"Yes," replied she, with a faint smile, that seemed to show more of weariness than merriment. "Come into the boudoir, Professor Valeyon. You're a stranger."
"But that's going to be remedied--that's going to be remedied!" rejoined the old gentleman, seating himself, and allowing his hand to wander to the top of his head, to make sure the hair-swathe was safely in position. "Bond of union been established between us, you know."
Abbie laid her finger upon her under lip--a common act of hers when interested or absorbed--and looked at her caller inquiringly.
"That young fellow that came last night, sent his trunk up before coming himself. Saw him, didn't you?"
Abbie shook her head. "I saw his trunk, but not him. Mr. Bressant, I think. You know him?"
"He's going to study divinity with me. I take some interest in him, though he's in an unsatisfactory condition just now; intellectual savagery, I should call it. I take it, his training has been at fault. Seems to have no social nor affectionate instincts. It would be a good thing to make him feel their value, to begin with."
"I'll make it as home-like for him as I can, Professor Valeyon."
"Well, well! I meant to ask you to do it. It'll be a new experience for him. He's never known a mother since he was a baby, and his father was--well!"--the old man checked himself--"his father is just dead." He seemed about to add something more in regard to the deceased gentleman, but forbore, glancing narrowly at Abbie, who looked only grave and thoughtful.
"How old is he? A boy?" she asked, presently.
"Boyish in some ways, but must be twenty-five or six, and looks older. A tall fellow, well made."
"He might still be a son of mine," said Abbie, with another dim smile, and a sigh. "Perhaps it would do me no harm to consider him as such. Would that satisfy you?"
"Just what I want!" exclaimed the professor heartily, and with heightened color. "Something can be made of him, I think," he added; "but a great deal depends on the sort of treatment he eats and sleeps under. Well, you be motherly to him, Abbie. That's all I have to ask. You will find good in it for yourself, too, as you say: more than you think, very likely."
She sighed again, playing absently with her fingers upon her dark-colored dress, and gazing out of the window. Professor Valeyon said no more on the subject of Bressant, but spoke of Cornelia's proposed trip, and the Fourth-of-July party, and Sophie's convalescence; and finally took his straw-hat from the table upon which he had placed it, and moved toward the door.
"Good-by, Abbie. Remember"--the old gentleman paused, with her hand in his, and glowing upon her from beneath his bushy eyebrows; "remember you have friends about you who don't need to be sought after. And another thing, Abbie; if you should ever find that Time has the power to liberate as well as to imprison you, don't forget that some wants may exist a long while without finding expression, but that they do exist, for all that!"
Perhaps it was the consciousness that he was using rather grandiloquent language in the wording of this enigmatical little speech, that caused the good professor to look so red and embarrassed. Abbie drew her hand away, and laid her finger on her lip.
"Can you still say that?" asked she, with a sad kind of gleam in her eyes and voice.
"More than ever--more than ever!" declared he, with emphatic incoherence. And without more words he hurried down the steps, and in another minute was rattling rapidly homeward, astonishing Dolly herself by the speed which he encouraged her to put forth.
"It'll all work round," soliloquized he; "very good beginning this. If I could have spoken more explicitly--but she'll be prepared, and that's a great step toward clearing things up. Gee up! Dolly."
CHAPTER VIII.
GREAT EXPECTATIONS.
"Sophie," said Cornelia, several days afterward, "do you know, I believe I'll stay for that party at Abbie's, after all."
The two sisters were engaged in planning out an evening dress, and Sophie's bed was so covered with the confusion thereof, that her quiet little face, appearing above, looked odd by contrast.
"I'm glad," replied she, with the simplicity and lack of ornamentation that made her words forcible; "and I'm sure Abbie will be glad, too."
"There's no reason why I shouldn't, you know," resumed the elder sister, falling into that pleasing vein of argument wherein we consciously express the views of our interlocutor; "a few days won't make any difference to Aunt Margaret, and I wouldn't like to have poor old Abbie think that I slighted her, just because I am going to enter New York society! Besides, I think this dress will look very nice when it's finished--don't you?"
"Yes, dear," said Sophie, smiling to herself. "Is Mr. Bressant going to the party?"
"Oh, I don't know. No, I should suppose not. He's a great student, you know, and is going to be a minister and every thing. That isn't the sort of people that takes interest in parties. Besides, he couldn't hear the music, so, of course, he couldn't dance."
"Some deaf people can hear music, and even compose it."
"Can they? But then just imagine having to talk to a deaf person in a ballroom! it would be awfully embarrassing, don't you think so?"
Sophie, who knew her sister well, and was very shrewd besides, began to suspect that it would not be displeasing to Cornelia to be opposed, and even out-argued upon the question of Mr. Bressant's probable attendance at the party, and qualifications to make himself agreeable when there. She enjoyed the amusement, in Her demure way, and was besides interested to hear something about her father's pupil.
"I should think," said she, in a modestly suggestive manner, keeping her eyes busy with her work, "that it would be less embarrassing at a party than anywhere. You know everybody expects to say and hear nothing but nonsense, and there isn't a great deal said even of that. And you're obliged to talk loud, at any rate, on account of the music and noise."
"Well, you may be right," admitted Cornelia, who certainly did take her sister's opposition with admirable good-nature. "And I was thinking, Sophie, perhaps if they are not very deaf indeed, you know they might get so used to the sound of one's voice as to hear it even when it wasn't so much raised."
"Why, certainly!" assented Sophie; "to some kinds of voices, at any rate; probably to a woman's more easily than to a man's. Is Mr. Bressant very deaf, Neelie?"
Cornelia glanced quickly at her sister, but was reassured by the grave composure of her aspect. Nevertheless, she was deeply engrossed in her new dress as she made reply.
"Oh! no. Well, not so very; I can hardly tell, though, I've spoken to him so little. He's rather quick at catching your meaning, sometimes, I think."
"Do you think he's a man who would get married?"
"Oh! I don't believe he'll ever be married," said Cornelia, and blushed, she scarce knew why. "No woman would marry him."
"Is he so disagreeable?"
Cornelia moved her shoulders in a little shudder. "Oh, not that exactly; but he's so cold and bright and hard. And he isn't always that way, either. There are times when he's so strange--so different! I don't believe he understands himself then. There seems to be a wild fire in him, that once in a while blazes up, and scorches and frightens him as well as other people."
Sophie was perhaps more interested in this extravaganza of Cornelia's than if she had known the incident upon which it was mainly founded; but, on the other hand, it is possible that less exaggerated language would not have given her so correct an idea of Bressant's character. Cornelia--there