“I used to know her quite well, long before you were born, my dear,” replied the professor, tapping with his fingers on the arm of the chair; “and at that time I should not have been surprised at her offering me any kindness.  I am surprised now,” he added, with a good deal of feeling; “she’s a better friend than I thought.”

Cornelia remained silent for several moments, because, not in the least comprehending what sort of ground her papa was walking on, she feared that the questions and remarks she was anxious to advance might jar with his mood.  At length, a sufficient time having elapsed to warrant, in her opinion, the introduction of intelligible topics, she looked up and spoke again.

“How soon, papa—­how soon did you say—­am I to go?”

“First of July, Aunt Margaret says.  Will that give you time enough to make yourself fine?”

“Now, papa, you’re making fun of me,” exclaimed the young lady, delighted that he should be in the humor to do so, yet speaking in that semi-reproachful tone which ladies sometimes adopt when the other sex makes their costume the object of remark, “I can make myself as fine as I can be by that time, of course!  But how is it about Sophie?  Won’t she be able to go too?”

Papa shook his head, and combed his bristly white beard with his fingers.  “Sophie has been very ill,” said he; “it wouldn’t be safe to have her go anywhere this summer.  We can’t take too much care of her.  Typhoid pneumonia is a dangerous thing, and though she’s on the way to recovery now, she might easily relapse.  And then,” added the old gentleman, in a more inward tone, “she would recover no more.”

Although he mumbled this sentence to himself, Cornelia caught his meaning, more, probably, from his manner than from any thing she heard; and being of an emotional and warmly-tender disposition, she began to cry.  She loved her sister very much; and something must also be allowed to the fact that, having a great happiness in prospect for herself, she could afford to expend more sympathy on those less fortunate.  As for the professor, he, for a second time that afternoon, gave evidence of possessing disgracefully little control over himself.  He began another fruitless search after his handkerchief, and finally asked Cornelia, with some heat, whether she knew what had become of it.

“Why, it’s on your head, papa!” warbled she, brightly changing a laugh for her tears; and papa, putting up his hand in great confusion, and finding that it was indeed so, laughed also, and this time in a perfectly natural manner; but he blew his nose very resoundingly, for all that.

The atmosphere being serene once more, the joy of the future became again strong in Cornelia’s heart, and coupled with it, an earnest longing to disburden herself to some one, and who but her sister should be her confidant?  So she rose from her knees, and picked up her brown straw hat, which, in the excitement, had fallen to the floor.