stooped to pick up a stray rose that had fallen from the fragrant bouquet, Phillip saw the delicate hands become tremulous, while the lips parted and the beautiful eyes were raised to heaven.

"Oh, heaven!" murmured the young man "I cannot endure this," and instantly he dashed forward with an impetuosity altogether foreign to his gentle and, at times, grave demeanor.

Marguerite was quick to detect the abruptness, but not a gesture betrayed curiosity.

"Papa has been sleeping for more than two hours—really Mr. Lawson, I have such good news. The doctor has just gone out and he says that every symptom is favorable and that he has every reason to believe that he may rally very soon."

"God grant it Miss Verne," said Philip, going on tiptoe towards the couch, and gazing wistfully upon the emaciated features of his old friend.

"This is my night to remain with papa, but the doctor bade me ask you to take my place. He seemed very anxious that I should do so and I am willing to do anything that may be deemed necessary."

"Strange that I came here purposely to make the same request," said the young man, looking gravely into the girl's face.

"How good of you, Mr. Lawson."

But Phillip Lawson needs no praise, and Marguerite goes on with her work, occasionally glancing at the time-piece to see how long her father had been sleeping.

And we come now to the hour of midnight. Trinity had sent forth its hallowed chime, and the echoes had died away in the calm stillness of the night.

Silence reigned in "Sunnybank," not a sound save the heavy tick of the old clock that stood at the top of the grand stairway. Phillip Lawson with book in hand was trying to while away the hours and to divert his mind from the unpleasant thoughts that now and then would arise with peculiar vividness.

A slight rustling causes him to start.

"My dear boy."

The young man leans gently forward and supports the upraised hand.

"Phillip, I have got my prayer. Is Marguerite near?"

Mr. Verne looked agitated, and Phillip Lawson feared the result.

"But you must be very quiet now, Mr. Verne. You know that much depends upon yourself."

"Ah, Phillip, I know it too well, but I have something to tell you, which is killing me by inches. Phillip you are the only one who must know it now. The rest will come in good time—in good time my boy!"

Phillip Lawson administered the soothing draught that had been tri-hourly prescribed, then lovingly placed his arm around the wasted form and laid him softly on the downy pillow.

Mr. Verne's voice was much stronger, and it cost him less effort to speak.

"It will do more harm than good to deny the request," thought the young man, and he leaned forward that the voice might reach his ear with the least possible effort of the speaker.

Mr. Verne drew a heavy sigh, and then began:—"Phillip Lawson, you are one of the truest friends I ever had, and heaven will yet bless you for all you have done for me."

The young man was about to appeal when he saw that Mr. Verne would suffer no interruption, so he calmly listened and uttered not a word.

"Phillip, it is a sad story that I have to tell, but I know you will help me to bear up. I have only you to confide in—only you."

Mr. Verne rested for a moment, and then continued, "It was the day before I was prostrated that I called upon you but learned that you were out of town until the following day. I wished to tell you something that grieved me more than living being ever can know. I had then in my breast pocket the death warrant of all my future hope and joy—that fatal letter announcing the betrothal of my darling Marguerite to that dissolute and unprincipled young man—Hubert Tracy."

Mr. Verne paused, then glanced at Phillip Lawson.

"Ah my son, God knows I would it were otherwise, I know that you love my child. I have cherished that secret as something sacred, and lived in the hope that all would come right some day. Phillip, my boy, I can bear my grief, but it is hard to see the hopes of a bright and useful life buried deep—so deep."

The young man sat like one in a mocking cruel dream. The news stunned him. It was so unexpected, and yet so true.

"You have spoken truly Mr. Verne," said Phillip sadly, "I love Marguerite as I shall never love another woman. She is lost to me forever, but I shall cherish her memory while I live. Her image shall be enshrined within my heart; my life's devotion, my guiding star; they cannot rob me of that sacred duty. It is sanctioned by heaven itself."

Phillip Lawson now turned his face toward the couch.

"I never will believe that my child loves such a man as Hubert Tracy," said Mr. Verne, closing his eyelids with sheer exhaustion. "She has been forced into it. Promise me Phillip you will help me examine the matter closely. I am regaining some of my lost strength and will be better able for the task."

"I would like to assist you Mr. Verne, but I am in a delicate position. I cannot see how Miss Verne would be entrapped into a marriage against her own wishes. You know that Mr. Tracy was always on terms of intimacy with your family, and besides he is rather prepossessing, and would in all probability win the favor of any young lady."

"Phillip, you are generous to a fault. You could not say that man is a villain and a scoundrel when you really would have proof of his villany in your possession."

"Heaven forgive me for it," mused Phillip, "it was for her sake that I spoke thus. If she loves Hubert Tracy as I love her, then would I sacrifice every feeling to do it. Would to God I could think as her father does."

The young man sat for a moment buried in deep thought. He was now finding some ground for Marguerite's restraint when in his presence, and he conjured up many imaginary doubts and fears to prove that she loved Hubert Tracy. Even the letters which spoke in glowing terms of such kind attention—did not every circumstance serve as further conviction.

Mr. Verne divined Phillip Lawson's thoughts.

"Phillip, my boy, hear me. I may never rise from off this bed, but I solemnly swear that Hubert Tracy will never place a marriage ring upon Marguerite Verne's finger—never—"

Mr. Verne now grasped Phillip Lawson's hand and held it there, while the latter became suddenly inspired with bright hope.

"This has been too much for you, Mr. Verne," said the young man, soothingly. "But I have more to tell you, Phillip—something that will stagger you."

"Wait until to-morrow, sir, you will feel stronger."

"Very well, my boy, let it be to-morrow," and Mr. Verne dropped off in a peaceful slumber—aye, gentle and peaceful as that of a child.

Phillip Lawson's thoughts were confusion manifold as he sat with his hands folded listlessly across his breast. He was questioning the genuineness of his motives in keeping from Mr. Verne a secret which deeply affected the interests and welfare of his child.

"If Marguerite loved Hubert Tracy why should I thwart her fond hopes. Hubert Tracy has wronged me, though his act failed. Have I any right to rake up the intended wrong and hunt him down as an avenging deity.

"And for what," asked Phillip, as he gazed wildly around, fearing some one should intrude upon his privacy. "It was the green-eyed monster that goaded the weak-minded Hubert to be tempted. And must I, in possession, of all my senses, retaliate from the same cause! Ah, no, Hubert. You will go free, but Heaven will not suffer you to pollute a pure and innocent being. Ah, no." And more than ever inspired with faith, in the decrees of an All-Wise Providence, Phillip Lawson fully resolved to hold his peace.

"I feel that I am doing what is right in the sight of Heaven, and that thought gives me double resolution."

Mr. Lawson's soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of a domestic who came to take his place.

Mrs. Montgomery, being anxious, had also come in to make numerous inquiries, and to see that the young man should seek some rest.

"Blessings on her kindly soul," murmured the latter, as he went into the tasteful dressing-room and threw himself upon the lounge, where soft pillows and ample covering showed that loving hands had not forgotten his comfort.

But Phillip Lawson did not sleep. He turned listlessly from side to side. He tried to divert his thoughts to business and to many and varied subjects but through all and above all arose the words "very well, my boy, let it be to-morrow."

What a world of thought was running through the young man's brain as he lay thus, turning over in his well-stored mind many of the intricate problems of life and trying vainly to solve those which more deeply concerned himself.

In his short career midst life's struggles there was much to be grateful for. There was indeed, as he journeyed through the wilderness, a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night and as Phillip Lawson raised his eyes heavenward they caught the reflection of that fire; his countenance glowed with a radiance that was truly heaven-born and as Mrs. Montgomery passed through the room an hour afterward there was still trace of the sacred invisible presence.

Beading low the woman exclaimed "truly a noble soul," and with a prayer upon her lips invoking Heaven's blessing towards the sleeper she crept noiselessly away.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

AN INTERESTING EVENT—SHADE AND SUNSHINE.

When Mr. Lawson called at "Sunnybank" on the following day he was pained to hear that Mr. Verne had taken a bad turn. The physician had given strict orders that none should approach him except an old nurse who had seen much service in the family.

"It has been too much for him," murmured Phillip as he closed the doer behind him, and again the word "to-morrow" sounded prophetically in his ear.

But the solicitor was not allowed to indulge further in gloomy thought. He had scarcely seated himself at his office desk when the bright countenance of Mr. Moses Spriggins beamed upon all around.

"Good morning, Mr. Spriggins," exclaimed Mr. Lawson heartily glad to see the face of his honest friend.

"Don't be too sure that you're glad to see me, Mr. Lawson," (Mr. Spriggins having dropped the appellation of 'Squire) "for I've come on a kinder disagreeable errant."

"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Spriggins. But perhaps it is not so bad as you imagine," said the solicitor very cheerily.

"It's the roughest on you, sir. I tell yer what it is, it ain't a very disagreeable piece of bus'ness for me to git married to Melindy Jane Thrasher when we've been a-courtin' mor'n two years—jest two years last hayin' time, for Melindy came to our house to help the wimmin folks and the first time I sot eyes on her I'd made up my mind."

Mr. Spriggins was becoming very eloquent on the subject and might have said much more (not to the point) when interrupted.

"And you have come to inform us that we must give up Melindy?"

"Yes, sir, that is the hull thing in a few words," cried Mr. Spriggins very much elated, "Isn't it a wonderful gift you fellars have of speakin' right to the pint. By hokey, I'd give a good deal if I was a lawyer—an honest, fair-square one like yerself, sir."

"Thank you Mr. Spriggins," said the young man trying hard to look serious.

"I was at yer place last evenin', sir, and as Melindy and me talked the thing over, she said that she felt backward of tellin' you, and says I, Melindy, I'll see Mr. Lawson meself and tell him to look out for another girl, so as you'd not be left without help."

"And you have given us sufficient time, I hope," said Mr. Lawson, smiling.

"We're to be spliced a fortnight from next Tuesday, sir, and if it's not askin' too much, I'd like terrible well if yerself and Miss Lottie could come up to Mill Crossin' to be present at the cer'mony."

"If nothing prevents we will go," said the young man quietly.

Mr. Spriggins sat for some moments and then informing the solicitor that he had some business at the insurance office rose to take leave.

"I suppose you have heard of Mr. Verne's illness?" ventured Mr. Lawson.

"Yes, sir, Melindy and meself was a-talkin' the hull thing over last night. He is a fine gentleman, sir,—and the young lady—I'm so glad she's back again. Ah! she's a fine girl, sir. I bet the old gentleman will be all right now, for the sight of her face is bettern' all the medicine in all the poth'cary consarns in St John."

What a temptation presented itself to the young man. He could easily ask the honest-hearted fellow about his interview with Mr. Verne, and of the effect upon him; also the nature of the conversation.

That Moses Spriggins formed a connecting link in some future disclosure he was doubly convinced, but it must come about by an established order of things; and the young lawyer thanked God that he was given sufficient strength to withstand the power of the tempter.

When Mr. Lawson went home that evening he received the full benefit of the information imparted to Miss Lottie.

It had been arranged that the latter should assist in the selection of the indispensable trousseau, and this was indeed a source of delight.

Mr. Spriggins came to town many times ere he could suit himself in a brand-new suit of clothes, also some new furniture to make things look "kinder nobby."

Nell Spriggins had been married some weeks previous, and as she had borne away her "fit out," there were many vacant corners in the Spriggins homestead, which of course fell to the lot of Moses to restore in due order.

But Mr. Spriggins was equal to the occasion.

"It ain't every day a feller gits spliced, I can tell yer, and one orter put the best foot for'ard. Tell you what it is, mother, Melindy and me is a-goin' to make the folks' eyes stick out when we 'pear out in the Mill Crossin' meetin' house."

The good old lady wiped her glasses and advised her son to be moderate in his ideas, "for," said she, "I always think that a quiet beginnin' makes the best endin'"

"Endin', did you say, mother' Wal, that's very encouragin', to be a-talkin' about endin' when a fellar feels like livin' till he has to be killed off," and Moses' big blue eyes glistened like two big china marbles.

"Now, Moses, if you are a-goin' to be married, you needn't be a-losin' of every speck of sense. It's enough for a bit of a boy to be a-makin' of sich light speeches."

Mrs. Spriggins' remarks were brought to a close by Moses making an exit via the back door, and when the privacy of the sheep-house had been gained he sat down on a big log and began counting how much money he had still on hand after his trip to town on the day previous.

"Let's see—there's thirty-six dollars and one cent. Yes, every cent's a cent, and twenty-one dollars Sam Wiggles owes me, and the two loads o' hay Jim Briggs is a-takin' to town this week—that's sure cash—well, thirty-six and twenty-one is fifty-seven, and the hay—wal, it's all as good as seventy-five dollars."

A couple of huge hogs acting upon the aggressive in appropriating a large share of hen feed, now interrupted the soliloquy, and after combating the unscrupulous animals, Moses Spriggins once more seated himself upon the log.

"Wal, seventy-five dollars won't make a bad spread, neither. I'm terrible sorry that there's trouble in the Verneses. I'd like deuced well to have that Miss Margit—now that's too highfalutin a name for me—if Melindy were here she'd git it off in good style."

Silence reigned for a moment; then Moses took up the thread of discourse. "When a fellar's gettin' spliced hisself he wants every one else to follow. Wal, it's no use a-sayin' it, but if Mr. Lawson and Miss Verne could have both a-come to the weddin' there's no tellin' what might have happened. They'd git interested in the cer'mony, and I'd bet ten to one they'd be a-proposin' before it was over. Wal, sir, if Mr. Verne gits the leastest bit better, I'm a-goin' after Miss Verne, sure pop."

Moses having made such resolution now carefully folded the notes in his business-like pocket-book and set off to do the work which awaited him.

It was, indeed, somewhat of a coincidence to know that at the same moment when Moses Spriggins was speculating upon the prospects of his legal friend that the latter should be also troubled about the veritable Moses.

Lottie Lawson had gone to "Sunnybank," brimming over with the affairs of the elated Melindy Jane.

Marguerite listened to the child's amusing description of the many articles that were hourly displayed by the expectant bride, and when consulted as to the choice of a wedding present, thoughtfully proposed sending one herself.

"Oh. Miss Verne, that will be delightful," cried Lottie, clapping her hands in childish glee. "Why, Melindy will have lots of nice things; I know what brother Phillip is going to give—a pretty China tea-set—and mine, a pair of napkin rings."

Marguerite smiled at the little maid's enthusiasm, and warned her against being too communicative to Melindy Jane.

"Indeed, she will not know what they are until brother Phillip and I go out to Mill Crossing."

Lottie took her departure and Marguerite once more sought her father's room to take her place beside his bed.

* * * * *

"Spriggins, did you say, papa?"

"Yes, child—I want the paper."

"Which paper, papa—can I get it for you?"

In the effort to make known his wishes his memory had failed him, and Marguerite stood utterly helpless to execute that wish.

"Something is on papa's mind—some paper. It is, indeed, of much importance, for poor papa has been deeply agitated."

The girl had noticed that her father's eyes always rested upon her in a mute, half-despairing appeal, yet she had not courage to question him upon the matter.

"If I could only speak to Mr. Lawson, but there is a restraint between us that I suppose under the circumstances is only natural. I am the affianced wife of Hubert Tracy and Phillip Lawson is not the man to take advantage of his influence."

A heavy sigh escaped Marguerite and instantly she raised both hands as if to compress the aching brow and wearied brain.

In the quiet of her own chamber Marguerite Verne felt that she was safe from human eyes. She longed to give vent to her pent up sorrow, and sitting down upon a pretty ottoman (the work of her own industrious hands) uttered a low and mournful wail—such only as would express a broken heart.

"Oh Phillip Lawson, it is hard to meet you every day of my life and to know that we are strangers indeed—yes, worse than strangers. Oh, my sad heart. None but heaven will ever know what I have suffered and am suffering now. Oh, Phillip! Phillip! why is your image ever before me! Why do you approach me with your grave but kind face and hold out your hand in tenderest sympathy! Oh, my heart, it is maddening! Why was I born to such feeling! Why was I cursed with the susceptibilities of a warm and loving heart! Why were not these sympathetic chords torn rudely asunder ere they could vibrate with such anguish! Why did not my heart turn into stone ere it took root in such deadly bitter soil! Ah well, love is common and grief is common—'Never morning wore to evening but some heart did break.' And I am only a drop in the great ocean—the great sea of struggles—heart-aches and bitter groans!"

A rustle of garments in the outer hall caused Marguerite to raise her head and as she caught a glimpse of her sorrowful face in the mirror opposite she felt a sudden pang and seemed to meet the mild despairing gaze of her idolized parent.

"Dear papa, what would he think of his rebellious child?" Immediately the girl was trying to look brave and struggling hard to set aside all the painful thoughts.

Marguerite fortunately was endowed with much will power. She could master her thoughts to such a degree that a quiet, calm content would succeed, and in this condition she went to her mother's room.

Mrs. Verne was now in a semi-invalid state. She was moody and morose, and oftentimes much depressed. It would be charitable for us to think that this woman reflected upon her past foolishness; and be it as it may we will give her the benefit of the doubt.

Mr. Verne saw little of his wife, but there were moments when his thoughts went back to the child-wife of his youth, and a tear glistened in his eye as he recalled the bright scenes of the sadly dimmed life.

But Marguerite Verne compensated for her mother's defects. She was truly all in all to her fond parent. Her smile was his beacon light. Her voice was more musical than harp or psaltery, and her loving ministration were life indeed; and as each morning and evening the girl clasped her hands and knelt beside her father's couch reading aloud the several beautiful prayers for the visitation of the sick, what soul could fail to be deeply affected.

"What a picture for a Guido, a Rembrandt, or a Correggio," thought Phillip Lawson as he stood on the threshold not daring to breathe lest he break the solemn spell; and as he noiselessly turns away the vision haunts him with increasing vividness. "Turn which way I will it is always the same," he murmured, and entering Warwick's elegant china store felt like anything but selecting a bridal present.

But the world has its claims upon us, and Phillip Lawson was shown the many beautiful patterns of delicate china cups, plates, etc., and very soon selected a pretty tea-set that would make glad the heart of the expectant bride.

The young man had crossed over to the northern side of King street, but had not gone many steps when he heard familiar voices, looking around he espied the piquant Lottie and her domestic making their way into the handsome and tasteful establishment of Manchester, Robertson & Allison. The young solicitor was amused as he thought of the conversation which he had accidently overheard on the previous morning.

But for the shopping excursion.

Lottie with an air of importance had given much advice to the jubiliant Melindy but when that great emporium, so dear to many a woman's heart, had been, reached the latter almost lost her senses.

"If Mose could just peek in wouldn't he stare?" said she, casting her eyes on a pile of silks that had been displayed upon the counter.

Lottie smiled, and having directed Melindy's attention to a choice lot of dress material stepped to the other end of the ware-room to speak to one of her acquaintances.

The shades were too dull to suit Melindy's taste. She wanted it for a "pertikler occasion" and if she had thought in time would have brought a "certain person" in to choose it.

The merry twinkle in the clerk's eye brought Miss Lottie to the rescue, and after much deliberation on the part of Melindy a heavy piece of all-wool goods of bright maroon was at length decided upon for the best dress, while another of fancy plaid was chosen for reception purposes.

It is needless to enter into detail of all the knick-knacks that took Melindy's eye, but we cannot pass the millinery department, into which the latter was ushered by the amused but undemonstrative Lottie.

A bonnet was, of course, the desired article.

"It does look kinder nice," said Melindy surveying the pretty, tasteful cream-colored lace with a bunch of neat French flowers in relief, "but it looks to me as if it wasn't hardly dressy enough."

"We can easily arrange it to suit your taste," said the young lady in attendance as she went towards the show-case and began assorting some bright-colored roses as more acceptable.

"Wal, there's sumthin' more becomin'!" said Melindy into a high key, "and I'm certain that 'person' would like it better."

Melindy Jane cast a significant glance at Miss Lottie who in turn gave it to the young lady and the result was significant smiles all around.

"Well, its nothing to be ashamed of. I s'pose we might as well tell you that I want it for peerin' out with, and as there's alwus so many remarks passed I'd like it to be sumthin' dressy."

"Certainly," said the young lady, and within a very short time the cream-colored bonnet was in reality a bed of roses, highly suggestive to Miss Lottie of the lines—

"Oh my love is like a red, red rose That newly springs in June."

"There now," cried the delighted Melindy, looking in the mirror to note the effect, "that's just the style that'll take Moses' eye. Don't I wish he was here to see it."

The indispensable white gloves and white net veil and bright ribbons, flowers, etc., were now laid aside, and with a strict injunction "to be sure send 'em right away," Melindy Jane Thrasher was truly the happiest customer that ever emerged from the time-honored establishment of Manchester, Robertson & Allison.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

HUBERT TRACY UNFOLDS HIS PLANS.

It must not be supposed that Phillip Lawson was remiss in his regular duties—that he neglected the professional demands duly devolving upon him.

Our much-respected friend had seen adversity on every hand and in many phases. He had struggled hard to overcome difficulties, and he had smothered the pleading of his hungry unsatisfied soul; and as from day to day he jostles his fellow man in the crowded thoroughfares, or encounters him in the office, shop or study, the same remark was common to every honest-minded citizen:—"Lawson is a clever, industrious and good fellow, and well deserves the position which he will one day occupy."

And now, when it became an established fact that Phillip Lawson had fallen heir to forty thousand dollars, it was, indeed, worthy of mention that no one was heard to make uncharitable remarks. Congratulations fell thick and fast, and last, but not least, came those of Moses Spriggins.

"Well, sir, I used ter say I'd be no small potatoes one o' these days, but I never dreamed I'd have a millionar at my weddin'. Wal, thar's no accountin' for miracles these times," and the iron hand left its impress upon the soft palm of the "millionar" in a manner that showed heartiness minus conventionalism.

But there was another who tendered congratulations while a deeper shadow settled down and shut out any approach of joy or gladness.

Marguerite Verne could not fail to see the difference in her mother's reception of Phillip Lawson as he now is, and this thought gave her pain.

The possessor of forty thousand, and a poor penniless lawyer, were indeed two different beings in Mrs. Verne's partial eyes. They were unlike in appearance, character, action—aye, as opposite as two extremes could well be.

Mr. Lawson, in his altered condition, was handsome, was more distinguished looking, could converse more fluently, was more polished and more gallant.

But Marguerite Verne listened to her mother's eulogism with a calm despair, and, save the pallor of her lips, no one could tell the suffering within. What matters it now, thought the girl, as she bent over a sheet of paper and tried to collect her thoughts.

Hubert Tracy eagerly awaited the delicate missive that came as regularly as the mail, and he now was looking forward to the time when he would claim Marguerite Verne forever and forever.

It was so hard to frame each sentence without the conviction that every word conveyed the falsity of the girl's heart. How dare she pen one word such as an affianced lover would expect! Oh, the agony of soul that Marguerite endured as she combated with her honest nature.

Phillip Lawson never lost sight of the doings at "Sunnybank." He was daily around the afflicted household and tried hard to bring cheer along with him.

That Mr. Verne was sinking fast the young man knew well, and he was sorely troubled that the secret grief would never be communicated— perhaps in a way that might give relief.

Would it be wise to force the subject, to venture an allusion to Moses Spriggins, and thus arouse the seemingly comatose condition of the dying man.

"If I could mention the matter to Marguerite," thought Phillip, as he sat in his office for a few moment's respite after a day of toilsome labor over some perplexing law points in a case which gained much notoriety, and which had also gained for the leading counsel a reputation for earnestness and strict integrity that must inevitably be crowned with success.

"If I could only ask her advice in the matter," thought he, "what a relief it would afford."

But the words froze upon his lips, and Marguerite remained as before in utter ignorance of the failure.

"Why do such questions arise," murmured the young man sadly, and his thoughts reminded him of the renowned son of Jupiter dying of thirst with the tempting element raised to his chin, but could not partake of a single drop. "Ah! there's many a modern Tantalus," said Phillip wearily, "many a Tantalus."

Marguerite had received several letters from Mrs. Arnold, but they were vague, unsatisfactory and suppressed. There was an attempt at concealment that gave the girl much concern, yet she did not communicate the fact to Mrs. Verne.

"Poor mamma has enough to think of," thought she, "and as they say, it is no use to be borrowing trouble, so I'll hope for the best."

Could one have glanced into Mrs. Montague Arnold's private life what a picture would be presented to us—one anything but pleasing to look upon—where alike was depicted disappointment, disgust, anger, sullen resentment and hate.

Add to this dissipation, an utter disregard for the home duties of woman, and one can form some idea of the unenviable position of this fashionable creature.

Of the husband what can we say?

Montague Arnold is indeed far on the downward road to ruin. Dissipation has made fearful ravages upon his hitherto handsome face, and in the bloated features, inflamed eyes, and idiotic expression, there is little left to convey an impression that the gay and fashionable world once coveted such a prize.

The lowest gambling dens were now sought, and hour after hour the man sat side by side with the scum of humanity. His days and nights were scenes of carousal, his wife was left to her own resources, and his home utterly desolate.

Evelyn Arnold had written her sister many glowing eulogies of Hubert Tracy's generosity, yet she did not acknowledge that to him she was entirely dependent.

Let us not utterly despise this young man.

There was yet a spark of generosity in his nature and a desire to lend a helping hand to the needy.

As hitherto expressed, with different associations Hubert Tracy would have been a different man. He began well but had not sufficient will power to resist the tempter and like many a promising youth who went out into the world with a mother's prayers ringing in his ears, stumbled ere he reached the first milestone on life's chequered road.

Hubert Tracy was to a certain degree trying to make amends for the wrong he had done towards himself and towards his fellow man.

When the face and form of Phillip Lawson rose before him with such vividness that he many times closed his eyes to shut out the sight remorse would seize upon him and hold him in galling chains, shewing us that the Divine impress was not entirely obliterated from his nature and that some day one might expect a complete change.

But of this young man's kindness to Mrs. Arnold.

The latter had been accustomed to a lavish expenditure of money and now that her husband's means had been squandered what was she to do? Appearances must be kept up at any sacrifice and without any apparent struggle. Mrs. Montague Arnold received from her sister's betrothed a sufficient amount of money to meet her daily wants.

Every beauty has her reign and so with the beautiful Evelyn.

Another queen succeeded and with many a bitter feeling the former is a thing of the past. Men have ceased to rave over the dark-eyed syren and now behold her as a being of a secondary order.

Mrs. Arnold attributed such slights to her husband's altered position and loud angry words were of daily occurrence until at last matters grew worse and they were completely alienated.

It was now that Hubert Tracy proved himself a benefactor. He remitted money and strove to give the unhappy woman all the sympathy she desired.

At times Mrs. Arnold's temper became ungovernable and as each annoyance crowded upon her with redoubled force it was anything but agreeable to listen to the frequent outbursts of uncontrollable anger or to look upon a face made hideous by those degrading exhibitions of a coarse and corrupt nature.

Let us now take a look at this fashionable woman as she is vainly trying to while away what appears to be a tedious morning.

Mrs. Arnold has removed to another suite of apartments and the change bears heavily upon her.

With an air of disgust she surveys the plainly furnished parlor and taking up a third class novel of the highly sensational type throws herself upon the chintz-covered lounge and gives way to a series of hysterical sobs more expressive of anger than grief.

The once large lustrous orbs have lost much of their brightness and the oval cheeks have lost their beauty of outline, while the rich crimson hue has given place to a sickly yellow. Even the toilette of the proud beauty bears traces of neglect. The rich and elegant dressing gown of cashmere and velvet had been converted into money and a dowdy-looking stuff wrapper supplied its place.

Mrs. Arnold yawned and sighed wearily, then arose to look for some curl papers but finding the effort too much once more sought the lounge and novel.

The sorrows of the heroine pleased her. "Misery likes company," as the adage goes and Mrs. Arnold formed no exception.

"Yes," mused she, "her lord, like mine, proved a failure, but here the likeness ends—she got rid of him but there is no such luck for me. I must put up with his brutal insults, his coarse language, his murderous assaults—yes, I must bear it for better for worse until death doth us part—"

"Which I hope will be very soon, my dear, delightful spouse," cried a hic-coughy voice from an outer room and instantly the bloated face of Montague Arnold confronted his wife in tantalizing and brutal aspect.

We will pass over the scene which followed, suffice to say that the inebriated husband finally betook himself to his room and—more beast than man—lay until he was sufficiently recovered to set out for the scene of dissipation to be enacted on the coming night.

When quiet was fully restored and Evelyn had once more found respite in her heroine's increasing woes a familiar step sounded in the passage.

"Come at last Hubert, I wish you had been here sooner."

Mrs. Arnold then gave an exaggerated account of her husband's proceedings, and began sobbing wildly and hysterically.

Hubert Tracy did not like scenes, but he had to await Mrs. Arnold's pleasure.

He had of late been trying to lead a better life and had given the slip to several of his debauched companions, but on the previous evening he had been unable to withstand their urgent entreaties and as he wended his way to Mrs. Arnold's residence his aching brows and dizzy head gave evidence of the sad fact.

"I have had news from home, Evelyn."

"Yes," said the latter faintly.

"Your father seems no better. Madge has little hopes of him, and your mother's health has undergone a great shock."

"No, doubt," was the sarcastic reply.

"Evelyn," said the young man in earnest tones, "I shall eagerly await the coming mail, for I have signified to Madge my intention to cross the Atlantic!"

"So soon," cried Mrs. Arnold with awaking interest.

"Yes, Evelyn, I cannot endure this suspense much longer. Madge is the only woman who can reclaim me, and I must now insist that she will be my wife at an early date—at any rate I wish to be in St. John at the settlement of the affair. It has been a great mistake that I did not accompany your mother and Madge."

"Oh, Hubert, the thought makes me feel worse, if possible."

"You will come with me, Evelyn, and if Mont sees fit he can shake off his fellows and come too."

"I go home Hubert! No indeed, I would rather die than face the people of St. John, Ah no! You must say that I am looking so well, and so brilliant, and am so happy that I prefer English society to dull provincial life!

"True, Hubert, I have done much for you, and you surely will carry out my wishes."

"I certainly shall, Evelyn, and more than that I shall never forget that to you I owe all the happiness of my life."

"You may well say so Hubert. But for my scheming Madge would have yielded to mamma's entreaties and became the wife of her pet—Sir Arthur."

"Well, it's all over, now," said the young man impatiently. "You never will have cause to regret the steps you have taken, and I trust we will be a happy family one of these days."

Alas! it is an easy task for us to propose, but the Great Disposer of our destinies finds it necessary to circumvent our plans and show us how utterly helpless we are. But we will not forestall events. We will calmly await the end, in a direct order comforted by the cheering thought that patience is a virtue and worthy its reward.

"Hubert, have you ever thought of Phil Lawson lately. I must tell you some news."

Mrs. Arnold then, with greater gusto, referred to the fortune, and in sarcastic tones amused her friend with the great change it would make in the heir's position, and the brilliant match he would also secure from the same source.

"So much the better," said Hubert, "he'll not be poking his nose where he's not wanted."

Hubert Tracy tried to appear as indifferent as possible, but in his own mind he was ill at ease. Any allusion to Phillip Lawson opened afresh a very tender spot in his memory.

"Would to God the fellow were dead," thought he, "though he never did me any harm. Perhaps, after all, he never would have had courage to propose to Madge—but then its best to be safe."

It would seem as if Mrs. Arnold had divined her friend's thoughts. "Hubert," said she, rather excitedly, "I firmly believe, and will always believe, that if we had not taken matters in time that Phil Lawson, with his long-winded speeches, would have wrought a spell upon papa and so completely influenced him that he would have had Madge body and soul, for I am certain that she was fool enough to encourage him."

"I believe so, too," said Hubert, dryly, and not at all pleased with the woman's reference to a rival.

"It was only his poverty that kept him back. I tell you some upstarts of lawyers have impudence enough to face anything; indeed, when they stick out their shingle they think they are fitting match for a princess."

Mrs. Arnold was sarcastic in the highest degree, and her expression was scornful as well.

"And I suppose the forty thousand will assist materially in giving a little more cheek," said Hubert, laughing.

"You may bless your stars that it did not arrive a twelve-month ago," said Mrs. Arnold, in a teazing manner that was not at all acceptable to her companion.

"Ah, well, Eve, let us think none the less of him. Perhaps he carries a heavier heart than we would wish," and, glancing hurriedly around, Hubert Tracy bowed to his companion and passed out as if bent upon some particular errand.

Little did the thoughtless young man realize that this was his last conversation with Mrs. Arnold, nor did the latter, as she called to mind the fact that Hubert Tracy had, for the first time, addressed her familiarly as "Eve,"—the name she bore in her father's home— that it would also be the last. Oh, well, this is one of the many lessons sent to teach us what we are, and what we should be:—,

"Let manhood think that death may come When least it seemeth nigh; And, though content with this bright home, Yet be prepared to die."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CONFESSION AND RESOLUTION.

November's chilly blast moaned hoarsely around the heavy solid walls of "Sunnybank," and the weird sound of the rustling leaves impressed one with thoughts alike weird and melancholy.

Marguerite Verne sat in the library poring over some accounts. Several letters lay beside her ready for mailing and as she glanced occasionally at the outer door she is evidently awaiting some person.

The suspense is of short duration. A bright cheerful face is soon at her side.

"You dear old coz, have I kept you long waiting?"

"Only two minutes," said Marguerite glancing at her watch, then hanging the pretty bauble within reach added, "Cousin Jennie I believe you are equal to a time piece."

An affectionate embrace was the outcome of the compliment and very soon the apartment looked brighter and more welcome.

The fire in the grate sent up a more cheerful glow as if it were trying to shew its appreciation of the newly arrived guest. In fact all things animate and inanimate tried to do homage to the sweet and cheery Jennie Montgomery.

The willing domestic who had answered Marguerite's summons, had no sooner finished her task than a message was conveyed from Mrs. Verne's chamber requesting Marguerite's immediate presence.

Jennie followed and her presence of mind soon quieted her aunt's violent fit of hysteria, and bathing the aching brows with Florida water coaxed the restless woman into a soft and gentle sleep.

"What would I do without you, darling!" said Marguerite, her eyes filling with tears and then hastily shading her delicate face sought the nurse to make inquiries about her father.

On being advised that it was better not to disturb his restless slumbers she instantly returned to the library.

"It is cosey in here to-day, Madge. Just see how angry the sky appears. How fast the clouds are moving! Look! they seem furious!"

Marguerite having finished her accounts, now looked about for something farther to do.

Her eyes were attracted towards a handsome volume that lay upon the sofa. Its rich cream and gold binding giving a pretty contrast to the elegant upholstering of the said article.

The first words that claimed the girls attention ran:

"Wake maid of Love! the moments fly Which yet, that maiden-name allow; Wake, maiden, wake! the hour is nigh When Love shall claim a plighted vow."

Hitherto Scott had been one of Marguerite's favorite authors, but now she threw down the book as if stung by an adder. Her blood was chilled in her veins, and she seemed as if petrified.

It were well that Jennie Montgomery was busily engaged looking over the broad rows of bookshelves in quest of some thing suitable to her fancy.

It was also well that she found the desired volume and had comfortably seated herself for a good long read.

Cousin Jennie might well be termed a book-worm, for, notwithstanding the fact that she was a clever housekeeper, an industrious handmaid and a skilful needlewoman, no girl had, considering her advantages, been a more extensive reader. She was conversant with many of the standard authors, could discuss freely upon the most abstruse subjects and also kept herself well posted in all the leading events of the day, a fact which goes to prove that there is no woman no matter in what circumstances, but can, if inclined, give some attention to the improvement of the mind, and make herself a fairly intellectual being.

Marguerite's thoughts were painful, indeed. "The hour is nigh," she murmured. Hubert Tracy's letter had arrived, and the well-known lines had doubly recalled the fact.

"Would to heaven that it might never arrive," then suddenly checking the wicked wish the girl exclaimed, "it is so hard to bear. Oh, Heavenly Father, forgive my wicked, sinful heart."

"Madge, whom do you think I met as I was going along Princess street?"

Jennie had now turned towards her cousin. Her honest face was fair to look upon. Its genuineness was stamped in bold characters upon the open brow and reflected in the clear expressive eyes.

"Why, none other than Helen Rushton. She has just arrived from Fredericton where she has been for six weeks. She introduced me to her friend Miss Boynton who is such a nice-looking girl, not a beauty but interesting and very graceful."

"She called a few days after I came home," said Marguerite, "but I was unable to leave papa. Helen is a good girl, Jennie."

"I always liked her," said the latter, putting a little marker in her book, "and I would give anything to have her visit us. Mother seems much interested in her."

"I think that I met Miss Boynton at Mrs. Greene's last winter. Is she not tall and slight with auburn hair and straight regular features, with just enough hauteur to give her an air of quiet dignity?"

"The very same, Madge. You are quite an adept at description," said cousin Jennie with mock gravity. "But I have something worth telling," cried she excitedly, "Louise Rutherford is engaged to Mr. Noyes. It is really true, for Helen told me that she congratulated her, and she did not deny it."

"I expected to hear it before this," said Marguerite somewhat sadly. "They are to be married early next spring and most likely will go to Europe."

Whichsoever way Marguerite directed her thoughts there was always some reminder of her own gloomy prospects.

Louise Rutherford's betrothed was an intimate friend of Phillip Lawson's. Their interests were much in common and in their outward appearance there was a striking resemblance.

"Phillip will be the next!" thought the girl "Ah, yes. Heaven never intended that such a man would not realize his highest and fondest hopes. He will receive the congratulations of friends and I will smile and join the pressing throng, while my heart will ache and throb so wildly. But no human heart ever was so freighted with sorrow that it had not sufficient resisting power. Ah, no." And the soft white palms are folded together as if the speaker had invoked a prayer.

Jennie Montgomery had also been indulging in some speculative thoughts, for she stole softly to her cousin's side, and, putting an arm around the girl's neck, exclaimed, "Madge, darling, I have longed for a good opportunity to say what I wish, and forgive me if I make you feel badly."

Marguerite looked at her companion, and her lips grew deadly pale, but her manner was calm, and not a shade was visible upon the madonna-like face.

"Madge," said Jennie, with excited and wistful gaze, "tell me why you promised to marry Hubert Tracy. I am certain you couldn't love him! Oh, Madge! what has prompted you to do anything so dreadful?"

Marguerite Verne sat like one in some horrible dream, not daring to move lest she might become the victim of some dread Gorgon or Fury.

"Speak, Madge, or you will frighten me to death," exclaimed Jennie, imprinting a warm kiss upon the cold rigid lips.

The effect was electrifying.

"Oh! cousin Jennie, you know all! I will not hide it from you. I am going to marry Hubert Tracy to save my father from the depths of poverty. Poor mamma shall never know what I am suffering for her sake; and if I could make a ten-fold sacrifice, I would do it to bring my darling father back to life and health—but he shall never know—oh no!"

"Marguerite Verne!" exclaimed the excited girl, raising her right hand aloft in wild, appealing gestures, "you will never marry Hubert Tracy! Heaven could not, or would not, allow it. Oh, no, Madge! Heaven could never sanction, such an act. Madge," exclaimed the girl, with all the intensity of her nature, "you are tempting the Almighty."

"Jennie, Jennie! spare me! oh, spare me! have some mercy!" cried Marguerite, sinking at her cousin's feet, and clinging to her with the force of desperation.

"Ask me not Madge. I can have no mercy in your case. Think me cruel as you will, I will always be of the same mind, and mother is indeed, if anything, a great deal harder upon you."

"She surely cannot be if she knew all Jennie," said Marguerite in wild, agonizing tones.

"She blames you for not having sufficient combativeness to oppose the influence brought to bear upon you."