Sophie caught a breath, and paled a little at the thought of the news
she had to tell about the sick boy. Her father had just told her she was
precious to him, and she felt that to be married might involve a
separation virtually as complete as that of death, and perhaps harder to
bear. But, again, she needed his sympathy and approval: and, sooner or
later, he must hear the truth. She was not, perhaps, aware that
etiquette should have closed her lips upon the subject until after
Bressant had spoken to the professor; at all events, she had no
intention of delegating or postponing her confidence.
"He seemed quite well when I left him. I have been having a--talk with
him, papa."
"He begins to show the effects of being talked to by you, my dear.
You're a wise little woman in some ways, that's certain! and have done
him good in more ways than one," said papa, with parental complacency.
Sophie shrank at this, remembering how lately she had fed herself with
the same idea. She had learned a great deal about herself since
discovering how little of herself she knew.
"He is a--man!" said she, trying to throw into the word an expression of
its best and loftiest meaning. "I can do very little to help him."
"Hope to see him a man some day, my dear," returned the professor,
gathering his eyebrows.
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