I heard her with a vague presentiment that this generous confidence of Cornelius would be my bane, and so it proved. Spite of his first friendly visit, he came no more near me. Miss O'Reilly called every Sunday, no matter what the weather might be. She saw that I fretted at the absence of her brother, and did her best to comfort me. "He can scarcely help himself." she once said to me, "he means to come oftener, but every Sunday brings something new to prevent him. He is very fond of you though, often talks of you, praises you, and has hung up in his studio a little drawing of himself and you, which some one uselessly tried to make him take down." "Yes," I replied, sighing, "he likes me, Kate, but he does not come near me; and though he promised to take me out walking with him some day, he has never done so yet." "Then it is to come," was her philosophic reply. But, seeing this did not comfort me, she added-- "I have a great mind to tell you something; but no, I will not on reflection, it would make you conceited." "Then I know what it is, Kate; he said I was clever, or that I would grow up to be good-looking, or something of the kind, which I care very little about; whereas I should care a great deal about his coming to see me." "No," replied Kate, smiling, "it was nothing like that; but the other evening, when I certainly did not imagine he was thinking of you, he said all of a sudden--'I wish I had that tiresome little girl back again.' I replied, carelessly, 'Do you?' just to draw him out. 'Yes,' he answered, 'I never knew how fond of her I was until she was gone.' So there is something for you." Affection is full of wiles. I followed the precept of drawing out just laid down by Miss O'Reilly, and said quietly-- "Is that all, Kate?" "All!" she replied indignantly; "why, what more would you have? You ignorant little thing, don't you know that the human heart is made up of separate curious niches, and that in the heart of Cornelius you have quite a niche of your own. He loves me more than he loves you; and, alas! he loves Miriam more than us two put together; but for all that I am much deceived if he does not feel more of what is called friendship for you than for either of us; and let me tell you that friendship which is not exacted as the love of kindred, not interested like passion, is a very lovely thing. It is odd that a little girl like you should now be to him what is called a 'friend,' and yet it is so; but whether because of some secret sympathy invisible to me, or on account of your liking his pictures and painting so well, is more than I can tell." She spoke positively: memory confirmed all she said; the words of Cornelius repeated by her gave additional proof,--for to be missed is one of the tokens love most prizes, and on which it relies most securely. The blood rushed to my heart; I looked up at Kate with mute gladness.