Marguerite Verne | Page 3

else from one who cares so little for the opinions of others, and
lives only in sight of all the old half-crazed poets and fanatics of the
Dark Ages."
Marguerite durst not look toward the speaker, lest her quizzical
expression might heap further assault upon her; so she sat quietly
regarding a favorite print that hung over the mantelshelf. After a few
moments silence, Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and arose to go,
when Marguerite felt a rising sensation in her throat, and instantly

rushed into her sister's arms. "Eve, dearest, I know you are
disappointed in not going out this evening, and I am sorry; can you not
believe me?"
Evelyn Verne was a beauty--beautiful as an houri, imperial as
Cleopatra, but merciless as a De Medicis. She was a true woman of the
world; self was the only shrine at which she worshipped; and if indeed
she could feel a momentary sympathetic chord, surely Marguerite was
the cause. The piercing black eyes send forth a flash that is electrifying,
then fix themselves upon her companion. She is perhaps struggling
between pride and duty, and it costs her a heavy sacrifice. As she gazes
upon that sweet, soulful face she is almost tempted to become a nobler
and better being; but the world has too heavy a hold upon her, and
slightly pressing a kiss upon Marguerite's cheek, she takes leave
without saying another word. As the latter listens to the rustle of the
silken train through the spacious hall and stairway, she heaves a deep
sigh, and once more seats herself beside her desk. On the pages of the
little book she pens thoughts worthy of such a soul, and worthy of the
memorable eve--worthy of the dying moments of the year which had
been her friend, her comforter and her hope. She could look back
without many regrets. The hours had not been misspent, and she could
say: "Old Year, I used you well. Now that you are nearly gone I will
not regret, but try, with God's help, to welcome in your child."
Marguerite sat thus while the clock struck twelve, when she buried her
face in her hands and remained in thoughtful silence--a feeling too
reverential for words, as something too sacred for intruding upon.
And now the New Year had been welcomed in. The moon, in all her
majesty, witnessed the solemn pageant; and unseen choristers wafted
the tidings from pole to pole.
"Another year," murmured Marguerite, as she gently raised the
casement and looked out upon the beauty of the scene. Queen Square,
studded with tributes to the Loyalists, was peaceful as the grave.
Beyond was the calm, blue water of the harbor; while here and there a
white sail upon its bosom added to the effect. Peace reigns over the city,
and the lights have at last disappeared from the Verne mansion. Let us

take the liberty to mention a few facts that may be necessary ere we
proceed further.
The Vernes belonged to a genteel and respectable family. They did not
lay claim to an aristocratic ancestry, but for generations could reckon
on a spirit of proud independence and honest worth. Mr. Verne was a
man of honor and sound principles in every sense of the word; and he
always tried to inculcate those principles in the minds of his children. If
he daily saw in his first-born traits of character which he openly
condemned and censured, there stood in bold relief upon his heart the
pure, high and noble character of his delicate Marguerite. Nor was he to
be disappointed in the younger scions of the family. Fred. Verne was a
noble, manly boy of fifteen, and gave promise of being a good and
upright citizen; while the precocious Charlie, despite the daily amount
of spoiling received in the domestic circle, was a clever little fellow, as
ready with an answer as he was ready for his daily supply of chocolate
caramels.
Mr. Verne had married when very young, and was still in the prime of
manhood. He was not handsome; but an intelligent, open countenance
was the most pleasing attraction in his face. One could look upon him
the second time without a feeling of dislike or even indifference.
But there is another important personage of whom we must make
mention--the mistress of the Verne mansion. She is, to say it in as few
words as possible, an out-and-out woman of the world--one who never
says or does anything without considering what will be the world's
opinion of her, and one who never says or does anything unless there
be some selfish motive at the bottom of it; one who lives only for the
gratification of her own selfish ends, so far as her friends and family
are concerned, and whose