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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sorting 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 pa.s.sed 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 x.x.xVII.

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.