"Poor little thing!" he said, "poor little thing!" He took my cold hands in his, and drew me closer to him. Subdued by grief, I yielded. I had refused his presents, shunned his caresses, been jealous, proud, and insolent, hated the very thought of his presence in my father's house, and now he came to seek me on the threshold of that house, to take me--a miserable outcast child--in his embrace. The thrill of a strange and rapid emotion ran through me. I disengaged my hands from those of Cornelius, and, with a sudden impulse, threw my arms around his neck. My cheek lay near his; his lips touched mine; I mutely returned the caress. I was conquered. I was a child, how could I but feel with a child's feelings, entirely? I kept back nothing; I knew not how or why, but I gave him my whole heart from that hour. CHAPTER III. Cornelius O'Reilly had too much tact not to perceive at once the ascendency he had obtained over the proud and shy child, who, after rejecting his kindness for years, had yielded herself up in a moment. He looked down at me with a thoughtful, amused smile, which I understood, but which did not make me even change my attitude. I felt so happy thus, from the very sense of a submission which implied on my part dependence-- that blessed trust of the child; on his, protection--that truest pleasure of strength; on both, affection, without which dependence becomes slavish and protection a burden. The temper of Cornelius was open and direct; he claimed his authority at once, and found me more docile than I had ever been rebellious: it was no more in my nature to yield half obedience than to give divided love. "We must go, Margaret," he said, in a tone which, though kind, did not admit of objection. I rose and took his hand without a murmur. We returned to Honeysuckle Cottage, where we found Miss Murray calmly wondering to Abby "what could have become of the dear child." Cornelius inquired at what hour the stage-coach passed through Ryde. "Half-past nine, Sir," replied Abby. "Margaret, get ready," said Cornelius, looking at his watch, a present of my father's. I went upstairs with Abby, who dressed and brought me down again in stately silence. "It shall be attended to, Mr. O'Reilly," gravely observed Miss Murray to Cornelius, as we entered the parlour. He heard me, and, without turning round, said quietly, "Margaret, go and bid Miss Murray good-bye, and thank her for all her kindness." "Will you not also give me a kiss?" gently asked Miss Murray, as, going up to her, I did as I was bid, and no more. I looked at Cornelius; the meaning of his glance was plain. I kissed Miss Murray. She drew out her handkerchief, wished for a niece instead of a nephew, then shook hands with Cornelius, and, sinking back after a faint effort to rise, she rang the bell. Abby let us out. Cornelius quietly slipped something in her hand, then looked at me expressively.