He noticed the wretchedness depicted on her face, and,
supposing it to be all on Sophie's account, did what he could to comfort
her.
"Don't despair, my child," quoth the old man, laying his hands on her
shoulders. "Nothing is so hopeless that we mayn't trust in God to better
it."
The words seemed to apply so felicitously that Cornelia tried to think
it a good omen sent from heaven. Then he bent over and kissed her
forehead--perhaps before she was aware, perhaps not; but she took it,
praying that it might prove a blessing to her hereafter, even if it were
the last she were destined to receive. She passed on into her own room
without speaking, and sat down there to wait.
To wait! and for what, and how long? till her father came to her? But
suppose he were not to come? She would stay there, perhaps, an
hour--that would be long enough--yes, too long; but still let it be an
hour; and then, he not coming, what should she do? Go to him? No, she
would never dare, never presume to do that. What then? steal
down-stairs, a guilty, hateful thing, softly open the door which would
never open to her again, and run away through the snow? The world would
be before her, but snow and ice would but faintly symbolize its
coldness. Was it likely that heaven itself would yield her entrance
after her father's door had closed upon her?
But would not Sophie prevail, and turn his heart to forgiveness? Oh!
but why was it not probable, and more than probable, that the argument
would result the other way?--that her father, by a clear and stern
representation of the real heinousness of her offense, would convince
Sophie that Cornelia was entitled to nothing but condemnation?
There would be nothing to urge against the justice of such a
sentence--nothing.
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