Parting an Anchor

"What a funny old woman Aunt Margaret is!" said Cornelia to herself,
after she had closed the door of her chamber. "Such a queer voice--goes
away up high, and then away down low, all in the same sentence. And what
a small head for such a tall woman! and she's so thin! I do hope she
won't go on kissing me so much with her big mouth! how fast she does
twist it about! and then her front teeth stick out so! and she keeps
shoving that great black ear-trumpet at me, whenever she thinks I want
to speak; and her eyes are as pale and watery as they can be, and they
look all around you and never at you. Well, it's very mean of me to
criticise the old thing so; she's as kind as she can be. I wonder
whether she knows Mr. Bressant; her manner reminds me sometimes of him;
in a horrid way, of course, but--poor fellow! what is he doing now, I'd
like to know!" Here Cornelia's meditations became very profound and
private indeed; she, meanwhile, in her material capacity, making such
alterations and improvements in her personal appearance as were
necessary to prepare herself for the table.

Every few minutes--oftener than any circumstances could have
warranted--she pulled a handsome gold watch out of her belt and
consulted it. She did not, to be sure, seem solely anxious to know the
hour; she bent down and examined the enameled face minutely; watched
the second-hand make its tiny circuit; pressed the smooth crystal
against her cheek; listened to the ceaseless beating of its little
golden heart. That golden heart, it seemed to her, was a connecting link
between Bressant's and her own. He had set it going, and it should be
her care that it never stopped; for at the hour in which it ran
down--such was Cornelia's superstitious idea--some lamentable misfortune
would surely come to pass.