“Don’t despair, my child,” quoth the old man, laying his hands on her shoulders.  “Nothing is so hopeless that we mayn’t trust in God to better it.”

The words seemed to apply so felicitously that Cornelia tried to think it a good omen sent from heaven.  Then he bent over and kissed her forehead—­perhaps before she was aware, perhaps not; but she took it, praying that it might prove a blessing to her hereafter, even if it were the last she were destined to receive.  She passed on into her own room without speaking, and sat down there to wait.

To wait! and for what, and how long? till her father came to her?  But suppose he were not to come?  She would stay there, perhaps, an hour—­that would be long enough—­yes, too long; but still let it be an hour; and then, he not coming, what should she do?  Go to him?  No, she would never dare, never presume to do that.  What then? steal down-stairs, a guilty, hateful thing, softly open the door which would never open to her again, and run away through the snow?  The world would be before her, but snow and ice would but faintly symbolize its coldness.  Was it likely that heaven itself would yield her entrance after her father’s door had closed upon her?

But would not Sophie prevail, and turn his heart to forgiveness?  Oh! but why was it not probable, and more than probable, that the argument would result the other way?—­that her father, by a clear and stern representation of the real heinousness of her offense, would convince Sophie that Cornelia was entitled to nothing but condemnation?  There would be nothing to urge against the justice of such a sentence—­nothing.

Perhaps Sophie’s courage might fail her, or her strength give way, leaving the ugly story but half told, and then her father would come to her to learn the rest.  What should she do then?  How much more terrible to be obliged to tell him then, after having made up her mind that her sister was to take the burden off her shoulders, than it would have been before any such resource had presented itself!  How much more awful to meet her father when aroused by suspicion and anger, and perhaps loathing, than to begin her confession while his face was as she had always seen it, when turned toward her—­loving and tender!

She could not sit still, at last, but rose up from her chair to walk the room—­not from the old, restless energy, which needed physical exercise to keep it within bounds, for Cornelia was now white and faint, from exhaustion of mind and body, but from the tumult of pervading fear and delusive hope—­the attention strained to catch some sound from below, and the dread lest it should never come.  As the suspense grew more painful, the rapidity of her walk increased.

She expected now, every moment, to catch herself shrieking aloud, or performing some mad action or other.  How long had she been up there already?  Was it an hour yet?  It must be an hour.  Oh! it was more.  Was he never coming, then?—­never?  O God! was there no forgiveness?  Cornelia’s walk had gone on quickening until it was almost a run.  She was circling round and round the room, like a wild animal—­was growing dizzy and exhausted, but was afraid to stop:  better her body should give way than her mind—­and, all the time, her ears were alert for the slightest sound.