Bressant

The snow-storm continued all that afternoon. The customary hour for

Bressant's visit to the Parsonage went by, and he did not appear. The

professor smoked two extra pipes, and spent half an hour looking out

across the valley trying to discern the open spot upon the top of the

hill. Finally, the early twilight set in, and he returned to his chair,

but felt no impulse to light a lamp and take up a book. He sat tilted

back, pulling Shakespeare's nose with meditative fingers. A gloom

gradually settled over the room, withdrawing one after another of the

familiar objects around him from the old gentleman's sight; it even

seemed to creep into his heart, and create a vague uneasiness there. He

tried to shake it off, telling himself that he was the happiest and most

fortunate old fellow alive; that every thing was coming out just as he

had hoped and prayed it might; that one daughter, with the man of her

choice, would be just far enough removed from his fireside to give

piquancy to the frequent visits he should receive from her; while the

other would still, for a time, continue to pour out sunshine in the

house, and redouble her love for him by way of compensating for what he

should miss in Sophie's absence. And then the professor built an airier

and a fairer castle still: beneath it lay the heavy clouds of suffering,

barren effort, and hope deferred; its sunlit walls were hewn of solid

faith; the banner which floated over the battlements was woven with

white threads of truth; over the arched entrance-gate was written

"Constancy." Yet, fair and lofty as the castle was, the

building-materials were taken from no less homely edifices than the

village boarding-house and his own Parsonage!

By-and-by, however, the vision faded, or else the clouds upon which it

was built rose up and hid it. The professor, returning to himself, found

that he was now surrounded with thick darkness, and, strive as he would,

he could paint no fancies upon it which did not partake more or less of

the character of the background. Sophie seemed to have lost the steady

cheer of her aspect; she was pale and fragile, and every moment took

away yet more of earthly substance, till scarcely any thing but the

faint lustre of her face and form remained. Then, all at once, the

features which had heretofore been only sad, changed into an expression

of horror and torture and despair; and, while the professor, himself

aghast, strained his old eyes to make out more clearly the

half-indistinguishable image, it vanished quite away. But, at the last

moment, it had spoken--at least, the lips bad moved as if in speech,

though no sound had reached the professor's ears; yet he fancied he had

caught a glimmering of the purport. He pressed his hands over his

forehead to shut out the thought, and wondered no longer at the

expression upon Sophie's face.