Bressant

"As for the stolen money," the boy continued, "all you have to do about

that is, to let it alone; it is safe, and will be cared for. But you

must go straight to the Parsonage. Your marriage-day is Sunday; be sure

you are there by noon. It may be you will not find Sophie there; but she

will leave a gift for you, at any rate, and you must be in time to claim

it."

"But how can I ask Sophie's forgiveness, and the professor, and

Cornelia?"

"Trust wholly in Sophie," returned the other, with an accent of loving

reproof, "never doubt her love and forgiveness. You must make your peace

with the professor as best you can; but perhaps he has found that to

forgive in himself which will enable him to be more charitable to you.

As for Cornelia, she and you must recompense each other for the evil you

have mutually wrought upon each other."

"How recompense each other?" questioned Bressant, in surprise; "it was

not a high nor a true love that we felt for each other; it was a love of

the passions and senses."

"Therefore let it be the work of your lives--a work of penitence and

punishment--to elevate and refine your love, which has been degraded,

until it become worthy of the name of love in its highest sense. You

have lowered each other, and now each must help to raise the other up.

The work can be delegated to no one else."

"But Sophie," murmured Bressant, pressing his hand over his eyes.

"Sophie is lost to you," responded his companion, with a tremulous sigh.

"Perhaps if you had kept yourself pure and true through all temptations,

she might have been yours. But you failed, and every failure must bring

its loss. The air of such a love as that is too fine for you to breathe

now; you could not be happy nor at ease; but do not grieve for her--only

mourn for your own deterioration, and strive faithfully, and with

constant effort, to make it good. Sophie--she will be happier, and

better cared for, than, as your wife, she could ever have been."

"But I shall go back to poverty and disgrace, and perhaps to hatred!"

"The evil you have done will be a clog upon you; but its very weight

will assure you that your face is turned toward heaven. Life will never

be to you what you dreamed of making it six months ago. You will find it

hard and practical, weary and monotonous; but once in a while, perhaps,

you will catch a breath of air from heaven itself, and will be

refreshed, or a ray of its light will glimmer on your path, and show you

where to tread. The end may be a long way off, but you cannot say you

have no chance of reaching it."