Cornelius knit his brow and looked obstinate. "But why?" she exclaimed, impatiently; "will you just tell me why?" "You ask!" he replied, tossing on the couch, where he had again thrown himself with listless indolence. "Ay, and I want to know, too, Cornelius," she said, quietly returning to her chair. "Kate, when James could not marry his cousin, a plain, silly girl, why did he go to London Bridge and jump over?" Miss O'Reilly jumped on her chair. "Nonsense!" she cried, reddening, "you are not going to take that leap because you cannot paint pictures!" "No, but I'll do like James. I cannot have the girl I like--I'll have no other. I cannot marry painting, a maid as fair as May, as rosy as June, fresh as an eternal spring: and you think, Kate," he added, quite indignantly, "you actually think I would wed surly law, ill-favoured medicine, or any of those old ladies whom men woo for their money--no, 'faith!" He spoke resolutely, and sank back in his old attitude with great decision. "James was a fool!" hastily said Kate. "He was; and though there is no girl can compare with painting; though the love about which so much has been sung is cold and tame compared to the passion which fills a true painter's heart, I am not going to drown myself because the glorious gift has been denied me, and I cannot be that man." He laughed rather drearily as he said it. "Yes, but you will do nothing else," replied Kate. "I can put my heart to nothing else. Daisy, why do you not bring the books as usual?" I obeyed, but I could not give my attention to the lessons. "Child," impatiently said Cornelius, "what can you be thinking of?" I was thinking that he was not to be an artist; that he had given up painting, fame, and fortune; and, as he put the question, I burst into tears. "I understand," quietly said Cornelius: "you do not know your lessons." He closed the book, went to the piano, and sang as usual. It was plain Cornelius rejected sympathy. He showed no pity to himself, and would accept none from others. If he suffered, the jealous pride of youth would not let him confess it, yet we could see that he was not happy. He set about looking for another situation, with the dogged sort of satisfaction a man may find in choosing the rope with which he is to hang himself. His pleasant face contracted a bitter expression; his good- humoured smile became ironical and sarcastic; he had fits of the most dreary merriment; of pity he was so resentfully suspicious that we scarcely dared to look at him. Three weeks had thus elapsed, when, as I sat with Kate and Cornelius in the garden, I ventured, thinking him in a better mood than usual, to say, in my most insinuating accents-- "Cornelius, what will be the subject of your next picture?" He turned round and gave me a look so stern that I drew back half frightened. "How dare you be so presuming?" said Kate, indignantly.