He did not insist; resumed his promenade, then threw himself down on the couch, with an impatient sigh and a moody face. I rose, stepped across the room, and sat down by him. Encouraged by his silence, I passed my arm around his neck. I had meant to say something, to tell him I was grieved for his pain or trouble, whichever it might be, but when it came to the point, all I could do was to kiss his cheek. Cornelius made a motion to put me away impatiently; but when his eyes, looking into mine, saw them filled with tears, he checked the movement. "Poor little thing!" he said, with a sad smile; "you put by your childish anger the moment you think me in pain." "Oh! Cornelius," I exclaimed, with much emotion, "though you should like another ever so much, and me ever so little, I shall never be so naughty again. Ah! if you knew how miserable I felt last night when I saw you looking so ill!" "And came and laid your head on my knee like a faithful spaniel--yes, child, I know _you_ like me." He said it with some bitterness. I replied warmly-- "Indeed I do, Cornelius, and always shall, even though you should not care for me at all." "Would you?" he answered, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. "Why, how could I help it?" I asked, astonished at the question. He started like one whose secret thought has received some sudden sting. "Ay," he said, "one cannot help it; to wish to leave off, and wish in vain; there is the torment, there is the misery." "But I don't wish to leave off," I exclaimed, almost indignantly, and clinging to him, I added, a little passionately perhaps, "I could not if I would, and if I could I would not, Cornelius." There was a pause; as I looked at him, something like a question debated and solved seemed to pass across his face. Then he pressed me to his heart with some emotion, as he said, rather feverishly-- "Daisy, you are wiser than those who sit down and write books or preach sermons on self-subjection, as if it were not the very hardest thing in this world. Let them!" he added, a little defiantly, "the very children rebuke them and know better." If children reflect little and imperfectly, their faculty for observation is marvellous. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been unconsciously pleading for one whom I had little cause to love; the thought was both sweet and bitter. I looked at Medora, then at Cornelius, and said in a low tone-- "Why did she vex you, Cornelius?" He gave mc a distrustful look, and putting me away-- "The room is cold," he observed, "go down, child." I would rather have stayed and learned more; but his tone, though kind, exacted obedience. When Cornelius came down to tea, his sister asked how his head felt; he said first, "Much worse," then immediately added, "Much better." His movements, like his words, were irresolute; he rose, he sat down; he stood by the table; he went to the hearth; suddenly he went to the door.