One morning indeed, when the postman did not bring him his usual letter, he looked quite mournful, and began his labour with the declaration "that it was no use--he could not work," but after a quarter of an hour his brow had cleared and he was wholly absorbed in his task. He worked until we were both tired, he with painting, I with sitting; he then threw himself on the low couch, and wanted me to sit by him and talk as usual, but I said he looked drowsy. "So I am, you little witch." "Then pray sleep awhile." "No, I should sleep too long." "Shall I awaken you?" "You could not." "Indeed I could, Cornelius." "Promise not to mind my entreaties." "I shall not mind them, Cornelius." "Then take my watch, your poor father's present, Daisy, and wake me in a quarter of an hour." He closed his eyes, and, having the happy faculty of sleeping when he liked, he was soon in deep slumber. I sat by him, the watch in one hand, the other resting on the cushion which pillowed his head; I neither moved nor spoke until the quarter of an hour was over, then, without a second's grace, I called him up. "Five minutes more," he drowsily entreated. "Not five seconds. I wish you would wake up, Cornelius, or I shall have to pinch you or pull your hair." "Pull and pinch, so you only let me sleep." Of course I did not pinch; but I pulled one of his raven locks with sufficient force. "Little barbarian!" he exclaimed, "what do you mean by such usage?" "I mean to waken you, Cornelius." "And why so?" he asked, to obtain that second's delay which is so delightful to the sleeper. "Oh, Cornelius! how can you ask? Must you not work to become a great artist, paint fine pictures, and become famous?" "Very true!" he exclaimed, starting up; "thank you, Daisy, you are a faithful friend." And in rising, he passed his arm around my neck and kissed me. But even as he did so, I saw his glance light suddenly; I turned round, Miriam was standing on the threshold of the open door looking at us. I sighed: my three weeks' happiness was over. CHAPTER XIII. Cornelius received Miriam with a flushed brow and eager look that betrayed the joy of his heart. And yet with what indolent calmness she let him clasp her hand in his, and stood in the centre of the room, looking at him with an abstracted smile! In answer to his eager inquiries she composedly answered-- "Yes, my aunt is better and I am quite well. Just arrived? no--I came back this morning." "And I never knew it!" "And never guessed it from not receiving the letter! I am come up to scold you. Your sister says you take no rest." "I had been sleeping when you came in." "I saw you were being awakened very gently." "Gently! she used me as Minerva Achilles, but I do not complain; I wanted to work: look!" He took her arm within his and led her to his easel. "Have you done all that since I left?" she asked. "Indeed I have, Miriam."