different from the passionate fire which Cornelia’s presence had more than once caused to flicker over them, different even from the purer and deeper illumination which his love for Sophie sometimes kindled within him.  A virtuous act stirs the soul by its own innate beauty, even when the motive is not all unselfish.  It was probably the first time that precisely such a look had ever visited Bressant’s face; and it was certainly a great pity that no one but a fat Irish servant-girl should have had the privilege of beholding it there.

Presently, as he stood facing the door, he saw the latch lifted.  The moment had come.  Involuntarily he caught hold of the back of the chair, and drew in his breath.

Pshaw! only the fat servant again.  Bressant bit his lip, stamped his foot upon the floor, and frowned.

The fat girl met these demonstrations with a fat smile, and extended to the young man a long, narrow envelop, laid crossways over the dirty palm of her large, thick hand.

“A letter!” exclaimed she, resuming her apron as soon as her hand was at liberty.  “A letter from New York I’m thinking it is; and sure the handwriting’s a lady’s, every bit of it; which I don’t know what Miss Sophie would be after saying if she should hear of it—­nay, don’t fear me, sir, that I’d ever have the heart to be telling her of it!  And it’s Abbie as fetched it, and the same bid me tell you as how she’d be after coming up here directly; she’ll be cleaning her face first, and removing her bonnet; which she’s always a right neat body, and it’s myself can testify, as has lived with her nine years, and never had cause to complain, God bless her!”

When Bressant was alone, he sat down in the chair, with the letter between his fingers.  On such slight hinges do our destinies turn.  If Abbie had neglected to call at the post-office, or if she had been satisfied to give the letter to the young man herself, instead of sending it to him five minutes beforehand, or if the writing of the letter had been delayed a few hours (how many ifs there always are in such cases!), Bressant would have had a far different fate, and this story would never have been written.  But as it was, five fatal minutes intervened between the delivery of the letter and Abbie’s appearance, during which time he had read it through twice—­at first hurriedly, the second time slowly and carefully—­had replaced it in the envelop, and put the envelop in his pocket.  Then he sat quite quiet, leaning back in his chair, his head thrown forward, his under eyelids drawn up, and contracted around the piercing glance of his eves, his jaws and lips set tight, and a straight line up his forehead from between his eyebrows.  A more unpleasant and forbidding expression one does not often meet; but, such as it was, it grew still more stern and unpromising when the door once more slowly opened, and Abbie appeared upon the threshold.

Nevertheless, he at once rose, and inclined forward his lofty shoulders in a remarkably courteous bow.  Abbie, who showed some traces of discomposure, and held one finger nervously to her under lip, stepped into the room, and they shook hands.