back, now thrust
into the pockets of his coat. But there was certainly a noble and a
gentle light upon his features, different from their usual expression of
dazzling intellectual efficiency, different from the passionate fire
which Cornelia's presence had more than once caused to flicker over
them, different even from the purer and deeper illumination which his
love for Sophie sometimes kindled within him. A virtuous act stirs the
soul by its own innate beauty, even when the motive is not all
unselfish. It was probably the first time that precisely such a look had
ever visited Bressant's face; and it was certainly a great pity that no
one but a fat Irish servant-girl should have had the privilege of
beholding it there.

Presently, as he stood facing the door, he saw the latch lifted. The
moment had come. Involuntarily he caught hold of the back of the chair,
and drew in his breath.

Pshaw! only the fat servant again. Bressant bit his lip, stamped his
foot upon the floor, and frowned.

The fat girl met these demonstrations with a fat smile, and extended to
the young man a long, narrow envelop, laid crossways over the dirty palm
of her large, thick hand.

"A letter!" exclaimed she, resuming her apron as soon as her hand was at
liberty. "A letter from New York I'm thinking it is; and sure the
handwriting's a lady's, every bit of it; which I don't know what Miss
Sophie would be after saying if she should hear of it--nay, don't fear
me, sir, that I'd ever have the heart to be telling her of it! And it's
Abbie as fetched it, and the same bid me tell you as how she'd be after
coming up here directly; she'll be cleaning her face first, and
removing her bonnet; which she's always a right neat body, and it's
myself can testify, as has lived with her nine years, and never had
cause to complain, God bless her!"

When Bressant was alone, he sat down in the chair, with the letter
between his fingers. On such slight hinges do our destinies turn. If
Abbie had neglected to call at the post-office, or if she had been
satisfied to give the letter to the young man herself, instead of
sending it to him five minutes beforehand, or if the writing of the
letter had been delayed a few hours (how many _ifs_ there always are in
such cases!), Bressant would have had a far different fate, and this
story would never have been written. But as it was, five fatal minutes
intervened between the delivery of the letter and Abbie's appearance,
dur