Bressant

Bressant raised himself at her approach, and stood with one hand

against the railing, looking down upon her with a half-smile of interest

and satisfaction, which made Cornelia feel not so much like a human

being, as some rare natural curiosity which he was glad to have the

opportunity of examining.

"You are one of the daughters?" said he, with the sudden scrutinizing

contraction of the eyebrows that often accompanied his questions. "There

are two, aren't there? Which one are you?"

"I'm Cornelia," replied she, provoked, as the words left her mouth, that

she had not said "Miss Valeyon." But the question had surprised her out

of her presence of mind, and the necessity of speaking loud, if nothing

else, hindered her from making the correction.

"Is the other any thing like you?" resumed he, after a moment's more

contemplation, which, spite of its directness, had in it a certain

element of unsophisticatedness that prevented it from seeming rude.

"Who, Sophie?" exclaimed the young lady, bursting forth into an

unexpected gurgle of laughter, to which Bressant at once responded in

kind, though having no idea what the merriment was about. "I wish you

could see her! There couldn't be a greater difference if I was a negro!"

The laugh died away in Bressant's eyes, and he pressed his hand rapidly

down over his face, as if to sharpen his wits, or clear away cobwebs.

"That's natural," he remarked, reflectively. "I never saw any thing like

you."

"If he'd said 'any body,'" thought Cornelia, "I should have said he

meant to compliment. How funny he is! just like a boy in some ways. I

believe I know more than he does, after all!"

"Have you any sisters, Mr. Bressant?" asked she aloud, looking up at him

with more cordiality and confidence than she had yet felt or shown.

"Not any. I should think it would be a good thing. Do you like it?"

"Of course; but then I am a sister myself, so it don't apply," said

Cornelia, with the sunshine of another laugh. It was delightful to look

at her at such times; every part of her partook of the merriment, so

that her hands, feet, and waist, might all be said to laugh for

themselves. Cornelia could express a great deal more in a bodily than in

a spiritual way. Her material self, indeed, seemed so completely and

bounteously endowed as to leave little place or occasion for a soul. The

warm, rounded, fragrant, wholesome personality which met the eye,

satisfied it; the harmonious tumult of life, that thrilled in every

movement, was contentment to the other perceptions; the thought of a

soul, bringing with it that other of death, was cold and inconsistent.

Such mortal perfection loses its full effect, unless we can look upon it

as physically immortal: as soon as we begin to refine our ideas into the

abstract, we sully our enjoyment.