"God bless you for all your kindness!" I said, weeping bitterly; "God bless you, Cornelius!" "What do you mean, child?" he asked. "And God bless Kate, too," I continued, "though I have never loved her so well as you." "Daisy!" "I have but one thing to ask of you, Cornelius--kiss me once again." "Not once but ten times when you confess, Daisy." "Yes, but kiss me now." "What for?" he inquired mistrustfully. "Because I ask you." He yielded to my request; he kissed me several times, mingling the caresses with broken speech. "I am sure you are going to confess," he said, "quite sure: you know how hard it would be for me to leave off being fond of you--I am sure you will." I looked at him blinded by tears; then I rose, untwined my arms from around his neck, and left him--I had accepted my destiny. Cornelius rose too, pale with anger. "Do you mean to brave me?" he asked indignantly. I did not answer. "Daisy," he said again, "I hear a step--I give you another chance-- confess before Kate or Miriam enters--a word will suffice." But my lips remained closed and mute. "Just as you like," he exclaimed, turning away angrily. The door opened and Miriam entered, pale and calm, in her white robes. "I am come early, you see," she said in her low voice, so sweet and clear. "Well, what is the matter?" she added, looking at us both with sedate surprise. "Look and see, Miriam! look and see!" replied Cornelius, with bitterness and emotion in his voice. Miriam slowly came forward. She looked at the picture, then at me. "Well," she said, "it is a pity certainly, a great pity, but it is only a picture after all." "Only a picture!" echoed Cornelius. "Yes," she answered, "only a picture. I will sit to you again and you will do better." "Oh, Miriam, Miriam!" he exclaimed, a little passionately, "it is not merely the loss of the picture that troubles me." "What then?" she inquired, looking up at him. "You ask?" he said, returning her glance; "ay, Miriam, you do not know, no one knows what that child has been to me! I have watched at night by her sick bed, and felt, that if she died, something would be gone nothing could replace for me. Child as she was and is still, I have made her my companion and my friend; she, more than any other living creature, has known the thoughts, wishes, and aspirations that are within me. I have taught her, and found pleasure in the teaching. I have cared for her, cherished her for years, and only loved her the more that I was free not to love her. She has been dear to me as my own flesh and blood, or rather all the dearer because she was not mine; for whilst she was as sacred to me as if the closest ties of kindred bound us, I found a pleasure and a charm in the thought that she was a stranger. Even now, much as she has injured me, guilty as she is, I feel what a bitter struggle it will be for me to tear her from my heart." "Forgive her," gently said Miriam.