Bressant

But he said nothing more to bring a grave look into the eyes of his

young nurse; and she, finding him so gentle and boyish, and withal manly

and profound, chatted on with more confidence and freedom; and, being

gifted with fineness and accuracy of observation, and a clear flow and

order of language and ideas, made talking a delight and a profit.

There was nothing formal or didactic about Sophie, and her talk rippled

forth as naturally and spontaneously as a brook trickles over its brown

stones, or the over-hanging willows whisper in the wind. There was in it

the unwearied and unweariable freshness of nature. And Sophie's vein of

humor was as fine and pungent as the aroma of a lemon: it touched her

words now and then, and made their flavor all the more acceptable.

So Bressant gained his end at last, though he had yielded it; and this

fact was not lost upon the trained keenness of his observation. After

his nurse was gone, he lay with closed eyes, and a general sensation of

comfort, until he fell asleep. Quiet dreams came to him, such as

children have sometimes, but grown-up people seldom. Everywhere he

seemed to follow a cool, white cloud. But where was Cornelia?