Cornelia, speaking with a breathless rapidity which she intended for sang froid, had got thus far, when Sophie, who had dropped her work again, and had been regarding her with a beautiful expression of surprise, joy, and affection in her eyes, stretched forth her arms, cooed out a tender little cry of happy congratulation and sympathy, and hugged her sister around the neck for a few moments in a very eloquent silence.

“Why, Sophie!” murmured Cornelia, covered with an astonishment of smiles and tears, “how sweet you are!  I didn’t think you’d care; I thought you’d think it foolish in me to be glad, dear Sophie!”

“My darling!” said Sophie, with another hug.  She felt rebuked and remorseful; for if, as Cornelia’s words unconsciously implied, her sympathy was unexpected, it would appear she had gained a reputation for coldness and indifference which she was far from coveting.  It often happens, certainly, that those whom we consider intellectually beneath us, and whom, supposing them too dull to comprehend the evolutions of our minds, we occasionally use for our amusement, possess an instinctive insight far keener than that of experience, enabling them to read our very souls with an accuracy which puts our self-knowledge to the blush, and might quite turn the tables upon us, could they themselves but appreciate their power.

“But tell me all about it,” resumed Sophie; “all the particulars.  And then we’ll discuss the dresses.  Dear me!  I long to get to work upon them.”

As a matter of fact, Cornelia had very few particulars to tell:  all she knew was the simple fact she had already stated.  But it needed only a small spark to enkindle her imagination; she plunged at once into a perfect flower-garden of bright thoughts and rainbow fancies; foreshadowed her whole journey from the arrival in New York to the latest grand ball and conquest; glowed over the horses, the houses, and the people; speculated profoundly in possible romances and romantic possibilities, and became so eloquent in a pretty, half-childish, half-womanish way she had, that Sophie’s eyes shone, and she told herself that Neelie was the dearest, cunningest sister in the world.

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.