"I heard it was Sophie, but I thought likely as not it was a mistake of
one for another. Sophie," repeated she, musingly, "that sweet, delicate
little angel. Oh, I should fear, I should fear! Cornelia would have been
better--not so sensitive--she can bear more--and who knows?--No; but I
do him wrong; he loves her: she'll be happy; she can't help it!"

Here Abbie became aware that she had been thinking aloud; her hand
sought her mouth, and she glanced apprehensively at Bressant. But he had
evidently heard nothing of the latter part of her speech, which was
spoken in a low tone. He had taken a flower from the bunch on the table,
and was pulling it ruthlessly to pieces. He did not look up. Abbie,
rattling her keys, retired toward the door.

"I'll bid you good-morning, sir. A house-keeper always must be busy, you
know; and, of course, you can't afford to be disturbed. You need never
fear any disturbance from me--never, I assure you. By-the-way, you
received your letter? I gave it to the servant, instead of waiting to
bring it myself, because I thought it might be important."

"Oh, yes, I have it; no--no importance at all. Good-morning."

Abbie walked hurriedly and unevenly to her room, shut herself in, and
fastened the door. She sat down on a chair which stood by the
old-fashioned desk in the corner, and it seemed to her she could not
rise from it again. A faintness was upon her, which she thought might,
perhaps, be death. There was a sensation within her as if a clock had
run down in her head, and had dropped the heavy weight into her heart.
She could feel the paleness of her face, and the drops of moisture on
her forehead. Her breathing was wellnigh imperceptible. She sat quite,
still, in a kind of awful expectation, as if listening for the echoless
footfall of Death. But he passed by on the other side, and left her to
face her life again.

She felt rather tired of it, as she sat up and looked dimly around her.
Putting her hand in the pocket of her dark dress, she drew out the small
square morocco case which contained the daguerreotype. It was rather
mortifying, certainly: every one knows what it is to appear, dressed for
a party, and find you have mistaken the night. In what pleasant little
episode had Abbie flattered herself that this portrait, with its grave,
dark, baby eyes, its soft, light curls, its slender, solemn little face,
might be going to play a part? No matter: the hope was gone by; and
every day the por