“But there’ll be nothing like it here, dear, I’m sure.  Think how frightened poor Bill Reynolds will be when he sees you.”

Sophie looked up, expecting to see her sister smile; but she, having in view the opinion of quite another person than Mr. Reynolds, remained unusually grave.

“Don’t mind me, dear,” Sophie added, fearing she might have given offense.  “You know I’d rather see you look well than myself, especially as I may not be here to see you another year.”

She drew a long breath of happy regret, thinking of what was to follow the next day but one after the ball.

Cornelia, looking into the fire, her pure, round chin resting on her bent forefinger, started, as the same thought entered her mind.  Was it so near, though—­that marriage? or would an eternity elapse ere Bressant and Sophie called one another husband and wife?

“Are you glad the day comes so soon, Sophie?”

“Yes,” answered she, with quiet simplicity.  “A few weeks ago it frightened me—­it seemed so near; but not now.  I love him much more than I did—­that’s one reason.  And he loves me more, I think.”

“Loves you more! why? what makes you think so?” demanded Cornelia, a frown quivering across her forehead.

“His manner tells me so:  he’s more subdued and gentle; almost sad, indeed, sometimes.  He’s lived so much in his mind since we were engaged:  I can see it in his face, and hear it in his voice, even.  He’s not like other men; I never want him to be; he has all that makes other men worth any thing, and still is himself.  He has the greatest and the warmest heart that ever was; but when he first came here he had no idea how to use it, nor even what it was for.”

“And he’s found out now, has he?”

“Yes—­especially in the last few weeks.  Before, he used sometimes to be violent, almost—­to lose command of himself; but he never does now.”

“But doesn’t he ever tell you that he loves you more than ever?”

“We understand each other,” replied Sophie, with a slight touch of reserve, for she thought she was being questioned further than was entirely justifiable.  “Nothing he could say would make me feel his love more than I do.”

Cornelia smiled to herself with secret derision; she imagined she could give a more plausible reason for her sister’s reticence.  She took off her “waist” and resumed her place upon the stool.

“What should you do, Sophie, supposing something occurred to prevent your marriage?”

“Die an old maid,” returned she:  not treating the question seriously, but as a piece of Cornelia’s wanton idleness.