I did not reply, but after a while I left them. I re-entered the house, and stole up to the studio, there to brood in peace over what it was now an offence to remember. The easel stood against the wall; the papers and portfolios were covered with dust; a sketch of a group of trees--the last thing on which I had seen Cornelius engaged--lay on the table unfinished, but soiled with lying about. I opened one of the portfolios: it contained the drawings he most valued. I took them out, and, kneeling on the floor, spread them around me. Absorbed in looking at them, I never heard Cornelius enter, until his voice said close to me-- "What are you doing here?" "I was looking at these," I replied in some confusion. "Then you were taking a great liberty." I silently began to restore the drawings to the portfolio; he said shortly-- "They will do on the floor." And he walked across them to the window. "Cornelius," I observed, timidly, "you are standing on the head of the poor Italian boy, and you are going to tread on the flower-girl." "They are only fit to burn," was his misanthropic reply. "Let me take them away," I urged. He seemed disposed to answer angrily, but he restrained himself and stepped aside. I removed the drawings, carefully replaced them in the portfolio, gently slipped in a few more, then stole up a glance at Cornelius: he was looking down at me with a displeased face. "Lay down that portfolio," he said. "Pray don't burn them!" I exclaimed, tearfully. "Leave the room," he said, impatiently. I obeyed, but as I reached the door I saw Cornelius go to the fire-place and take down the match-box. It might be to light a cigar, or make a bonfire of the drawings. "Don't, pray don't," I entreated. "Don't what?" he asked, lighting the match. "Don't burn your beautiful drawings, Cornelius, pray don't." "Daisy! did I or did I not tell you to leave the room?" I stood near the door: I opened and closed it again, but unable to resist the temptation of ascertaining to what fate the drawings were reserved, I was stooping to look through the keyhole, when the door suddenly opened, and Cornelius appeared on the threshold. "Go down at once," he said, angrily. I obeyed, and, crying with vexation and grief. I entered the parlour where Kate sat sewing. "Oh, Kate!" I exclaimed through my tears, "Cornelius is burning his drawings!" "Is he?" was her calm reply. "He turned me out, pray go and prevent him." "Is there a great quantity of them?" she asked. "Three large portfolios and a little one." "That must make quite a heap." "You might save a few by going now, Kate." "He will be some time about it," she musingly observed; "better delay the tea a little." "Kate, they will be all burned if you don't go." "I hope he will be careful," said Miss O'Reilly, a little uneasy; "I hope he will not set the chimney on fire."