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 sate 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 colour: 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!