she laid her hand on his arm, and said, very quietly, "Grandfather, may I read that letter?"
Waife was startled, and replied, on the instant, "No, my dear."
"It is better that I should," said she, with the same quiet firmness; and then, seeing the distress in his face, she added, with her more accustomed sweet docility, yet with a forlorn droop of the head, "But as you please, grandfather."
Waife hesitated an instant. Was she not right?—would it not be better to show the letter? After all, she must confront the fact that Lionel could be nothing to her henceforth; and would not Lionel's own words wound her less than all Waife could say? So he put the letter into her hands, and sat down, watching her countenance.
At the opening sentences of congratulation, she looked up inquiringly. Poor man! he had not spoken to her of what at another time it would have been such joy to speak; and he now, in answer to her look, said, almost sadly, "Only about me, Sophy; what does that matter?" But before the girl read a line farther she smiled on him, and tenderly kissed his furrowed brow.
"Don't read on, Sophy," said he, quickly. She shook her head and resumed. His eye still upon her face, he marked it changing as the sense of the letter grew upon her, till, as, without a word, with scarce a visible heave of the bosom, she laid the letter on his knees, the change had become so complete that it seemed as if Another stood in her place. In very young and sensitive persons, especially female (though I have seen it even in our hard sex), a great and sudden shock or revulsion of feeling reveals itself thus in the almost preternatural alteration of the countenance. It is not a mere paleness—a skin-deep loss of color; it is as if the whole bloom of youth had rushed away; hollows, never discernible before, appear in the cheek that was so round and smooth; the muscles fall as in mortal illness; a havoc, as of years, seems to have been wrought in a moment; Flame itself does not so suddenly ravage—so suddenly alter—leave behind it so ineffable an air of desolation and ruin. Waife sprang forward and clasped her to his breast.
"You will bear it, Sophy! The worst is over now. Fortitude, my child!—fortitude! The human heart is wonderfully sustained when it is not the conscience that weighs it down—griefs that we think at the moment must kill us wear themselves away. I speak the truth, for I too have suffered!"
"Poor grandfather!" said Sophy, gently; and she said no
