Cornelia laughed.

"You seem to be recovering your strength pretty well, if you can break
the limb of a tree short off just by laying your hand upon it! How do
you do? Aren't you glad to see me?" and she held out her hand with a
frankness not all real, for she felt a secret misgiving, and an
undefined fear.

But the strain of Bressant's suspense was removed. He concluded that
either Cornelia had as yet heard nothing of his bond with Sophie, or
that, having heard it, it had not seriously affected her. Of the two
suppositions he was inclined to the first (and correct) one; but he kept
scanning her face with an uneasy curiosity. He took her hand, shook it,
and dropped it.

"How do you do?" said he.

They took their places side by side upon the bench. Cornelia felt a
great weight pressing heavily and more heavily upon her, crushing out
life and vivacity. This was not what she had expected; what did it
mean? was it indifference? was it aversion? could it--could it be an
uncouth way of showing joy? Poor Cornelia held her clasped hands in her
lap, and knew not what to say.

When the silence had lasted so long that in another moment she must have
screamed, she chanced to remember the watch. It was ticking steadily in
her belt. She dragged it out, her hands feeling stiff and numb, and then
commanding herself by a not inconsiderable effort to speak naturally,
she put it in his hand, which he opened mechanically to receive it.

"Here it is, all safe. You can't think how punctual I've learned to be
since I've had it. I got to be quite superstitious about winding it up;
but it did run down once--just about six weeks after I left. It was in
the forenoon, about eleven. I--I happened to be looking at it at the
time, and suddenly the second-hand began to go slower and slower, and at
last it stopped. You can't think how frightened I was. I couldn't help
thinking that something must have happened at home. I wrote to Sophie
that I would come home the same afternoon. Of course you know"--here
Cornelia interrupted the hurried and nervous flow of her words to force
a laugh--"of course it wasn't any thing but that I'd been up late
talking with Aunt Margaret, and had forgotten to wind it. It isn't out
of order or any thing."

She was out of breath now, and had to pause. She would gladly have kept
on indefinitely, for the sake of avoiding another of those dreadful
silences.

Bressant was not in the habit of paying much attention to coi