He spoke quite mournfully: Miriam laughed; her lover looked astonished. "What about it?" she said. "Why, that I am painting a bad picture." "What matter?" "And the disappointment! the shame!" "Be more philosophic," she coolly replied: "success is but a chance." "Begging your pardon, Miriam, it is a chance that falls to the good pictures, consequently it is worth any toil, any sacrifice." "Yes," she replied, with reproach in the very carelessness of her tone, "you are, like all men, absorbed in your ambition." "Would you have me sit down in idleness?" "I would have you not set your heart on a picture and on fame." "I must work, Miriam, and the workman cannot separate himself from his work, nor be careless of his wages." He spoke very warmly; she coldly smiled. "I can do so," she replied; "I can tell you: paint good or bad pictures-- what matter? you are still the same man." "Ay, but there is a bit of difference between a good and bad painter," answered Cornelius, looking half vexed, "and Cornelius O'Reilly hopes to paint good pictures before he dies! But for one or two things this would not be amiss. Daisy, come and look at it." "You appeal to her?" "She sometimes hits the right nail on the head. Are the eyes better, Daisy?" "No, Cornelius," I frankly replied. "No!" he echoed, giving my neck a provoked pinch, "and why so, pray?" "I don't like them much; they look in." "You silly child, that is just what I want," he replied, smiling and chucking my chin: "I don't know what I should do without that little girl," he added, turning to Miriam, "she is a wonderful sitter, not a bad critic--" "Are you not afraid she will take cold?" interrupted Miriam; "that dress looks thin." "I trust not," answered Cornelius; "the room is kept warm; she says she is quite warm, but she is so anxious to be of use to me that I can scarcely trust her. Oh, Daisy! I hope you have not been deceiving me." He made me lie down on the couch, drew it by the fire, threw over me a shawl that was kept in the studio for that purpose, and wrapped me in its folds. I smiled at his anxiety; Miriam looked on with surprise, as if she had forgotten that Cornelius was fond of me. "I am so thankful to you for mentioning it," he said, turning towards her, "I am forgetful of these things; but if anything were to happen to Daisy, even for the sake of the best picture man ever painted, I should never forgive myself. How do you think she looks?" "Sallow, as usual," she replied, in passing by me to leave us. "You are not going yet," he said, going up to her, "you know I want to convert you to Art." "Not to-day," she replied coldly, and, disengaging her hand from his, she left the studio. Cornelius came back to the fireplace and looked pensive. I attempted to rise. "No," he said quickly, "you must not sit any more to-day." "Oh! Cornelius," I entreated, "pray let me; I do so want to see the picture finished."