I knocked at the door of Cornelius; he opened it; the landing was dark, I could not see him distinctly. I delivered my message; he did not reply, but quietly followed me downstairs. As he entered the parlour, the look of Kate became riveted on his face; it was pale but perfectly collected. He sat down and drank his tea in total silence. No sooner was the tray removed, than Miss O'Reilly entered abruptly on the subject, by saying-- "What mean jealousy there is, Cornelius!" "Yes, Kate, very mean jealousy." "In this case especially." "It was not jealousy," he replied, looking annoyed. "The name then! I said so: a Smith, a Jones, a Jenkins would have got in, but an O'Reilly--" "Kate," interrupted her brother, reddening, "it was not the name." "What then?" she asked, with a wistful look. His lip trembled, but he made an effort, and replied firmly-- "The picture." "The picture!" echoed Kate, looking disheartened. "Yes, the picture," resumed Cornelius, inexorable to himself, to his youthful ambition, to his long-cherished dreams; "it is not its being rejected that troubles me, but its having deserved the rejection. Kate, I have committed a bitter mistake, and I found it out, not to-day, but weeks ago. So long as Art was unattempted, faith was in me as a living stream; it has ebbed away, and left the bed where it once flowed, barren and dry." He sat by the table, his brow resting on his hand, the light of the lamp falling on his pale face, where will vainly sought to control the keen disappointment of a life-long aim. There was a pause, then his sister said-- "What will you do?" "Seek for some other situation; anything will do." "The City again! Why not try for work as an artist?" "And do as a drudge the work I so long hoped to do as a master," replied Cornelius, colouring to the very temples. "No, Kate, that indeed would be degradation!" "Then you give up painting?" "Utterly." She started from her seat, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said warmly-- "Leave the City to drudges, and painting to enthusiasts. You have youth, talent, energy; choose the career of a gentleman, work, and make your way as you can, if you will--I shall find the means." "I cannot," replied Cornelius, after a pause. "Then you mean to return to painting," vehemently exclaimed his sister. "If I cannot paint good pictures, Kate, I will not paint bad ones." "What will you do?" "The City--" "The City! the dirty, smoky City for an Irish gentleman, of pure Milesian blood, without Scotch or Saxon stain, and who calls himself O'Reilly too! Cornelius, return to painting rather." "Kate," he replied, with an expression of pain and weariness, "this is not a matter of will; I cannot paint now; my faith is dead. You may lock up the studio; the easel may stand against the wall; pencil or palette your brother will never handle again." "Nor shall my brother be a clerk," she said resolutely.