My cheek lay close to his, his heavy hair brushed my face, his eyes looked into mine with something sad in their fondness. I felt how much, how truly, how purely the good young man loved the child he had adopted, and returning his tender embrace, I was happy even to a sense of pain. I believe in the presentiments of the heart, and I believe that on this evening, and at that moment, Cornelius and I unconsciously had each ours, and each, though different from the other, was destined to be fulfilled. The next day Cornelius knew why he had felt so fond of me: I was dangerously ill, and for days and weeks my life was despaired of. CHAPTER XI. That time is still to me a blank, on the vague back-ground of which stand forth two vivid and distinct images. One is that of Cornelius, sitting by me and holding my hand in his: the other, that of a tall, pale, and fair- haired lady, who stood at the foot of my bed, clad in white, calm and beautiful as a vision. I had never seen her before, and I remember still how vainly I tormented my poor feverish brain to make out who she was. I have a vague recollection that I one day framed the question, "Who are you?" "Miriam," she replied, in a voice as sweet and as cold as a silver bell, and she laid her fingers on her lips, to enjoin silence. The name told me nothing, but my wandering mind was too much confused to follow out any train of thought. I accustomed myself to her presence, without striving to know more. Another day, I remember her better still. She was standing at the foot of the bed, half hidden by the white curtain. A little further on, Cornelius talked to a grave-looking man, in tones which, though low, awoke me from my dreamy unconsciousness. "I can give you no hope," said the physician, for such even then I knew him to be: "it will end in a decline." "Oh! doctor," entreated Cornelius, "she is so young, scarcely twelve." "My dear Sir, we do not work miracles, and those excitable children--" "But my poor little Daisy is so quiet," interrupted Cornelius; "you never knew such a quiet child; she will sit still for hours whilst I am drawing or painting. Indeed, Sir," he added, giving the doctor an appealing look, "she is the quietest little creature breathing." "Well, Sir," replied the physician, "I will not say that she cannot outlive this, but she is too slight, too delicate for me to hold out much hope for the future." He left. When he was gone Cornelius bent over me. "My poor little Daisy," he said, in a low, sad tone,--"my poor little Daisy, I did not think you would wither so very early." Two hot tears fell on my face. "Mr. O'Reilly," said a sweet voice behind him, "the child will live, you love her too much, she cannot die." I looked languidly through my half-closed eyes. Miriam stood by Cornelius; she had placed her hand on his shoulder; he sat half turned round gazing at her with astonishment. She smiled and continued--