Toward evening a letter came from the boarding-house, directed to Professor Valeyon. It was in Abbie's handwriting, and must contain some news of Bressant. The old gentleman shut himself up in his room, the better to deal with the intelligence, and the paper rustled nervously in his fingers as he read; but the news amounted to little, after all.
"For fear dear Sophie and you should feel anxious about Mr. Bressant, I will tell you all I know of his absence," said the letter. "A telegram came for him yesterday morning about ten. Joanna, the servant, who took it up to him, says Mr. Reynolds told her it was from New York. So I suppose some friend there—you will probably be able to say who—has been taken very dangerously ill, or perhaps is dead. The summons must have been very urgent, for he left his room not ten minutes afterward, and took the half-past ten o'clock train down.
"I feel sure he will be back by to-morrow evening. Don't let your daughters fail to be here to meet him."
After reading this, and without pausing to indulge in casuistry, Professor Valeyon betook himself straight to Sophie's chamber.
"You've heard something!" said she, in a low, assured tone the moment he entered. "A letter? give it me—I would rather read it myself."
The professor gave it into her hand, with a smile; but Sophie's eyes were too deep and dark for any smile to glimmer through. As she opened it he turned his back upon her, and saw out of the window the sinking sun redden the snow-covered hill-top above the road.
"Yes, I'm sure he will be back to-morrow," said Sophie's quiet voice after a minute or two. She made no comment on his having allowed any thing to take him away at such a time—on the eve of his marriage—without first sending word to her; but gave Abbie's letter back into her father's keeping, and lay with closed eyes. He sat down in the chair by the bedside, and presently noticed that she lay more peacefully, and breathed inaudibly and easily, and that the feverish flush was leaving her cheeks. A slight moisture, too, made itself perceptible on her forehead.
"Her life is in this fellow's hand!" thought the professor, and he trembled to his very heart, but dared not ask himself wherefore.
"Do you really think it would hurt me to sew, dear papa?" said she, at length, looking up from her pillow.
"Better let sewing and every thing else alone for the present, my dear; it'll be enough work to get all well again by next Sunday."