Now, Abbie imagined that the key whereby alone all these difficulties could be unlocked, lay in her own hands. It was a key of which, so long as her own interest alone had been concerned, she had refused to avail herself; but, when the welfare of those she loved was called into question, she made up her mind (in spite of pride--her strongest passion next to love) to make use of it without hesitation. When the last guests had taken their departure, Abbie went to her room, and looked at herself in the glass, by the light of a kerosene-lamp. She was dressed plainly, though becomingly enough, in black silk; a lace cap rested on her gray hair; her face was worn and wrinkled, but had a fine expression about it, that would have recalled former beauty to the memory of any one who had known her in early life. She was deeply excited, without being at all nervous, the excitement being so profoundly rooted as to be really a part of herself. "Why am I happy?" she asked herself. "No, not because I've buried all my pride. Because I've found a reason to justify me in burying it: that's why!" She went, for the third time that night, to Bressant's door, and this time turned the latch and pushed it open. He was sitting at his table, with his head on his arms. His trunk and a large iron-bound box lay packed and strapped beneath the window, which was thrown wide open. The rush of air between that and the door roused the young man: he got slowly to his feet, and came forward. "I don't want to see you," said he, with a heavy utterance. "I warn you to go away. You and I had better have nothing to say to each other." "We must; the time to speak has come!" she returned. "I've come to you, because you could not bring yourself to rely on me. It's your own want of faith--" "You'd better not go on," interrupted Bressant, with a strange smile. "I had more faith than you imagine. But there are some mountains that faith can't move." "Why do you still keep me off?" cried Abbie, in a tone which might have made his heart bleed, except that of late it had been stabbed so often. "Good God! am I so repulsive to you that, for the sake of being happy and comfortable all your life, you can't bring yourself to recognize my existence? Don't imagine I want to buy your love or toleration with this money of mine. I want nothing in exchange--nothing! I can't help the knowledge that I shall have made you rich, and so put happiness in your power; but I ask no acknowledgment--no return. Take every thing and go! Leave me here and believe that I am dead! Is that enough?" "A great deal too much! You'll be sorry you've said all this. If you knew what you were talking about, you wouldn't have said a word of it." "Oh, you are hard to please, indeed!" exclaimed Abbie, gazing at him and shuddering. "I pray God your heart is so cold to no one else as to me! Poor Sophie! She would die at one such word." "Don't speak her name," said Bressant, in a tone so stern as to be equivalent to a threat.