Still another vision awaits him, however, and he draws himself up sternly to encounter it, and a heavy frown lowers on his thick gray eyebrows.  But the lofty form which confronts him, massive and stalwart, alike in mind and body, meets his gaze unflinchingly, and frowns back in angry defiance.  The old professor pauses in his intended denunciation, being taken aback somewhat, at the unexpected counter-accusation which strikes out at him from the young man’s eyes.  Yet do his self-confidence and indignation become reconfirmed, for there, behind, the three former phantoms appear together, and seem to launch against the last a deadly shaft of bitter reproach and judgment.  The professor watches it cleave a passage through the stalwart figure’s heart, and he bows his head, and thinks—­it is but justice!  In the same instant, a cry of intensest pain and horror escapes him:  the deadly arrow, additionally poisoned by the blood it has just shed, has passed quite through the spectre of his former pupil, and is buried up to the feather in Professor Valeyon’s own vitals!  This shock effectually wakened the old gentleman—­for, after all, he had only been having an uneasy nap in his straight-backed chair!—­and he started to his feet, and fumbled nervously for the match-box.  Just then, Sophie appeared at the door with a lamp in her hand—­the real Sophie, this time—­no intangible shadow.

“Why, papa dear!  What are you doing in here in the dark?  Have you been asleep?”

“Come here, my dear!” said the professor, in a shaken voice, holding out his hand.  He took her on his knee, and hugged her to him eagerly, passing his hand down her arm, and pressing her slender fingers.  “Are you well and happy, Sophie?”

“Yes, papa,” she answered, laying her head as usual on his shoulder.

“He—­your—­young man didn’t come to-day?” continued the professor, with an attempt to be jocose.  “He’s getting very squeamish to be kept back by a snow-storm!” Sophie replied only by nestling closer to her father’s shoulder.

“Where’s Neelie?” inquired the professor, again breaking the silence.

“She’s seeing about supper, I believe.”

“Have you heard any thing about Abbie lately?” proceeded the other.  He must have been either strangely anxious to keep up a conversation, or unusually inquisitive, this evening.

“Not very lately; I saw her about a week ago.  She didn’t look in very good spirits, it seemed to me.”

“Not in good spirits, eh? not in good spirits? and that was a week ago! was she ill?”

“I don’t think there was any thing the matter—­with her health, I mean; she only looked very sad—­as if something had almost broken her heart.  But then she always is grave, you know.”

“She has been of late years, that’s certain,” muttered the old man, gruffly; “and does she begin to be broken-hearted now!” he added, to himself.  More thoughts, and angry ones, he might have had, but the memory of his untoward dream still hovered about him, and he suppressed them.