hter, to which Bressant at once responded in
kind, though having no idea what the merriment was about. "I wish you
could see her! There couldn't be a greater difference if I was a negro!"

The laugh died away in Bressant's eyes, and he pressed his hand rapidly
down over his face, as if to sharpen his wits, or clear away cobwebs.

"That's natural," he remarked, reflectively. "I never saw any thing like
you."

"If he'd said 'any _body_,'" thought Cornelia, "I should have said he
meant to compliment. How funny he is! just like a boy in some ways. I
believe I know more than he does, after all!"

"Have you any sisters, Mr. Bressant?" asked she aloud, looking up at him
with more cordiality and confidence than she had yet felt or shown.

"Not any. I should think it would be a good thing. Do you like it?"

"Of course; but then I am a sister myself, so it don't apply," said
Cornelia, with the sunshine of another laugh. It was delightful to look
at her at such times; every part of her partook of the merriment, so
that her hands, feet, and waist, might all be said to laugh for
themselves. Cornelia could express a great deal more in a bodily than in
a spiritual way. Her material self, indeed, seemed so completely and
bounteously endowed as to leave little place or occasion for a soul. The
warm, rounded, fragrant, wholesome personality which met the eye,
satisfied it; the harmonious tumult of life, that thrilled in every
movement, was contentment to the other perceptions; the thought of a
soul, bringing with it that other of death, was cold and inconsistent.
Such mortal perfection loses its full effect, unless we can look upon it
as physically immortal: as soon as we begin to refine our ideas into the
abstract, we sully our enjoyment.

"But your mother must have given you some idea of what a sister would
be," continued Cornelia, presently.

"Would she? I wish I had one!" said the young man, unconscious that no
such desire had ever entered his head till now, and yet at a loss to
account for its presence. "Mine died more than twenty years ago," he
explained.

"The poor boy! I believe he don't know what a woman is!" murmured
Cornelia to herself, perhaps not displeased at the reflection that it
lay with her to enlighten him. "No wonder he looked at me as if I were a
mammoth squash, or something. I'm going down in the garden to pluck a
tea-rose bud," added she aloud. "Won't you come?"

"Yes," said Bressant, following her down