Bressant

Sophie had never seen Cornelia in hysterics before, and was tortured

with alarm and apprehension. She knew not what to do, for every attempt

she made to relieve her, seemed only to make her worse.

"Let me call papa--he must be somewhere in the house--he will know what

to do!" she said, at last, trembling and white.

"No! no!" cried Cornelia: and the shock of fear lest her father should

see her, overcame the grasp of the hysterical paroxysm. She half raised

herself on one arm, showing her face, red and disfigured, the veins on

the forehead standing out, full and throbbing. "Come back! come back!"

for Sophie had her hand on the door.

She returned, in compliance with her sister's demand, and knelt down

beside her on the floor. Cornelia let herself fall back, her head

resting on Sophie's knee, in a state of complete exhaustion. There she

lay, panting heavily; and a clammy pallor gradually took the place of

the deeply-stained flush. But the fit was over: by-and-by she sat up,

sullenly shunning Sophie's touch, and appearing to shrink even at the

sound of her voice. Finally, she rose inertly to her feet, attempting to

moisten her dry lips, walked once or twice aimlessly to and fro across

the room, and ended by sitting down again upon her stool, and taking up

her sewing.

"Are you all well again, dear?" asked Sophie, timidly.

"Better than ever," replied Cornelia, with a short laugh, which had no

trace of hysteria about it.

There was, however, a slight but decided change in her manner, which did

not pass away: a sort of hardness and impenetrability: and so

incorporated into her nature did these traits seem, that one would have

supposed they had always been there. Some unpleasant visitors take a

surprisingly short time to make themselves at home.

But Sophie, seeing that her sister soon recovered her usual appearance,

did not allow herself to be disturbed by any uncalled-for anxieties.

Love, at its best, has a tendency to absorb and preoccupy those whom it

inspires: if not selfish, it is of necessity self-sufficient and

exclusive. Sophie was too completely permeated with her happiness, to

admit of being long overshadowed by the ills of those less blessed than

herself. Not that she had lost the power to sympathize with misfortune,

but the sympathy was apt to be smiling rather than tearful. She was

alight with the chaste, translucent, wondering joy of a maiden before

her marriage: the delicate, pearl-tinted brightness that pales the

stars, before the reddening morning brings on the broader daylight.

She was not of those who, in fair weather, are on the lookout for rain:

she believed that God had plenty of sunshine, and was generous of it;

and that the possibilities of bliss were unlimited. She was not afraid

to be perfectly happy. A little sunny spot, in a valley, which no shadow

has crossed all day long, was like her: there seemed to be nothing in

her soul that needed shadow to set it right.