ing which time he had read it through twice--at first hurriedly, the
second time slowly and carefully--had replaced it in the envelop, and
put the envelop in his pocket. Then he sat quite quiet, leaning back in
his chair, his head thrown forward, his under eyelids drawn up, and
contracted around the piercing glance of his eves, his jaws and lips set
tight, and a straight line up his forehead from between his eyebrows. A
more unpleasant and forbidding expression one does not often meet; but,
such as it was, it grew still more stern and unpromising when the door
once more slowly opened, and Abbie appeared upon the threshold.

Nevertheless, he at once rose, and inclined forward his lofty shoulders
in a remarkably courteous bow. Abbie, who showed some traces of
discomposure, and held one finger nervously to her under lip, stepped
into the room, and they shook hands.

"I'm glad to welcome you back," said she, apparently unable to remove
her eyes from his face. "You'll not likely find this place as convenient
as the Parsonage, though."

"It's very pleasant; these flowers are delightful. I wanted to thank you
for them; it seems like home to be here."

"Like home!" repeated Abbie. Her body seemed to bend and sway toward
him, and the outer extremity of the eyebrows drooped a little, giving a
singularly soft and gentle expression to her elderly visage. But seeing
that he only colored, turning his head aside, and fumbling with his
beard, her expression changed into one of constraint, which appeared to
stiffen on her features.

"I'm glad you like the flowers; I didn't know as you cared for such
things. I thought if you were ill they might be pleasant to you. But
you're looking very well, sir, for one who has had so severe an
accident."

"Oh, yes; I'm as well as ever. I've had very good nursing."

"Yes--yes," she said, slowly; "it was better you should be there; you
couldn't have been so well cared for here. I told Professor Valeyon so
at the time. I knew you'd feel happier there--more at home. It's all for
the best--all for the best, in the end." She rattled the keys in her
girdle before proceeding, with a distraught, embarrassed manner:
"By-the-way, you had something more than good nursing to help you to
health, I heard. Is it Cornelia--or Sophie?"

Bressant hesitated and stammered--a weakness he seldom was guilty of,
especially when there was so little reason for it as at present.

"It's--I'm--oh!--Sophie!" said he.