But Phillip Lawson was not a mind reader. He could not divine the
thoughts that were passing through Jennie Montgomery's ready and
active brain. But one thing he did know, that in this warm-hearted
girl he had a true friend.
When Marguerite returned to her home a vague, undefined feeling took
possession of her, and gladly would she have given herself up to
this feeling, and indulged in a good, old-fashioned, time-honored
cry.
She felt a sudden pang of remorse. She thought of the lost
opportunities when she might have had a stronger hold upon the
sympathies of her elder sister.
"Poor Eve," murmured the girl, "she was less to blame than I. We
have never had each other's confidence. I hope she will try to love
Montague as a woman should love her husband. How I should like to
ask mamma what she thinks; but what is the use. She will say it is
one of the best matches of the season, and no doubt she will end by
advising me as to her anxiety--on my behalf. Oh, dear! why cannot we
live in a state of blissful oblivion?"
The miniature bronzed clock on the mantel-shelf caused Marguerite to
look up.
"Four o'clock--dear me; I wish this afternoon was over.
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