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.
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