The door opened, turning slowly and hesitatingly on its hinges, until it
disclosed her father's venerable figure. His limbs seemed weak; his
shoulders drooped; but Cornelia looked only at his face. His eyes were
deep and compassionate. He held out his arms, which shook slightly but
continually: "Come, my daughter," said he.
She was his daughter still! She cried out, and, walking hurriedly to
him, laid herself close against him, and he hugged her closer yet--poor,
miserable, erring creature though she was.
So the three were reunited--and not superficially, but more intimately
and indissolubly than ever before. They would not be apart, but remained
together in Bressant's room--Sophie on the bed, with an expression of
divine contentment on her face, Cornelia and the professor sitting near.
"Papa," said Sophie, as the afternoon came on, "I want to make my will."
Cornelia caught her breath sharply, and, turning away her face, covered
her eyes with her hand. Professor Valeyon's gray eyebrows gathered for a
moment--then he steadied himself, and said, "Well, my dear."
It was not a very intricate matter. The various little bequests were
soon made and noted down as she requested. After all was disposed of,
there was a little pause.
"Neelie, dear," then said Sophie, turning her eyes full upon her, "I
bequeath my love to you."
Cornelia perceived the hidden significance in the words, and blushed so
deep and warm that the tears were dried upon her cheeks. Sophie went on,
before she could make any reply: "And I have something left for you, too, papa, though I know no one
needs it less than you. But you may be called on for a great deal, so I
bequeath you my charity. I haven't had it so very long myself."
The professor bowed his head, and, the will being complete, he took off
his spectacles, and wiped them with his handkerchief.
"I was telling Neelie this morning, papa," resumed Sophie, after a
while, "that I had been--that I'd had a dream that I was with Bressant;
and I feel sure--though I suppose you'll think it nothing but a sick
fancy of mine--that he will be here to-morrow noon."
The professor looked at Sophie, startled and anxious; but her appearance
was so composed, straight-forward, and full of faith, he could not think
her wandering.
"Do you know where he has been, my dear? or where he is now?" asked he,
gently.
"I cannot tell that. I knew and understood a great deal in my dream that
I cannot remember now," she answered. "I only know that he will be here
to-morrow, and, papa, and you, Neelie, whether you believe as I do or
not, I want you to get ready to receive him. Let it be in this dear old
room--I lying here as I am now, and you sitting so beside me. We'll wait
for him to-morrow morning until twelve o'clock. If I should die before
then, let my body stay here until noon, for I want him to see my face
when he comes, so that he'll always remember how happy I looked. But if,
after that little clock on the mantel-piece strikes twelve, still he
isn't here, then you may do with me as you will. I shall not know nor
mind."