And now let us turn to Mr. Verne, who is in a sad state of physical prostration.

The financial storm which overhung his daily prospect has at last swooped down upon him in merciless fury, hurling down every hope that hitherto buoyed him up and whispered encouraging words as he struggled on.

Mr. Verne had shut himself in his private apartments and asked that he might be left alone.

But ere long he was besieged by interviewers. Reporters, anxious to give the full benefit of the sad disaster to the clamoring public, who must know to a farthing the amount of the liabilities, and, of course, the assets.

But before "morning wore into evening" Mr. Verne had the comforting assurance of a sympathetic heart. Mrs. Montgomery had a telegram conveying news of the assignment, and in a few hours she was at home in "Sunnybank," trying every means within her power to console her stricken brother-in-law.

"It will never do to allow him to give up in this manner," said the true-hearted woman in a conversation with an old and tried friend of the family. "Something must be done to rouse him."

On the same evening a Globe containing the news of the failure was handed to Mr. Verne as he sat with bowed head gazing mechanically at the list of figures before him. The notice was favorable to the man of business. It spoke of the sterling integrity of Stephen Verne, and showed that the disastrous crash was from circumstances over which he had no control.

The cause of the assignment, it said, was due to the uncertainty of the moneys due him. The liabilities were large, but the assets would nearly cover them, and one thing was certain, the estate would not hold back one cent.

"Thank God," cried Mr. Verne as he threw down the paper and once more folded his arms across his breast, looking, as indeed he was, a total physical wreck.

But human charity is not common to the general public, nor among the weaker sex.

"What will the Vernes do now without their grand carriages and retinue of servants? That stuck up old Mrs. Verne will have to go into the work herself, and do as other people, and not be sticking on any more airs or she will get snubbed up pretty often."

"Yes, and I wonder how she will manage her trains now going through the kitchen when it was almost impossible for her to get along the aisle in Trinity."

"Pride always has a fall," chimed in another.

It was indeed a noteworthy fact that throughout the whole range of uncharitable remarks made upon the matter not one syllable was uttered against Marguerite.

On the contrary she excited the compassion of the most callous- hearted. "Poor Marguerite, she will feel it bitterly."

"Yes, most of all, for she loved her father dearly. It will almost break her heart to see him looking so ill."

"It was none of her doings I assure you. I have seen much of Miss Verne, and have learned that her tastes are of the most simple kind, and if she had her own way they would have lived in a more quiet style than that of Sunnybank."

The speaker was an intelligent woman of the middle class, whose business brought her in daily contact with the young lady, and she had thus formed a correct opinion of her.

Mrs. Montgomery did not wish to intrude upon the privacy of the stricken man, but she saw that he must be aroused from his apathy.

"It will kill him sooner or later," thought she, "but he must live to see a change for the better."

"Stephen, you have not written Matilda. It is better that she should know at once," said the woman, taking a seat beside her brother-in-law, and placing her hand upon his shoulder as gently as if he were an infant.

"God bless you, Hester, I am not alone; I yet have warm friends, let the world say what it will."

Mr. Verne's frame shook with emotion, and the tears stood in his eyes—a pitiable sight to the friend beside him.

"The world may say that you are an unfortunate man, Stephen, but it cannot say that you are a dishonest one," said the woman, cheerily; "and remember, Stephen," added she, "it is partly to the delinquency of others that you owe this."

"True, indeed, Hester," said Mr. Verne, brightening up, "had they given me time I would have redeemed every dollar of my common debts, but as it is now, every cent's worth of property I own shall go into the assignee's possession as assets, for the benefit of each and every creditor."

"Why, then, take such a gloomy view of the affair, Stephen? Hundreds have been in the same position and came out all right in the end, and I see no reason why you should form an exception."

"That is true enough, Hester, but I feel that I am going downward." And as Mr. Verne spoke he shut his teeth very firmly as if suffering intense pain.

Mrs. Montgomery was quick to detect the cause, but she made no comment upon it.

Prom the woman's heart went up a fervent prayer that Heaven would avert the threatening blow, and that quiet and content would yet reign in the now desolate home.

It was only by the utmost persuasion that Mr. Verne could be induced to eat a morsel of food.

"You are doing yourself a great injustice, Stephen. Think what you owe to your family. Think of Marguerite. Surely you will break her heart."

"Ah, Hester, you have spoken truly. I must bear up for the sake of my child; but oh God, it is hard to be branded in the eyes of the world as a rogue and a scoundrel. Mothers will curse me, and the orphan's wail will haunt me throughout time and eternity!"

Once more Mr. Verne placed his hand against his breast as if to ease the spasmodic pain which had then seized him.

"He is going fast," murmured Mrs. Montgomery, as she noted the livid lips and pallid face that followed the spasm.

"This cup of coffee will tempt anybody, and the rolls are delicious; just taste one, Stephen."

"I was thinking of my darling child, Hester; how do you think she will bear the news? And to think of her being exposed to the scoffs of the world. Hester, I can stand anything but that," and the groans that followed were agonizing.

"Stephen, I have more faith in Marguerite than you have. If you think she will mope and worry herself to death you are sadly mistaken." Then in assuring tones added, "I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Stephen, but I firmly believe that as regards the financial trouble, Marguerite will not care a straw. She is not one of your namby-pamby girls, whom you could dress up and put under a glass case to look at. No, Marguerite is a rational, human being, capable of taking her place in the world, and looking misfortune in the face with a determination to succeed in whatever she may attempt."

"Hester, you are a student of human nature. You are capable of judging aright. God grant that my child may meet this trouble as you predict," said Mr. Verne, as he tried to swallow the food which had been so temptingly prepared by the ministering angel who now strove to make smooth the hard, rough pathway over which he now daily trod.

It was Mrs. Montgomery's hard, strong hand, that penned the lines conveying the news to Marguerite. "I11 news comes soon enough." was the former's remark, "and we can afford to await the next mail."

As the important missive is on its way across the broad waters of the Atlantic, let us take the liberty of intruding upon the privacy of the mother and daughter who are still occupying their handsome suite of apartments in Picadilly Square.

Marguerite had returned from "Ivy Cottage," the pretty little home of the Stanhope family, feeling much stronger and looking brighter and more cheerful.

"Mamma," exclaimed the girl looking intently into the handsome face.
"I have been thinking so much of home lately that it seems as if I
had room for no other thoughts, and, oh, you cannot imagine how much
I want to see papa."

Marguerite made a striking picture reclining beside her mother, and one arm resting on her knee. Her delicate morning wrapper lay in graceful folds around her, and reminded one of the draperies of a Venus de Medici.

What a world of expression was in the violet eyes as they pleaded for the return to the dreary cheerless home. What a depth of meaning lay in the purely oval face so beautifully defined in every lineament. What nature could withstand Marguerite Verne's entreaties?

"My dear, I am thinking just as much about home as you are, but I keep it to myself. It is impossible for us to go for another month, and you know we have promised Sir Arthur to make a visit at his country seat—a beautiful spot I am told."

"Surely mamma, you did not expect me to go there. I cannot endure the thoughts of coming in contact with that disagreeable man," and Marguerite shrugged her shoulders in unaffected disgust.

"Marguerite, I am ashamed to think that I have a child capable of such ingratitude. It is enough for Evelyn to become obstinate and oppose me in everything, but, really, I did not expect it of you."

At this point Mrs. Verne became deeply affected, and very much inclined to cry, but she thought such a course inopportune and availed farther provocation.

"Has Eve been here lately, mamma," asked Marguerite, suddenly.

"If you have any respect to me please don't mention her to me again, Madge. I have done everything for that girl that a fond, idolized mother could do, and what is my reward? Base ingratitude of the worst kind. Talk of mothers; what do they live for; and Mrs. Verne stood with clenched hands, looking, indeed, a living representation of one of the Three Furies.

"Mamma, dear, do not look like that, I cannot bear to see you thus," cried Marguerite, catching hold of the fold of the cashmere gown and attempting to draw her mother towards her.

"I cannot help it, Madge, when my children are so disobedient. Surely you cannot have forgotten the teachings of that Book, which says, 'Children obey your parents in the Lord' for this is the first commandment with promise. Oh, it is so hard to think that my children have such unchristian spirits."

"Come mamma, let us think of something else for a little while, and then we will both act differently," said Marguerite, trying to appear more cheerful than the circumstance would admit.

"I may just as well tell you once for all, Madge, that nothing will conciliate me but your acceptance of Sir Arthur's kind invitation which we can forward without delay."

Marguerite remained in silence for some moments. She was sorely tried, yet she brought reason to bear upon every point at issue. "If I go," reasoned she, "Sir Arthur will think that I give him encouragement, and that would be acting dishonestly, and again if I do not go mamma will have her feelings so deeply outraged that I fear the consequence. Oh! that I were once more in the protecting arms of my dear, dear father." The girl then thought of the lonely, silent man, plodding on so patiently amid the daily straggles of life, and her heart went out in deep fervent sympathy.

Presently her mind was made up. Going straight to her mother's dressing room, whither the latter had retreated in a state bordering on madness, Marguerite threw her arms out in imploring gesture and stood for a moment, then exclaimed between tears and sobs, "Mamma, do not judge me harshly, I want to do what is right—but it is so hard."

Mrs. Verne saw that her daughter was relenting, and uttered not a word.

"Mamma, dear, give me time and I will prove a dutiful daughter." She was going to say more when a servant entered with a note, which from its negligent appearance was evidently written in much haste. It was from Mrs. Montague Arnold, and contained only a few hurried sentences, so unintelligible that Marguerite did not attempt to interpret them.

"I will go at once, mamma," said the latter, "and see what is the trouble. Poor Eve, she seems always in some fuss."

As Mr. Arnold's residence was only a short distance, Marguerite was there in a very few minutes after the delivery of the note.

"Oh, Madge, how can I tell you; I know it will break your heart. Oh, poor papa? Oh! Madge—is it not dreadful?"

"What do you mean, Eve?" cried Marguerite, her ashen face sufficient proof of the shock she had already undergone. "Speak, Eve; for heaven's sake tell me the worst. Is papa dead?"

"Oh worse than that, Madge—worse than that. Death is nothing in comparison!"

"Eve, I cannot stand this horrible suspense; for mercy sake, I implore you tell me the truth," cried the girl, her bosom heaving wildly and her limbs trembling so that she had to grasp the mantel beside her for support.

Mrs. Arnold then pulled the bell-rope and a servant, or rather page, answered the summons.

"Bring me that package of letters lying on the small cabinet in my boudoir," said she, with as much nonchalance as if nothing of any importance occupied her thoughts.

The boy returned and presented the desired package on a small and unique silver salver, lined with gold and enamel.

"Here it is, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, passing a somewhat lengthy telegram into the girl's hand.

The latter run her eye hastily over the contents and turned deathly pale. "Poor, dear, papa!" were all the words she could say, when an icy chill ran through the delicate frame, and the tender-hearted daughter fell into a deadly swoon.

Mrs. Arnold did feel something akin to pity when she saw the graceful form prostrate at her feet, and as she stooped down and took the cold hand in hers, murmured "poor little Madge—you were not fashioned for this decidedly calculating world. Your heart is too tender—far too tender."

"You must be brave, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, on seeing Marguerite restored to something of her former self. "I'm afraid you would be more of a drawback to papa at present than a help."

But Marguerite was of a different opinion. "Oh! if I were only near him, to comfort him," thought she, "I could indeed do something. My sadness to-day was but a presentiment of this. Oh, dear! will I ever see papa alive again!"

"Papa will be all right, Madge. It is to yourself you must now look, for more depends upon you now than you at present realize."

"You speak in enigmas, Eve. Tell me what you mean," cried
Marguerite, in a bewildered sort of way.

"I will wait until you are a little stronger, Madge. Go home now and tell mamma what has happened; I know she will act like a sensible woman. You know, Madge, she is always composed. I verily believe," added Mrs. Arnold, "that mamma would feel at ease if all the friends she had committed suicide, or died from some fearful epidemic."

"Don't talk about mamma in that way, Eve; I cannot bear to listen."

Mrs. Arnold thought just then that the girl would listen to something, perhaps to her, far more disagreeable, but she held her peace.

Poor Marguerite. All prospect of happiness had now fled from her vision. She saw instead sorrow, disappointment, and, perhaps, death. "If papa survives the shock I will face the world, and, amid poverty, and the slights of my former companions, I will toil—yes, I will work at anything that I can do in honesty." And with this high resolve Marguerite set forth to break the sad news to her worldly-minded mother.