He took my hand, made me rise, and led me to the glass. In vain I turned away--he compelled me to look, and I saw my face--the same as ever; not handsomer, certainly, but not in the least disfigured. I turned to Cornelius, flushed and breathless with pleasure: he seemed to be enjoying my surprise. "Ah! how uselessly we have frightened you!" he said, smiling, "but your face looked bad at first, and that wise doctor said it would remain thus. Kate and I have watched the change with great interest, but seeing how well you bore it, we resolved not to speak until you were once more metamorphosed into your former self. Confess the pleasure was worth the fright." I glanced at the mirror, then at Cornelius, who stood with me on the hearth-rug, and with an odd, fluttering feeling, I observed-- "I don't think I am disfigured, Cornelius." "Not a bit," he replied, gaily: "oh! you will grow up into a beauty yet." He was holding my head in both his hands, and looking down at me very kindly. I earnestly gazed in his face, and said-- "Did I look very bad on that evening when you brought me down, Cornelius? Was I quite a fright?" "Almost," he replied, frankly. "Well, what is it?" he added, as he saw my eyes filling with tears: "you do not mind that now, do you, child?" "No. Cornelius, but I remember you kissed me." He smiled, without answering, and went back to Miriam. I quietly resumed by him the place to which he had summoned me, and which I had so reluctantly taken. He paid me no attention, and pertinaciously looked at his betrothed; yet when my hand silently sought his, its pressure returned told me that he was not unconscious of my presence. I felt too happy to be jealous, and for once sitting thus by Cornelius, unnoticed, but with his hand in mine, I could be satisfied with that humble degree of affection which a plain, homely child may receive in the presence of a beautiful and beloved woman. Kate, pleased to see me recovered and happy, was smiling at me from her low chair, when she suddenly frowned and started, as a low, timid knock was heard at the street-door. "That's Trim!" she exclaimed astonished, for, like Mr. Smalley, he had not come near us since the engagement of Cornelius and Miriam; "I know him by his slinking knock, which always seems to say, 'Don't mind me-- nobody minds me, you know.'" Miriam smiled scornfully; the parlour door opened, and Mr. Trim's head appeared nodding benevolently at us all. He entered with his usual slouch, shuffled his way to Kate, and holding her hand in both his, kindly hoped, "she was quite well."