Bressant

"Why, Neelie, dear, what a question! I shall always be the same to you."

"But I feel as if there were going to be something--that something was

going to come between us;" and Cornelia began to droop like a flower

under an icy wind. "You never could hate me, could you, Sophie?"

"Hate you! Neelie! What makes you speak so, dear? I have no misgivings."

"Oh! I don't know--I don't know! it must be because I'm wicked!"

"You wicked, my darling sister! Come," said Sophie, with an earnest

smile, "think only of how much we love each other; let the misgivings

go."

"Yes, we do love each other now, don't we? Whatever happens we'll always

remember that. Good-by, Sophie!" said Cornelia, with a strong hug and a

long kiss.

"Good-by, dear Neelie!"

Cornelia ran down-stairs; her papa had just gone out to the wagon; she

went into Bressant's room, and walked quickly up to the bedside.

"Here's your watch," said she. "I've kept it all safe, and wound it up

and every thing." She had also slept with it under her pillow, and worn

it all day in her bosom, but that she did not mention. She laid it down

on the table as she spoke.

"Have you a watch?" asked Bressant.

"I had one, but it did not go very long. It was very small and pretty

though;" this is the short and pathetic history of most ladies' watches.

"I'd like you to take something of mine with you that you can see and

hear and touch: will you keep this watch?" asked he, fixing his eyes

upon her. There was no time to deliberate; there was nothing she would

like so much; she snatched it up without a word and stuck it into her

belt.

"Good-by!" said she, holding out her hand. Bressant took it, not without

difficulty.

"I wish you were going to stay," said he, gloomily, "I should be more

happy to have you here, than ashamed to need your help."

Cornelia's eyes fell, and there was a tremulousness on her lips that

might mean either smiles or tears. "You'll be glad to see me when I come

back, then, and you are well?"

"You'll be like a beautiful morning when you come," returned he, with a

touch of that picturesqueness that sounded so quaintly coming from him.

All this time he had retained her hand, and now, looking her in the

eyes, he drew it with painful effort toward his lips. Cornelia's heart

beat so she could scarcely stand, and her mind was in a confusion, but

she did not withdraw her hand. Perhaps because he was so pale and

helpless; perhaps the old argument--"it's his way--he don't know it

isn't customary;" perhaps--for this also must have a place--perhaps from

a fear lest he should make no attempt to regain it. She felt his bearded

lips press against it. At the touch, a sudden weakness, a self-pitying

sensation, came over her, and the tears started to her eyes.