With this he rose, and came not again near me. My task occupied me for the whole of that day; it served to divert me. I did not however grieve so very much; there was a sort of incredulousness in my heart which I could not conquer. Kate and Cornelius were much sadder than I was; they knew that it was to be, and I felt as if it were, though decreed, impossible. But when I came down to breakfast on the following morning, when I saw the sorrowful face of Kate, and met the troubled glance of Cornelius, I suddenly awoke to the dread reality. I sat down to table as usual, but I could not eat. Cornelius pressed me, uselessly; even to please him I could touch nothing. It was a beautiful Spring morning, and I was not to go for another hour. "Shall I give you a walk in the lanes?" suddenly asked Cornelius, turning to me. "Thank you," I replied, in a low tone, "I prefer the garden." He took me by the hand and led me out; I liked that little garden, where I had spent so many happy hours, and from which I was now going to part. I looked at the shrubs, trees, and flowers, at the very grass and earth on which I trod, with lingering love and tenderness; but I said nothing. Cornelius looked down at me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said abruptly-- "Daisy, will you promise not to be jealous?" An eager and joyful "Yes" rose to my lips--a most bitter thought checked it. "I cannot," I exclaimed, desperately, "I cannot, Cornelius." "You will not promise?" he said. "I cannot." He looked at me very fixedly, but uttered not a word of praise or blame. "Daisy," called the sad voice of Kate from the house, "come and get ready, child." I was obeying; Cornelius detained me to observe-- "Ask me for something before we part." "I have nothing to ask for, Cornelius." But he insisted--I yielded: "If when the time comes you will write to tell me whether your picture is exhibited or not, I shall like it, Cornelius." "Have you nothing else to ask for?" "Nothing else," I replied, looking up at him. Love is proud: he was banishing me--what could I want with his gifts? He said nothing, and allowed me to go in. At length came the moment of our separation. I was ready and in the parlour again; the cab was waiting in the lane. Miss O'Reilly, who was to take me, said abruptly-- "Go and bid Cornelius good-bye." I went up to him trembling from head to foot. He sat by the table reading the newspaper: he laid it down, looked at me, then took me in his arms. All my fortitude forsook me on finding myself once more clasped in the embrace from which I should so soon be severed. I wept and sobbed passionately on his shoulder. I felt as if I could and would not go--as if it were impossible; a thing to be spoken of, never carried into effect. Cornelius pressed me to his heart, and tried to hush away my grief, but ineffectually. At length he said, very ruefully-- "Oh, Daisy!"