oking the valley, which moon and snow together lit up into a sort
of phantom daylight. The moon hung aloft, directly above their heads,
and the narrow circumference of their shadows, lying close at their
feet, were mingled indistinguishably together. Cornelia, in the energy
of her appeal, had stopped walking, and the two stood, for a moment,
looking at one another. Seen from a few yards' distance, they would have
made a supremely beautiful and romantic picture.

The stately poise of Bressant's gigantic figure--the slight inclination
of his head and shoulders toward Cornelia--presented an ideal model for
a tender and protecting lover. She, in form and bearing, the incarnation
of earthly grace and symmetry, her lovely upturned face revealed in
deep, soft shadows and sweet, melting lights, her rounded fingers
interlaced across his arm, her bosom lifting and letting fall
irregularly the cloak that lay across it--what completer embodiment
could there be of happy, self-surrendering, trusting, young womanhood?
And what were the fitly-spoken words--the apples of gold in this picture
of silver?

"Cornelia," said Bressant, throwing aside the levity, as well as the
underlying passion, of his tone, and speaking with a slightly impatient
coldness, "don't you begin to be a fool as soon as I leave it off. You
may call what joins us together love, if you like, but it's not worth
getting excited about. You take me because you were jealous of Sophie,
and because you've compromised yourself. I take you because you're
beautiful to look at, and--because nobody else would have me! We shall
have plenty of money, which will help us along. But what is there in our
relations to make us either enthusiastic or miserable?--Come along!"

This was the consummation of Cornelia's passionate hopes and torturing
fears, of her dishonorable intriguing and reckless self-desecration. She
became very calm all of a sudden, and, without making any rejoinder, she
"came along" as he bade her, and they descended the hill.

CHAPTER XXIX.

FOUND.

Sophie, having carried her point regarding her wedding-dress, had
nothing better to do after Cornelia had left her than to give herself up
to reverie. She had a private purpose to sit up until her sister's
return, that she might hear all about Bressant, and why he had stayed
away so long and sent no word. That he had returned, expecting to meet
her at the ball, she entertained not the slightest doubt; nor w