As a matter of fact, Cornelia had very few particulars to tell: all she knew was the simple fact she had already stated. But it needed only a small spark to enkindle her imagination; she plunged at once into a perfect flower-garden of bright thoughts and rainbow fancies; foreshadowed her whole journey from the arrival in New York to the latest grand ball and conquest; glowed over the horses, the houses, and the people; speculated profoundly in possible romances and romantic possibilities, and became so eloquent in a pretty, half-childish, half-womanish way she had, that Sophie's eyes shone, and she told herself that Neelie was the dearest, cunningest sister in the world. From these glorious imaginings they descended--or ascended, perhaps--to the dresses, and then Sophie's low, steady voice mingled with Cornelia's rich, strenuous one, like pure water with red wine. Cornelia paced the little room backward and forward--she could never keep still when she was talking about what interested her, and now paused by the window, now before the mantel-piece, now leaned for a moment on the foot-board of Sophie's bed. She was very happy; indeed, this may have been the happiest hour of her life, past or to come. We all have our happiest hour, probably; and not always shall we find that happiness to have been caused by higher or less selfish considerations than those which animated Cornelia Valeyon. During one of her visits to the window, she was arrested by the vision of an unknown young man coining up the road. She at once became silent. "What is it?" demanded Sophie, presently. "Some man--a new one--a gentleman--awfully big!" reported Cornelia, in detached sentences, with a look between each one. "As big as Bill Reynolds?" asked Sophie, with a twinkle in her face. "How absurd, Sophie! Bill Reynolds, indeed! He isn't up to this man's shoulder. Besides, this is a gentleman, and--oh!" exclaimed Cornelia, breaking off suddenly, and drawing back a step from the window. "Has the gentleman had an accident?" inquired Sophie, still twinkling. "He's stopped here--speaking to somebody--father, I believe; he's coming in--there! do you hear?" cried Cornelia, turning round with large eyes and her finger at her mouth, and speaking in a thrilling whisper. The sound of the quick, irregular tread of Mr. Bressant, following the professor into the study, was audible from below. "Who can he be?" resumed she presently, as Sophie said nothing. "If he's a gentleman, we don't need to know any more, do we?" replied her sister, from behind her sewing. "Well, he is one," rejoined Cornelia, uncertain whether she was being made fun of or not. "He was dressed like one; not _bandboxy_, you know, but nicely and easily; and he stands and moves well; and then his face--" "Is he handsome?" asked Sophie, as Cornelia paused. "Oh! he has that refined look--I can't describe it--better than handsome," said she, giving a little wave with her hand to carry out her meaning.