"Three months at least," replied the surgeon; "more if you worry
yourself about it."
"Three months!" repeated the young man, aghast. "What's to become of my
studies? I can't hold a book; I can't write; I had to have my breakfast
fed to me this morning," continued he, biting his mustache and looking
away. The professor smiled thoughtfully.
"I have hopes," said he, "that you'll know more about Divinity when you
come out of this room than you did before you went into it. We'll see
when the time comes."
"I've found out already that my bones are like other men's," remarked
Bressant, with a sigh.
"So much the better," returned the old man. "You never would have
learned that out of your Hebrew Lexicon. The best way to reach this
young fellow's soul is through his body," declared he, silently, to the
bandage he was preparing for the broken head. "This is nothing but a
blessing in disguise." But he had too much tact to carry the
conversation further, and presently left his patient alone to digest
his breakfast and the lesson it had inculcated.
This was Cornelia's last day at home; she was to take the eight-o'clock
train next morning to the city. The young lady's mood was unequal:
sometimes she drooped; anon would break forth into much talk and
merriment, which would evaporate almost as quickly as the froth of
champagne.
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