I looked at him with astonishment that seemed to embarrass him. I knew from Kate that the Happy Time had been received with perfect indifference by the public and critics, and that, under such circumstances, Cornelius should neither be painting a picture nor yet contemplating one, seemed incredible. What ailed his mind, once so full of projects? What had become of our gallery? I could not understand it. For some hours I sat watching him at his copy, until at length he put it by, saying-- "Thank heaven, it is finished!" "Are you going to begin another?" I inquired. "Not to-day; I hope to get some work to-morrow though." "You hope? do you like it, Cornelius?" "You know well enough I hate it," he answered with evident irritation; "ah! Daisy, when shall I be a free man?" He looked depressed, but for a moment only; the next he turned to me saying-- "Perhaps you would like to go down to Kate?" "No, Cornelius, I would rather stay and look on at you painting." "You are very obstinate. I have told you over and over that I am not going to paint. Paint! what could I paint?" "Medora." "I want Miss Russell, who is at Hastings with her aunt; even if she were here, it is ten to one whether she could give me a sitting, the smell of the paint gave her such dreadful headaches, that it is a mercy they did not end in neuralgia. And now, child, go downstairs or stay here just as you like, but do not disturb me any more; I have a letter to write." He opened his desk and began writing. Once or twice I ventured to speak, but he told me so shortly that he could not attend to me, and it was so plain that painting was nothing to letter-writing, that I at length remained silent. This lasted until dinner-time. After dinner Cornelius went to post his letter--an office he never entrusted to profane hands; I remained alone with Kate; I could not help speaking to her. "Does not Cornelius paint any more pictures?" I asked, looking up at her. "Ah! you have found it out, have you?" she replied, a little bitterly; "why, child, he has been losing his time in the most miserable fashion. Not that he did not work, poor fellow; he worked himself to death, all to get married to her; but she changed her mind; suddenly discovered he was too young, that it must be deferred, and, leaving him to enjoy his disappointment, went off to Hastings a fortnight ago. He was quite cut up for the first week; but he is coming round now, only I fancy he is getting rather sick of slop-work, that leads to nothing, not even to marriage. As for her, poor thing, if she is gone with the belief that Cornelius is the man to sit down and make a woman the aim of his life, she will find herself wofully mistaken, I can tell her."