"Mr. Bressant," began she, with a kindling look, "Mr. Bressant, I--"
here her voice faltered; "oh! you don't know--I can never tell you--I
can never forget what you did last night!" This was the end of the great
speech.
Bressant became still more red and uncomfortable. "I made a fool of
myself last night," said he, dejectedly. "I wish you hadn't been there;
if I'd known what a piece of work--"
"But you saved my papa's life!" interrupted Cornelia, in a blaze.
The young man looked as if struck with a new idea. It seemed as if he
had not before thought of looking upon the professor as an independent
quantity in the affair. The whole episode had presented itself to him as
a difficult problem which he was to solve. The accident to himself had
been an imperfection in the solution, of which he was deeply ashamed.
But he was somewhat consoled by the reflection that the old gentleman
had really needed preservation on his own account.
"That does make it better," said he, half to himself, with the first
approach to good-humor he had shown since his misfortune.
Cornelia still remained glowing in the door-way, turning the latch
backward and forward, not knowing what more to say, and yet unwilling to
say nothing more. She did not at all comprehend Bressant's attitude, and
therefore admired him all the more. What she could not understand in him
was, of course, beyond her scope.
"You may think nothing of it, but I know I--I know we do--I can't say
what I want to, and I'm not going to try any more; but I'm sure you
know--or, at least, you'll find out some time--in some other way, you
know."
Bressant could not hear all this, nor would he have known what it meant,
if he had; but he could see that Cornelia was kindly disposed toward
him, and was conscious of great pleasure in looking at her, and thought,
if she were to touch him, he would get well. He said nothing, however,
and presently his bodily pain caused him to sigh and close his eyes
wearily. Cornelia immediately kissed her soft fingers to him twice, and
then vanished from the room, looking more like a blush than a tea rose.
Before long she returned with the sick man's breakfast on a tray.
"Do you like to be nursed?" asked she, as she put the tray on a table,
and moved it up to the bedside.
"No!" said Bressant, emphatically, and with an intonation of great
surprise.
"Oh! why not?" faltered Cornelia, quite taken aback.
"I hate disabled people; they're monstrosities, and had better not be at
all. I wouldn't nurse them."
"You think there's no pleasure in doing things for people who cannot
help themselves?" demanded Cornelia, indignantly.