As I handed his cup to Cornelius, I saw his sister give him a look of gentle pity. He smiled cheerfully; she sighed; he kindly asked what was the matter.
"There are hard things to be gone through," was her ambiguous reply.
"Why, yes, Kate, there are."
"They require a brave spirit," she continued.
He looked puzzled.
"But it is quite right to cut the matter short."
"Kate, what has happened?"
"Well, it is not an event; but I admire your courage."
"My courage! in what?"
"Why, in burning your drawings, of course."
He bit his lip, reddened, and said gravely--
"I have not been burning them, Kate."
"Not burning them!" she exclaimed, with a sharp look at me.
"Daisy is not to blame," quickly observed Cornelius.
"Not burning them!" resumed Miss O'Reilly; "and I who kept tea waiting until it was spoiled in order not to disturb you!"
"Thank you all the same, Kate."
"Not burning them!" she said, giving him a very suspicious look, "and what were you doing up there. Cornelius?"
"Finishing a little thing which I will show you to-morrow."
"He's going to flirt with painting again!" desperately said Miss O'Reilly, rocking herself to and fro.
"I hope to go beyond flirtation, Kate."
"My poor boy, don't trust her,--she is a heartless coquette."
"No, Kate, she is merely coy,--a charming feminine defect that only makes her more irresistibly alluring."
"You have tried her once."
"And failed; I must try again: faint heart never won fair lady."
He spoke so gaily, he looked once more so happy, so confident, that the cloud left his sister's handsome face. She checked a sigh, to say with a smile--
"I was a fool to trust to the vows of a man in love; that is all."
"Yes," he said, resolutely, "I know I vowed to give her up a few weeks ago; but now, Kate, I vow I cannot--I cannot; no man can divide himself from his nature."
"What will you do?" she asked.
"Anything, Kate," he replied, his eyes kindling with hope and ardour; "no drudgery will seem drudgery, no work too hard."
I could keep in no longer. At the imminent risk of upsetting his cup, I threw my arms around the neck of Cornelius, and, crying for joy, I exclaimed--
"Oh! I am so glad that you are to be a great artist after all--and that you did not burn the Italian boy nor the poor flower-girl!"
"Am I an inquisitor?" asked Cornelius, smiling.
"She is as mad as he is," said Kate, shaking her head; "indeed I rather think she is worse."
He laughed, and, drawing me on his knee, petted me even to my craving heart's content. I had not been well of late; the joyous excitement with which I had learned his return to Art once over, I became listless and languid. Cornelius had to remind me of the lessons; I know not how I answered him, but in the very middle of them he pushed away the books, said that would do, and made me sit by him on the sofa. Kate looked at me a little uneasily. Cornelius was always kind, but I had never known him so kind as on this evening. He read to me, sang and played, then returned to the couch on which I lay, and, with a tender fondness I shall ever remember, he pressed me to tell him if there was anything I should like.
"Nothing, thank you," I replied, languidly.
"A book?" he persisted; "no! well then a rosewood workbox--a desk? I have some money, child; look."
He drew out his purse and showed it to me, but I thanked him and refused.
"Is there nothing you would like?" he asked.
"I should like to know the subject of your next picture."
"As if I should paint but one," he replied, gaily; and he proceeded to describe to me, in a few graphic words, a magnificent collection of Holy Families, grand historical battles, tragic stories, dewy landscapes, exquisite domestic scenes, until, charmed by their variety, but rather startled by their number, I exclaimed--
"Cornelius, it will take a gallery to hold them all."
"Let us build one then," he replied, striving to repress a smile, "and whenever you feel dull, as you did this evening, we will take a walk in it. Look at her, Kate," he added, addressing his sister, "don't you think she seems better?"
"I think," answered Kate, rather astonished, "that I never saw you lay yourself out for a girl or woman, as you did this evening for that little pale face. My opinion is, that the foolish way in which she goes on about your pictures has won your heart."
"Since you have found it out, Kate, it is useless to deny it. I am waiting for Daisy. Am I not?" he added, turning to me with a smile.
"No," I replied, half indignantly.
"She won't have me," he said, feigning deep dejection; "ungrateful girl!
is it for this I have so often brought you home apples, gingerbread and nuts, not harder than your heart?"
Unmoved by this pathetic appeal, I persisted in rejecting Cornelius, whom, even in jest, I could not consider otherwise than as my dear adopted father. Miss O'Reilly settled the point by saying it was quite ridiculous for little girls not yet twelve to be sitting up so late. As she rose and took me by the hand, I bade Cornelius good-night. He kissed me, not once, but two or three times, and so much more tenderly than usual, that Kate said, smiling--
"Cornelius, you are very fond of that child."
"Yes, Kate, I am. Next to you, there is nothing I like half so well in this world, and, somehow or other, I do not think I have ever felt fonder of her than this evening."