Bressant

The old gentleman, in dressing-gown and slippers, came thumping hastily

down-stairs, in response to Bressant's summons. The strange solemnity in

the latter's tone, no less than the ominousness of the hour, probably

gave him premonition of some disaster. He reached the threshold of the

room, and paused a moment there, settling his spectacles with trembling

fingers, and looking from one silent face to another. The room was

lighted only by the declining moon, which shone coldly through the

windows. The bed, and that which was on it, were in shadow. In an

instant or two, however, the professor's eyes made the discovery to

which none of those who stood about had had the nerve to help him. And

then the old man proved himself to be the most stout-hearted of them

all. He only said "Sophie" in a voice so profoundly indrawn as scarcely

to be audible; then walked unfalteringly across the room, bent over the

bed, and proceeded to examine whether there were yet life in his

daughter or not. Even the moonlight seemed to wait and listen.

"Bring a candle," said be, presently, breaking the awful silence.

Cornelia brought it, and the warmer light inspired a sickly flicker of

hope into the expectant faces. The little ormolu-clock on the

mantel-piece whirred, and struck half-past one. As the ring of the last

stroke faded away, Professor Valeyon raised himself, and turned his face

toward the others. So strongly did his soul inform his harsh and

deeply-lined features, that it seemed, for a moment, as if there were a

majestic angel where he stood.

"Be of good cheer," quoth the old man--for no smaller words than those

which Christ had spoken seemed adequate to clothe his thought; "she is

not dead; we shall hear her speak again."

Bressant threw up his arms, as if about to shout aloud; but only gave

utterance to a gasping breath, and, stepping backward, leaned heavily

against the wall, near the door. Cornelia, standing in the centre of the

room, broke into quivering, lingering sobs, opening and clinching her

hands, which hung at her side. Bill Reynolds, however, being overcome

with joy, at once gave intelligible manifestation of it.

"Good enough!" cried he, slapping his leg, and looking from one to

another with a giggle of relief. "Bully for her! Bless you, I knew

Sophie Valeyon warn't dead. Speak again! I believe you. She'll tell us

what's the matter, I guess."

Professor Valeyon rapidly and collectedly gave his directions as to what

steps were to be taken, and in a few minutes every thing was being done

that skill could do. Snow was brought in to encourage back the life it

had dismayed, and camphor and coffee awaited their turn to take part in

the resuscitation. Slow and reluctant it was, like dragging a dead

weight up from an unknown depth. More than another hour had passed away

before Sophie's eyelids quivered, and a slight tremor moved her lips.

By-and-by she opened her eyes, slowly and uncertainly, let them close

again, and once more opened them; and, after several inaudible efforts,

there came, like an echo from an immeasurable distance, one word, twice

repeated: "Bressant! Bressant!"