Cornelius sighed; he looked down at me rather wistfully, and said, involuntarily perhaps-- "Yes, _you_ like both the workman and his work." I had felt, after the death of her young sister, that Miriam never would like me; from the very day she came back to the Grove, I felt she disliked me. Her return, without making Cornelius less kind, brought its own torment. She now daily came up to the studio, and from the moment her calm and beautiful face appeared in the half-open door, I felt as if a baleful shadow suddenly filled the room. She did not banish me from the only spot she had left me, but she followed me to it and mercilessly embittered all my happiness. Never once did she leave without having stung me by slights and covert sneers which Cornelius was too frank and good to perceive; which I dared not resent openly, but over which I silently brooded, until jealousy became a rooted aversion. She had been back about ten days when I again fell ill. Cornelius thought at first I had taken cold in sitting to him, and was miserable about it; but the doctor on being called in declared I had the small-pox, and though Cornelius averred he had gone through this dangerous disease, Miss O'Reilly was morally convinced of the contrary, and banished him from my room. Nothing could exceed her own devotedness to me during this short though severe illness, and my slow recovery. She seldom left me, and never for more than a few minutes. One evening however, as I woke from a light sleep, I missed Kate from her usual place, and to my dismay I saw, by the light of a low lamp burning on the table, her brother, who stood at the foot of my bed, looking at me rather sadly. "Oh! Cornelius, go, pray go," I exclaimed, in great alarm. "There is no danger for me, child," he replied gently; "how are you?" "Almost well, Cornelius, but pray go; pray do." Without answering he hastily drew back and stepped within the shadow of the bed-curtain as the door opened, and admitted, not Kate, but Miriam. She did not see Cornelius, for the room was almost dark; she probably thought I slept; she at least approached my bed very softly, moving across the carpeted floor as dark and noiseless as a shadow. When she reached the head of my bed she stood still a moment, then taking the lamp lowered it so that its dim light fell on my face. Our eyes met; I looked at her with a wonder she did not seem to heed; I had never seen her calm look so eager. With a smile she laid down the lamp. "Oh, Miriam, Miriam!" exclaimed the reproachful voice of Cornelius, who came forward as he spoke, "you have broken your word to me." She started slightly. "What brought you here?" she asked. "I wanted to see my poor child." He took her hand to lead her to the door; but she did not move, and said in a peculiar tone-- "Have you seen her?" "Not well." "Look at her then."