Bressant

"I'm glad you like the flowers; I didn't know as you cared for such

things. I thought if you were ill they might be pleasant to you. But

you're looking very well, sir, for one who has had so severe an

accident."

"Oh, yes; I'm as well as ever. I've had very good nursing."

"Yes--yes," she said, slowly; "it was better you should be there; you

couldn't have been so well cared for here. I told Professor Valeyon so

at the time. I knew you'd feel happier there--more at home. It's all for

the best--all for the best, in the end." She rattled the keys in her

girdle before proceeding, with a distraught, embarrassed manner:

"By-the-way, you had something more than good nursing to help you to

health, I heard. Is it Cornelia--or Sophie?"

Bressant hesitated and stammered--a weakness he seldom was guilty of,

especially when there was so little reason for it as at present.

"It's--I'm--oh!--Sophie!" said he.

"I heard it was Sophie, but I thought likely as not it was a mistake of

one for another. Sophie," repeated she, musingly, "that sweet, delicate

little angel. Oh, I should fear, I should fear! Cornelia would have been

better--not so sensitive--she can bear more--and who knows?--No; but I

do him wrong; he loves her: she'll be happy; she can't help it!"

Here Abbie became aware that she had been thinking aloud; her hand

sought her mouth, and she glanced apprehensively at Bressant. But he had

evidently heard nothing of the latter part of her speech, which was

spoken in a low tone. He had taken a flower from the bunch on the table,

and was pulling it ruthlessly to pieces. He did not look up. Abbie,

rattling her keys, retired toward the door.

"I'll bid you good-morning, sir. A house-keeper always must be busy, you

know; and, of course, you can't afford to be disturbed. You need never

fear any disturbance from me--never, I assure you. By-the-way, you

received your letter? I gave it to the servant, instead of waiting to

bring it myself, because I thought it might be important."

"Oh, yes, I have it; no--no importance at all. Good-morning."

Abbie walked hurriedly and unevenly to her room, shut herself in, and

fastened the door. She sat down on a chair which stood by the

old-fashioned desk in the corner, and it seemed to her she could not

rise from it again. A faintness was upon her, which she thought might,

perhaps, be death. There was a sensation within her as if a clock had

run down in her head, and had dropped the heavy weight into her heart.

She could feel the paleness of her face, and the drops of moisture on

her forehead. Her breathing was wellnigh imperceptible. She sat quite,

still, in a kind of awful expectation, as if listening for the echoless

footfall of Death. But he passed by on the other side, and left her to

face her life again.