"Sentimentalizing, I declare!" she exclaimed, gayly; "and singing that
dreadful song, too! Ugh! it gives me the cold shudders to listen to it!
How can you sing it, Margie, dear?"
"Miss Harrison sang it at my request, Miss Lee," said Trevlyn, gravely,
"it is an old favorite of mine. Shall I not listen to you now?"
Alexandrine took the seat Margie had vacated, and glanced up at the two
faces so near her.
"Why, Margie!" she said, "a moment ago I thought you were a rose, and now
you are a lily! What is the matter?"
"Nothing, thank you," returned Margie, coldly. "I am weary, and will go
home soon, I think."
Trevlyn looked at her with tender anxiety, evidently forgetful that he
had requested Miss Lee to play.
"You are wearied," he said. "Shall I call your carriage?"
"If you please, yes. Miss Lee I am sure will excuse me."
"I shall be obliged to, I suppose."
Trevlyn put Margie's shawl around her, and led her to the carriage. After
he had assisted her in, he touched lightly the hand he had just released,
and said "Good-night," his very accent a blessing.
In February Mr. Trevlyn received a severe shock. His aged wife had been
an inmate of an insane asylum almost ever since the death of her son
Hubert; and Mr. Trevlyn, though he had loved her with his whole soul,
had never seen her face in all those weary years.
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