“What are you thinking of, papa?” demanded Sophie, with an inquietude of manner which attracted the professor’s attention.  He laid his finger on her pulse, and touched her forehead.

“You’ve taken cold, my dear,” he said, with the most tender anxiety of tone.  “What have you been doing?  How have you exposed yourself?”

“I was out on the porch about an hour ago,” replied she, languidly.  “I wanted to—­to see if he was coming, you know.  The snow came on me a little, I believe, and I had on my slippers.  But I didn’t feel any thing—­any cold.  I was out only a moment.”

Professor Valeyon turned his strong-featured face away from the lamp, so that the shadow covered his expression.  He could feel the heat of Sophie’s cheek through his coat, as she lay heavily on his shoulder; heavily, but not half so heavily there as upon his heart.  But, with the physician’s instinct, his voice was on that account all the more cheerful.

“Well, well, my little girl; it won’t do to run any risks nowadays, remember!  I shall make you drink a big cup of hot water, with a little tea and sugar in it, and go to bed early, with three or four extra blankets.  Meanwhile, come! let’s go and see whether Cornelia has got supper ready yet.”  So saying, the old gentleman gained his feet, offering his arm with a bow, took up the lamp with his other hand, and off they went, leaving Shakespeare’s plaster bust placidly to face the darkness alone, as he had often done before.

The next morning the storm was over, and the sun came dazzling over the spotless fields, but Sophie kept her bed, with bright, restless eyes, and hot checks.  The professor dreaded a return of the typhoid pneumonia, and paced his study incessantly, in a voiceless fever of anxiety; physically exhausting himself the better to affect quiet and unconcern when in her room.  He mentioned his fears to no one—­not even to Cornelia; besides, if care were taken, she might recover yet, without fatal, or even serious danger.  To herself, therefore, and to all who inquired, he spoke of her attack as merely a cold, which must be nursed for prudence’ sake.  Meanwhile, no signs of Bressant.  Sophie said not a word, but Cornelia showed uneasiness, and kept making suggestive remarks to her father, and hazarding unsatisfactory explanations of his absence.  She never ventured to say any thing to her sister on the subject, however.  There was a gulf between the two that widened like a river, hour by hour.

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.