Just then, Sophie appeared at the door with a lamp in her
hand--the real Sophie, this time--no intangible shadow.
"Why, papa dear! What are you doing in here in the dark? Have you been
asleep?"
"Come here, my dear!" said the professor, in a shaken voice, holding out
his hand. He took her on his knee, and hugged her to him eagerly,
passing his hand down her arm, and pressing her slender fingers. "Are
you well and happy, Sophie?"
"Yes, papa," she answered, laying her head as usual on his shoulder.
"He--your--young man didn't come to-day?" continued the professor, with
an attempt to be jocose. "He's getting very squeamish to be kept back by
a snow-storm!" Sophie replied only by nestling closer to her father's
shoulder.
"Where's Neelie?" inquired the professor, again breaking the silence.
"She's seeing about supper, I believe."
"Have you heard any thing about Abbie lately?" proceeded the other. He
must have been either strangely anxious to keep up a conversation, or
unusually inquisitive, this evening.
"Not very lately; I saw her about a week ago. She didn't look in very
good spirits, it seemed to me."
"Not in good spirits, eh? not in good spirits? and that was a week ago!
was she ill?"
"I don't think there was any thing the matter--with her health, I mean;
she only looked very sad--as if something had almost broken her heart.
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