It matters not." And putting on his great coat
Phillip Lawson made his way down town and as he strode along at a
rapid gate we were not surprised to hear one of the "oldest
inhabitants" remark "Gracious! what a fine strapping fellow that
young Lawson has got to be. I bet he'd turn the scales at one
hundred and eighty."
The evening of the same day another scene is before us.
A graceful figure is seated beside the grate of the neat, cosey
parlor which we have hitherto admired.
A deep blush rises upon the maiden's cheek as she turns over the
leaves of the handsome volume lying in her lap. What causes that
blush? What latent property lies hid in a withered moss rose? What
beauty to arrest a maiden's eye?
These are questions to be decided by the fair ones who perhaps in
like manner have treasured away, far from human eyes, a few, petals
of a withered rose or perhaps "only a pansy blossom."
Ah, the tell tale crimson that will betray Marguerite in spite of
all her grand theories of will power!
"It is Phillip!" and the rapid beat of that uncontrollable organ
sends the crimson flood surging over the marble brow with redoubled
force.
"Pardon my coming to-night, Miss Verne.
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