Doubtless she would have noticed the too prominent position which she had come to occupy in the invalid’s horizon, had not her eyes, so clear to see every thing else, been blinded by the fact that he, also, was grown to be of altogether too much importance to her.  She never for a moment imagined that any thing but an abstract and ideal scheme for benefiting Bressant was actuating her in her intercourse with him.  She proposed to educate him in pure beliefs and true aspirations; to show him that there was more in life than can be mathematically proved.  But that she could derive other than an immaterial and impersonal enjoyment from it—­oh, no!

This was quixotic and unpractical, if nothing worse.  What other means of imparting spiritual knowledge could a young girl like Sophie have, than to exhibit to her pupil the structure and workings of her own soul?  But this could not be done with impunity; neither was Bressant a cup, to be emptied and then refilled with a purer substance.  Young men and women with exalted and ideal views about each other, cannot do better than to keep out of one another’s way.  Unless they are prepared to mingle a great deal of what is earthly with their dreams, they will be apt, sooner or later, to have a rude awakening.

The conceit of her ideal crusade against Bressant’s shortcomings blinded Sophie to what she could not otherwise have helped seeing—­that she enjoyed his companionship for its own immediate sake.  She had, perhaps, more direct and simple strength of character than he; but he made up in other ways for the lack of it.  Besides, he had not taken measures to obstruct the natural keenness of his vision, and therefore saw, with comparative clearness, how the land lay; an immense advantage over Sophie, of course.  But when he came to analyzing and classifying what he saw, he found his intelligence at fault.  That little episode with Cornelia was the only bit of experience he had to fall back upon; and that was more of a puzzle than an assistance to him.

Matters went on thus for about six weeks, at which time Bressant was still confined to his room, although decidedly convalescent.  It had seemed to him for some time past that a crisis would soon be reached in his relations with Sophie, but what the upshot of it would be he could not conjecture.  He only felt that at present something was concealed—­that there were explanations and confessions to be made, which would have the effect of putting his young nurse and himself upon more open and intimate terms.  He looked forward to this culmination with impatience, and yet with anxiety.  One morning, when they had been reading Spenser’s “Faerie Queene,” Cornelia’s weekly letter was brought in, and subsequently the conversation turned upon her.

“I used to think she was much more beautiful than you,” remarked Bressant, thoughtfully, twisting and turning the palm-leaf fan he held in his hands.  “I don’t think, now, that I knew what beauty was,” he added, concentrating his straight eyebrows upon Sophie, in a scrutinizing look.