"You don't like me," I once said to him, a little angrily,--"you know you don't; you never kiss me now--you know you never do." And I began to cry. Cornelius looked almost ludicrously perplexed. He hit his lip; his upraised eyes sought the ceiling; he tapped his foot; he sighed profoundly, then hung down his head, and looked melancholy. "I wish you would always remain a little girl of thirteen or so," he said ruefully, "it would be a great deal more convenient and comfortable." I was piqued with the wish, and checked my tears to inform Cornelius I hoped I should not remain a little girl; indeed I was sure of it, and that though he did not care about me at all, he should not prevent me from caring about him. He smiled, but not cheerfully; then he made an effort, and said,-- "Never mind, Daisy, you shall be happy, let it cost what it may; only don't tell Kate." "What must I not tell her, Cornelius?" "Never mind; but don't tell her." "But, Cornelius, I must know in order not to tell." "You are very inquisitive," was his short answer. I did not know what to make of him. He looked as oddly as he spoke, and I had not the faintest idea of the generous sacrifice he resolutely contemplated, at an age when most men are dead to all, save the gratification of their own vehement passions. Since then I have understood both what Cornelius feared and what he intended to do. I have admired his generosity and wondered at his rashness in forgetting what was not merely likely to happen, but what really did happen; namely, that he was to love again. This imprudent resolve had however the result of giving him momentary peace, and, perhaps because its realization was still so distant, of banishing from his mind all thought of the future. CHAPTER II. Of course Cornelius had gone on painting all this time. He finished his Stolen Child, painted two other smaller and more simple pictures, and he sent in the three to the Academy. "1 don't see why you should always send your pictures to the Academy," said Kate; "I don't think it is fair to the other Exhibitions." Cornelius confessed that the argument had its weight. "But then you see, Kitty," he added, "I cannot do less; they behaved so well to me last year about that trashy Happy Time: it really was a poor thing, and yet see how well they hung it--they did not think much of it, but they saw that it promised something for the future. Yes, they really behaved very well--so well that though I am certain they will reject the two minor pictures and only take in the Stolen Child, I feel I cannot do less than give them the chance of the three." "You are too generous," sighed Kate; "you will never get on in the world with those disinterested notions, my poor brother--never; besides, I put it to your sense of justice, now, is it fair to the other Exhibitions?"