Bressant

"Cornelia Valeyon is her name," said he, and then, as she remained

rigid, he bent forward, with a whispered laugh, and kissed her on the

face.

"There! now we belong to each other--a good match, aren't we? Quick!

now; run into the house, and get your things on. You must walk home with

me, and we'll arrange every thing. Go! I shall wait for you here."

She reentered the house, cold and dizzy, just as her partner arrived

with the coffee. She explained--what scarcely needed to be told--that

she felt faint: she must go up-stairs. In three minutes she had put her

satin-slippered feet into a pair of water-proof overshoes, pinned up

her trailing skirts, thrown on her long wadded mantle, with sleeves and

hood, and had got down-stairs again before "assistance" could arrive.

All the time, there was a burning and tingling where his lips had been,

but she would not put up her hand to touch the spot, and relieve the

sensation. It was, in a manner, sacred to her; albeit the sanctity was

largely mingled with bewilderment, remorse, and fear. When she came out,

Bressant was standing where she had left him, tossing a couple of

snow-balls from one hand to another. He dropped them as she approached,

and brushed the snow from his gloves. She took the arm he offered

her--timidly, and yet feeling that it was all in the world she had to

cling to. It was true--by that kiss she belonged to him, for it had made

her a traitor to all else on whom she had hitherto had a claim. Yet upon

how different a footing did they stand with one another from that which

she had prefigured to herself! This was he whom she was to have brought

vanquished to her feet! With one motion of his strong, masculine hand he

had swept away all her fine-spun cobwebs of opportunity and method, and

had laid his clutch upon the very marrow of her soul. But though she had

lost the command, she was party, if not principal, to the guilt. It was

he who had taken fire from her.

"You remember last summer," said he, "that night when an arch was in the

sky? We didn't understand one another then, and I didn't understand

myself. But, during the last day or two, I've been thinking it all over.

I've had too good an opinion of myself all along."

"What is it that you've been thinking?" asked Cornelia, feeling

repelled, and yet driven, by a piteous necessity, to know all the

contents, good or bad, of this heart which was her only possession.

"Of all that had been said or done this last half-year. There's nothing

you care for more than me, is there?" he demanded, concentrating the

greatest emphasis into the question.