From these glorious imaginings they descended—or ascended, perhaps—to the dresses, and then Sophie's low, steady voice mingled with Cornelia's rich, strenuous one, like pure water with red wine. Cornelia paced the little room backward and forward—she could never keep still when she was talking about what interested her, and now paused by the window, now before the mantel-piece, now leaned for a moment on the foot-board of Sophie's bed. She was very happy; indeed, this may have been the happiest hour of her life, past or to come. We all have our happiest hour, probably; and not always shall we find that happiness to have been caused by higher or less selfish considerations than those which animated Cornelia Valeyon.
During one of her visits to the window, she was arrested by the vision of an unknown young man coining up the road. She at once became silent.
"What is it?" demanded Sophie, presently.
"Some man—a new one—a gentleman—awfully big!" reported Cornelia, in detached sentences, with a look between each one.
"As big as Bill Reynolds?" asked Sophie, with a twinkle in her face.
"How absurd, Sophie! Bill Reynolds, indeed! He isn't up to this man's shoulder. Besides, this is a gentleman, and—oh!" exclaimed Cornelia, breaking off suddenly, and drawing back a step from the window.
"Has the gentleman had an accident?" inquired Sophie, still twinkling.
"He's stopped here—speaking to somebody—father, I believe; he's coming in—there! do you hear?" cried Cornelia, turning round with large eyes and her finger at her mouth, and speaking in a thrilling whisper. The sound of the quick, irregular tread of Mr. Bressant, following the professor into the study, was audible from below.
"Who can he be?" resumed she presently, as Sophie said nothing.
"If he's a gentleman, we don't need to know any more, do we?" replied her sister, from behind her sewing.