It's all for
the best--all for the best, in the end." She rattled the keys in her
girdle before proceeding, with a distraught, embarrassed manner:
"By-the-way, you had something more than good nursing to help you to
health, I heard. Is it Cornelia--or Sophie?"
Bressant hesitated and stammered--a weakness he seldom was guilty of,
especially when there was so little reason for it as at present.
"It's--I'm--oh!--Sophie!" said he.
"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.
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