After this little speech, Sophie became very silent, being, in truth,
too weak and worn out to speak or move, save at long, and ever longer,
intervals. All that night, Professor Valeyon carried an aching and
mistrustful heart; but Cornelia had a red spot in either cheek, never
fading nor shifting. Sophie appeared to wander several times, murmuring
something about darkness, and snow, and deadly weariness. A snow-storm
had set in toward evening, and lasted until daybreak, a circumstance
which seemed to cause Sophie considerable anxiety.
By ten o'clock all the preparations were made according to Sophie's
wish, and there was nothing to do but to wait. Cornelia sat brooding
with folded arms, and the feverish spots on her cheeks. Occasionally she
restlessly varied her position, seldom allowing her eyes to stray around
the room, however, save that once in a while they sought Sophie's
colorless, ethereal face, as a thirsty soul the water. The professor
stood much at the window, and once or twice he imagined he caught a
glimpse, somewhere down the road, of a darkly-clad woman's figure; but
she never came nearer, and he decided it must be a hallucination of his
fading eyes.
Eleven o'clock struck from the little ormolu timepiece. A few moments
afterward Sophie stirred slightly as she lay, and the professor and
Cornelia listened breathlessly for what she would say.
She lifted her heavy lids, and turned her eyes, a little dimmer now than
heretofore, but steady and confident, first on her father, then on her
sister.
"Till noon--remember!" said she.
Nothing more was heard, after that, but the hasty ticking of the little
ormolu clock, as its hands traveled steadily around the circle.