“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.”

Sophie sighed.  “I did so want to finish my wedding-dress all myself,” said she.  “It needs only a few hours’ work now, and Cornelia is so busy on her own account, it’s hard to ask her.  Oh, yes! dear papa, I know how glad she’d be to help me,” she added quickly, seeing the old gentleman’s eyebrows meet, and his forehead redden.

“I should hope she would!  Must be very busy if she hasn’t time to do so much as that!” growled he.  “I’ll send her up to you, my dear.”

“Papa!” said Sophie, calling him back from the door; and it was not until she had possession of his hand and was holding it against her cheek that she went on.  “Don’t let the wedding be put off, if I shouldn’t be able to sit up on Sunday.  I’ll be carried down into the guest-chamber, where he was ill for so long.  Don’t—­papa, I know you won’t think hardly of me; but I feel a kind of superstition about that particular day and hour:  that if all is not done then, it never will be.  Am not I foolish?  But do let it be so, and never mind wisdom!”