Sophie did not stay long in the invalid's room after the awakening they
had undergone with respect to one another. She went instinctively to her
father's study, and, entering the open door, kissed the old man ere he
was well aware of her presence. He took her affectionately upon his
knee, and hugged her up to him with homely tenderness.
"My precious little daughter!" quoth he; "what would your old father do
without you?"
"Am I so much to you, papa?" asked she, with her cheek resting upon his
shoulder.
"Very much--very much, Sophie: too much, perhaps; for I don't see how I
could bear to lose you."
"Do you mean to have me die, papa?"
"How is your sick boy getting along?" returned the professor, clearing
his throat, and not seeming to hear his daughter's words.
Sophie caught a breath, and paled a little at the thought of the news
she had to tell about the sick boy. Her father had just told her she was
precious to him, and she felt that to be married might involve a
separation virtually as complete as that of death, and perhaps harder to
bear. But, again, she needed his sympathy and approval: and, sooner or
later, he must hear the truth. She was not, perhaps, aware that
etiquette should have closed her lips upon the subject until after
Bressant had spoken to the professor; at all events, she had no
intention of delegating or postponing her confidence.
"He seemed quite well when I left him. I have been having a--talk with
him, papa."
"He begins to show the effects of being talked to by you, my dear.
You're a wise little woman in some ways, that's certain! and have done
him good in more ways than one," said papa, with parental complacency.
Sophie shrank at this, remembering how lately she had fed herself with
the same idea. She had learned a great deal about herself since
discovering how little of herself she knew.
"He is a--man!" said she, trying to throw into the word an expression of
its best and loftiest meaning. "I can do very little to help him."
"Hope to see him a man some day, my dear," returned the professor,
gathering his eyebrows. "Has a great many faults at present. Why, in
some respects, he's as ignorant and inexperienced as a child. Very
one-sided affair still, I fear, that soul of his!"
"One-sided, papa?"
"Yes: don't believe it would carry him very far toward heaven, as it is
now," said the old gentleman, whose severity of judgment was cultivated
in this instance as a preservative against possible disappointment. "He
needs melting in a crucible."
"What does that mean?"
"If you weren't a wise little woman, as I said, I shouldn't be talking
about my pupil's character and management with you, my dear. But I can
trust you as well as if you were forty;" and here he gave her another
little hug, which made Sophie feel like a receiver of stolen goods.
"Well, now, theorizing won't do a young fellow like that much good. He
needs something real--that he can take hold of, and that'll take hold of
him. You and I can't give it him--not more than an impetus in the right
direction, at any rate. But the only thing that can make his future
tolerably secure--make it safe to count upon him (or upon any other man,
for that matter), is for him to fall heartily and soundly in love, in
the old-fashioned way, and with a strong-hearted, worthy woman."