"He will spoil that child, you'll see he will." Cornelius only smiled; he did not attempt to contradict the prophecy by putting me away; as long as I liked, he allowed me to remain thus--once more an indulged and very happy child. From that evening Cornelius liked me. By making him all to me, I had succeeded in becoming something to him; for there is this mysterious beauty in love, that it wins love; unlike other prodigals, it is in the very excess of its bounty that it finds a return. CHAPTER IX. Early the next morning I stole up to the study. I did not knock; I entered on tiptoe; I closed the door softly; I did not bid Cornelius good morning; but I brought forward a high stool, placed it so that it commanded a good view of him and of his drawing, and, with some trouble, I clambered up to its summit: once there, I moved no more, but watched him with intense interest. He neither moved nor looked up; his task absorbed every faculty of his being; he looked breathless; every feature expressed the concentration of his mind and senses towards one point. For an hour he never stirred; at length he pushed away his drawing, threw himself back in his chair, and, having been up since dawn, indulged in a very unromantic yawn. I sat rather behind him; it was some time before he remembered me; he then suddenly turned round, and looked at me in profound silence. I was too much on my guard to infringe the agreement by either moving or opening my lips. "You have a good eye for a position," he said. I did not answer. "Are you comfortable, perched up there?" he continued. "I don't mind it, Cornelius." "You can come down now." I obeyed with great alacrity. "May I speak now?" I asked with a questioning look. "You may ease yourself a little," was his charitable reply. "Cornelius, is not that Juno?" "The wife of Jupiter and the mamma of Vulcan--precisely." I was standing by him. There were other drawings on the table; I raised the corner of one and glanced at Cornelius; he smiled assent. I drew it forth; it represented an Italian boy sitting on sunlit stone steps. "That is the boy to whom Kate gave the piece of bread the other morning," I exclaimed eagerly, "is it not, Cornelius?" I looked up into his face; he seemed charmed: first praise is like early dew, very fresh and very sweet. He drew forth another drawing, and asked whose face it was. Breathless with astonishment, I recognized myself; then Kate, Deborah, Miss Hart, and even Mr. Trim, passed before me in graphic sketches. I felt excited; I now knew the power of Cornelius: he had actually, if not created, yet drawn from obscurity, those forms and faces by the mere force of his will. "Why, how flushed and animated you look!" said Cornelius, with an amused smile, as he put away the drawings. "Cornelius," I said eagerly. "Daisy." "Don't you think that if you like--" I paused: he was not attending to me.