After being safely landed at the boarding-house—­Abbie was not at home at the moment—­Bressant bade farewell to the professor, and, assisted by the fat Irish servant-girl, carried his box up to his room.  It was neatly swept, dusted, and put in order; a bunch of fresh flowers upon the table; others, in pots, upon the window-sill.  Their fragrance gave a delicate tone to the atmosphere of the room, and perhaps penetrated more nearly to Bressant’s heart than an hour full of unanswerable arguments and exhortations.  He turned to the fat servant, who stood smiling, and wiping her hands on her apron.

“Who brought these flowers?  Who arranged them here?”

“Sure, and wasn’t it Abbie herself!” replied the functionary, giving her mistress her Christian name, with true democratic freedom.  “More than that; isn’t it herself has swept out the room every week, let alone dusting of it every day of her life! which is not mentioning that the flowers has been exchanged every day likewise, and fresh put in place of them, by reason that the old shouldn’t fade; which is a fact unprecedented, and unbeknown in my experience, which have been in this house nine year come St. Patrick’s day—­God bless him!”

Having thus delivered herself of what had evidently been weighing on her mind for weeks past, the fat servant-girl stopped wiping her hands on her apron (without help of which praiseworthy act she could no more have talked, than a donkey with a heavy stone tied to his tail can bray), and turning herself about, waddled toward the door.  Bressant hesitated a moment, passed his hand rapidly down over his face and beard, and then, catching open the door just as the fat servant-girl was closing it, he requested her to inform Abbie, when she came back, of his return, and tell her he would like to speak with her.

“I’ll do it, sir; rest easy,” was the encouraging reply.  “Faith, and it’s a handsome man he is, and a sweet, lovely look he has out of his eyes; leastways now, which is, maybe, more than could be said when first he came here, three months ago, and looked that cold and sharp at a body as might make one shiver like.  It’s likely his being going to marry Miss Sophie up to the Parsonage as has fetched a change in him; which, she’s a dear good girl; and may they be happy—­God bless the both of them!” Thus soliloquizing, the fat servant-girl, apron in hand, descended the narrow stairs, and betook herself to the kitchen.

Bressant paced restlessly up and down his small room, stopping every minute or so to bend over the flower-pots in the window, or take a sniff from the bouquet on the table.  His cheeks and forehead were flushed, and his eyes very brilliant.  His lips worked incessantly against one another, and he held his hands now clasped behind his back, now thrust into the pockets of his coat.  But there was certainly a noble and a gentle light upon his features, different from their usual expression of dazzling intellectual efficiency,