It was thus, when Miriam no doubt thought my day over, that unexpectedly, and as the most natural tiling, he fetched and brought me home. His temper, though yielding and easy in appearance, was in reality most obstinate and pertinacious. He seemed to give in, but he ever came back to his old feeling or opinion, and that too with an unconsciousness of his offence which must have been most irritating. In spite of the hints of Kate, I am sure he had not the faintest suspicion that, in devoting himself to painting or in bringing me home, he had done that which could annoy Miriam. Her letters, of course, expressed nothing but approbation of the changes that had taken place in her absence. In order, I suppose, to breed in me a kindly feeling towards his mistress, Cornelius took care to read to me every passage in which I was mentioned as "the dear child," and all such sentiments as "I am charmed to think dear little Daisy is again with you," etc. In one sense, this was useless; in the other it was unnecessary. It was useless, because my feelings towards Miss Russell could not change on account of a few kind words in which I had no faith. It was unnecessary, because not hatred, but jealousy, was what I felt against her; nothing could and did mollify me so much as her absence. So long as she stayed away, I did not envy her in the least the acknowledged preference of Cornelius. Every evening when he sat down to write, I brought him of my own accord pen, ink, and paper, and in the morning I ran unbidden to fetch him his letter. I could even, when I saw him read it with evident delight, participate in his pleasure, little as I loved her from whom it came. My love was very ardent, but it was very pure; from my dawning youth it caught perhaps something of passion, but it also kept all the innocence of my childhood, scarcely left behind. Cornelius, I believe, felt this, and as there is nothing more delightful than to inspire or feel a pure affection, I can now understand why he found a charm which Kate could not feel, in yielding to this. Often in our moments of relaxation when I sat by him on the couch, he would turn to me with a smile, and, stooping, leave on my brow a kiss as innocent as it was light, feeling, perhaps,--what I never felt, for I never thought of it--that he was now receiving the purest affection he could ever hope to inspire, and feeling the most disinterested tenderness he ever could hope to feel for child or maiden not of his blood. I was growing older, more able to understand him, more fit to be his companion, and this might be the reason that he now became more kind and friendly than ever he had been. Nothing could exceed his care of me: absorbed in his picture though he might seem, he was quick to detect in me the least sign of weariness, and imperative in exacting the rest I was loath to take. For the sate of the air he made me go down to the garden and often accompanied me.