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.
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