"Alas, no," he replied, a little passionately, "and there too is the mischief. Oh! Daisy, be merciful! Give nothing if you cannot give all. Be at once all ice, and torment me no more with the calm serenity which is never coldness. Do you know how often you have made me burn to remind you, that though I was no one to you, you might be some one to me; that you have made me long for the sting of indifference and pride; for a familiarity less tender, for a tenderness less dangerous? Do you know that if your affection has been too calm for love, it has been very ardent for mere friendship; that it has possessed the perilous charm of passion and purity; passion which would be divine if it could but be pure; purity which, if it were but ardent, would be irresistibly alluring. You have tormented me almost beyond endurance, then when I gave up hope, you have suddenly said and done the kindest things maiden ever said or did. You have deserted me and returned to me, embraced me with the careless confidence of a sister, spoken with the tenderness of a mistress, and perplexed me beyond all mortal knowledge. But why do I speak as if this were over? Daisy! you perplex me still. This very evening have you not declared that you care for no other, then almost as plainly said you cared not for me. Have you not heard me tell you how warmly I love you, yet have you not asked me to stay here in this house ever near you? Nay, though I speak now from the very fulness of my heart, do you not stand, your hand in mine, listening to me with patient, quiet grace? I dare not hope, I will not quite despair; I can do neither, for I protest, Daisy, that you are still to me a riddle and a mystery, and that whether you love him or love him not, is more than Cornelius O'Reilly can tell." Cornelius had said all this without a pause of rest: he spoke with the daring rapidity of passion which tarries not for words, but with many an eloquent change of look, tone, and accent. I had heard him with throbbing bosom and burning brow. For the first time I was addressed in the language of love, and the voice that spoke was very dear to me. Answer I could not. I stood before him, listening to tones that had ceased, but that still echoed in my heart. When he confessed, however, that he did not know whether or not I loved him, an involuntary smile stole over my face, and this he was very quick to see; his look, keen and searching, sought mine; his face, eager and flushed, was bent over me. "Look at me, Daisy," he said, quickly. I looked up, smiling still; for I thought to myself, "I love him, but he shall not know it just yet." But as I looked, a change of feeling came over my heart. I remembered the past, his long goodness, his patient, devoted love, and I could not take my eyes away. "Well," he said, uneasily, "why do you look at me so strangely? My face is not new to you, Daisy. You have had time to know it all these years."