She led me upstairs to a cheerful-looking bed-room, where she unpacked my wardrobe, and changed my whole attire, with a prompt dexterity that seemed natural to her. When we returned to the parlour we found Cornelius lying at full length on a sofa drawn before the hearth; a dark cushion pillowed his handsome head; the flickering fire-light played on his face. His sister went up to him at once; she passed her white hand in his dark hair, and bending over him, said tenderly, as if speaking to a child-- "Poor boy! you are tired." He shook his head, and laughed up in her face. "Not a bit, Kate. Where is she?" He half raised his head to look for me; signed me to approach, and made room for me on the sofa. I sat down and looked at him and his sister, who stood lingering there, smiling silently over him, and still passing her slender fingers in his luxuriant hair. The light fell on their two faces, almost equally handsome, and to which their striking resemblance gave a charm beyond that of mere contrast. To trace in both the same symmetrical outlines of form and feature, was to recognize the loveliness of nature's gifts, received and perpetuated for generations in the same race; and to look at them thus in their familiar tenderness, was to feel the beauty and holiness of kindred blood. Child as I was, I was moved with the tender sweetness of Miss O'Reilly's smile; it preceded however a question more kind than romantic. "What will you have with your tea? Ham?" "Nothing, Kate; we dined on the road." "Will she?" "You mean--" "Yes," she interrupted impatiently. He looked at his sister, who went up to the table, then put the question to me. I wished for nothing; so Miss O'Reilly simply rang the bell; a demure-looking servant brought in the tray. When the tea was made and poured out, Miss O'Reilly said to me, in her short way-- "Child, Thing, give that cup to Cornelius." "But my name is Margaret," I objected, a little nettled at being called "Thing." "I know it is," she replied in a low tone. "Margaret," musingly repeated Cornelius, taking the cup I was handing to him, "diminutives, Meg, Peg, and by way of variety Peggy; which do you prefer, child?" "I don't like any of them," I frankly replied. "Mar-ga-ret! three syllables! I could not afford the time; Katherine has come down to Kate.--you must be Meg." I sat at the table taking my tea. I laid down the cup with dismay. "I don't like Meg," I said. "Well then, Peg." "I don't like Peg, either." "Well then, Peggy." "I hate Peggy!" I indignantly exclaimed. "Let the child alone!" said Miss O'Reilly. "Meg, my dear, a little more milk, if you please," calmly observed Cornelius. Though ready to cry with mortification, I acknowledged the name by complying with his request. "Thank you, Meg," he said, returning the milk-jug. "Let the child alone," again put in his sister.