"That accounts for your letters being so short." He reddened; she calmly resumed-- "Why are those two figures mere outlines?" "Thereby hangs a tale, or rather a tea-spoon. They are to be Gipsies: the child is stolen." "And a miserable little creature it looks." "I see I have not caught the likeness," said Cornelius, looking mortified: "it is Daisy." "Why, so it is!" exclaimed Miss Russell, seeming astonished; "how could I recognize the child in such unbecoming attire?" "Unbecoming! Do you know, Miriam, I rather admire Daisy in her rags: her attitudes are so graceful and picturesque; and is she not wonderfully fair?" he added, taking up one of my arms and seeming to call on Miss Russell for confirmation. "You have made quite a drudge of her," she said, looking at the picture. "Not a degraded one, I hope," rather quickly replied Cornelius: "Marie Antoinette looked a queen, even when she swept the floor of her prison; if I have not made Daisy look superior and intellectual in her rags, the fault is mine, Miriam." He looked at her, she did not reply; he continued--"I am taking great pains with that stolen child; as a contrast to the coarse enjoyment of the two Gipsies, and a type of unworthy degradation borne patiently and with unconscious dignity. I mean it to be the principal figure of the group: you understand?" "I should not have guessed it," was her discouraging reply. He looked mortified; she smiled, and added, "I know nothing of Art. I have nearer seen an artist at work. Let me look at you and learn." Cornelius looked delighted, and giving her a somewhat proud smile, set to work at once. She stood by the easel in an attitude of simple and attentive grace; she had taken off her black beaver bonnet, and the wintry light by which the artist painted, fell with a pale subdued ray on her fair head, and defined her perfect profile on the sombre background of the room. But his picture and his sitter absorbed Cornelius; his glance never wandered once to the spot where his beautiful mistress stood in such dangerous proximity. I saw her look at him with wonder, almost with pity, then with something like displeasure. Cornelius was more than usually intent. From his face I knew he was obstinately striving against some difficulty. He frowned; he bit his lip; his very manner of holding palette and pencil was annoyed and irritated. At length he threw both down with an impetuous and indignant exclamation-- "I cannot--do what I will--I cannot!" I was accustomed to such little outbreaks, but Miriam drew back, and said in a tone of ice-- "Mr. O'Reilly, you will break your palette." "I beg your pardon," replied Cornelius, with a start that showed he had forgotten her presence, "but Daisy and the palette are used to it, and there are things would provoke Saint Luke himself, saint and painter though he was. Would you believe it? I cannot render the thoughtful look of that child's eyes otherwise than by a stare!"