"There are worse misfortunes in life, Mrs. Peckaby, than not going to
New Jerusalem on a white donkey."
CHAPTER LXXIII.
A PROPOSAL.
Lionel Verner was seated in the dining-room at Verner's Pride. Not its
master. Its master, John Massingbird, was there, opposite to Lionel.
They had just dined, and John was filling his short pipe as an
accompaniment to his wine. During dinner, he had been regaling Lionel
with choice anecdotes of his Australian life, laughing ever; but not a
syllable had he broached yet about the "business" he had put forth as
the plea for the invitation to Lionel to come. The anecdotes did not
raise the social features of that far-off colony in Mr. Verner's
estimation. But he laughed with John; laughed as merrily as his heavy
heart would allow him.
It was quite a wintry day, telling of the passing autumn. The skies were
leaden-gray; the dead leaves rustled on the paths; and the sighing wind
swept through the trees with a mournful sound. Void of brightness, of
hope, it all looked, as did Lionel Verner's fortunes. But a few short
weeks ago he had been in John Massingbird's place, in the very chair
that _he_ now sat in, never thinking to be removed from it during life.
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