Marguerite Verne's words were prophetic indeed.
She had remained some moments in utter abstraction when Cousin
Jennie hastily entered telling her that Mr. Lawson had just left and
that her father wished to see her.
"What an early call for Mr. Lawson," thought the girl as she went in
answer to the message.
Mr. Verne's face caused Marguerite to clutch the chair beside her
for support.
"Is he dying!" thought she, "dying, and our clergyman from home. Oh,
if he were here to give us comfort."
But Marguerite was mistaken. Her father's voice was stronger than
usual and his eye kindled with something of the old fervor, then
drawing from beneath his pillow a slip of paper raised it to
Marguerite.
The latter did not faint or indulge in any hysterical outbreaks as
is fashionable on such occasions but quietly read the lines and with
calm composure stood for a moment as if waiting for some one to
speak.
"May God have mercy upon his soul! Poor fellow, he had passed away
ere the letter could have reached its destination."
Mr. Verne spoke these words in a deep reverential air. They were
sacred to the memory of Hubert Tracy.
Poor misguided young man.
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