o lack of charity for her trials and
temptations, no vindictiveness. Cornelia felt no impulse to plead her
cause, because aware that all she could say would be anticipated in her
sister's forgiveness. Nay, she almost wished there had been some
bitterness and anger against which to contend. Perhaps it may be so with
our souls in their judgment-day; God's mercy may outstrip the poor
conjectures we have formed about it. He may see palliation for our sins,
which we ourselves had not taken into account.

After a few moments, Sophie beckoned Cornelia to come near, and, as the
latter stood beside the bed, took her by the hand and smiled.

"I've been all this time with Bressant," were her first words, spoken
faintly, but with a quiet and serene assurance.

Cornelia made no answer; indeed, she could not speak. Strange and
incomprehensible as Sophie's assertion was, she did not think of
doubting but that in some way it must be true. Sophie continued:

"Before I went to sleep, I prayed God to send my spirit to him; and we
have been together. Neelie, he is coming back!"

"Coming back! Sophie, coming back! For what?"

"Don't look so frightened, my darling. He will tell you why when he gets
here. That will be to-morrow at noon."

"O Sophie! Sophie! the day and hour of your marriage!"

Cornelia sank upon her knees, and hid her face upon the edge of the bed.
But Sophie let her hand wander over her head, with a soothing motion.

"No, dear; that's all over, Neelie dear, you know. Not the day and hour
of my marriage any more. Neelie, I want to ask you something."

Cornelia lifted her head from the bedside; then, divining from Sophie's
face, ere it was spoken, what her question was to be, faintness and
terror seized upon her, and she clasped her hands over her eyes. The
unexpectedness of Sophie's first awakening, and her subsequent strange
speech concerning Bressant, had driven from Cornelia's head the matter
which had monopolized her thoughts and fears before; and it now recurred
to her with an effect almost as overwhelming as if the idea had been a
new one.

"I couldn't do it," said she, huskily; "it seemed worse than killing
myself. I believe it would have killed me to have stood before him, with
his eyes upon my face, and have told him--told him--"

"Yes, dear, yes; it must not be you, Neelie. How is he? Does he seem
well and cheerful?"

"I don't know--I've hardly dared to look at him, or speak to him. He's
been lying do