Bressant

"Do you remember seeing a lady there," continued the professor, talking

and looking straight at nothing, "who made a great deal of you and

Sophie, and asked you to call her Aunt Margaret?"

"Oh--I believe--I do--," said Cornelia, slowly; "I think I didn't like

her much, because she was deaf or something, and talked in such a high

voice. She wasn't really our aunt, was she? Did she write the letter?"

"Yes, she did, my dear, and invites you and Sophie to spend the summer

with her. You don't dislike her so much as to refuse, I suppose, do

you?"

"O papa!" exclaimed his daughter, deprecatingly; for the old gentleman

had spoken rather in a tone of reproof. "I'm sure she's as kind and good

as she can be; I was only telling what I especially remembered about

her, you know. How did she come to think of us after so long?"

"I used to know her quite well, long before you were born, my dear,"

replied the professor, tapping with his fingers on the arm of the chair;

"and at that time I should not have been surprised at her offering me

any kindness. I am surprised now," he added, with a good deal of

feeling; "she's a better friend than I thought."

Cornelia remained silent for several moments, because, not in the least

comprehending what sort of ground her papa was walking on, she feared

that the questions and remarks she was anxious to advance might jar with

his mood. At length, a sufficient time having elapsed to warrant, in her

opinion, the introduction of intelligible topics, she looked up and

spoke again.

"How soon, papa--how soon did you say--am I to go?"

"First of July, Aunt Margaret says. Will that give you time enough to

make yourself fine?"

"Now, papa, you're making fun of me," exclaimed the young lady,

delighted that he should be in the humor to do so, yet speaking in that

semi-reproachful tone which ladies sometimes adopt when the other sex

makes their costume the object of remark, "I can make myself as fine as

I can be by that time, of course! But how is it about Sophie? Won't she

be able to go too?"

Papa shook his head, and combed his bristly white beard with his

fingers. "Sophie has been very ill," said he; "it wouldn't be safe to

have her go anywhere this summer. We can't take too much care of her.

Typhoid pneumonia is a dangerous thing, and though she's on the way to

recovery now, she might easily relapse. And then," added the old

gentleman, in a more inward tone, "she would recover no more."

Although he mumbled this sentence to himself, Cornelia caught his

meaning, more, probably, from his manner than from any thing she heard;

and being of an emotional and warmly-tender disposition, she began to

cry. She loved her sister very much; and something must also be allowed

to the fact that, having a great happiness in prospect for herself, she

could afford to expend more sympathy on those less fortunate. As for the

professor, he, for a second time that afternoon, gave evidence of

possessing disgracefully little control over himself. He began another

fruitless search after his handkerchief, and finally asked Cornelia,

with some heat, whether she knew what had become of it.