"And how do you know?" she asked, giving me an attentive look. "I met him on the sands." She did not ask me why I had not mentioned it to her sooner, but said quietly-- "That boy has grown very much." The word "boy" relieved me greatly. Since William was only a boy, there could be no sort of harm or indiscretion in being so much with him, nor was there either any absolute necessity to mention the matter to Miss O'Reilly. So when, to quiet my anticipations, she sent me out for a walk, I did not inform her that one of my motives for complying with her request was to impart the tidings to William Murray. As I saw him advancing towards me, I eagerly ran to meet him. "Oh, William," I cried joyfully, "I am so glad, so happy." "Then Mr. O'Reilly is come back?" he said, stopping short to look at me. "No; but he is coming soon, quite soon. Is it not delightful?" "Indeed it is," he replied cordially; "tell me all about it, Daisy." We sat down on a ledge of rock facing the sea, and I told him all there was to tell. He heard me with a pleased smile on his kind, handsome face, which he kept turned towards mine, as he sat there in a listening attitude. William was then between eighteen and nineteen. He was slight in figure, but above the middle height, and of a spirited bearing. His complexion, once too fair, had become embrowned by constant exposure, and spite of his light hair and blue eyes he looked sufficiently manly; his midshipman's attire became him well, and the consciousness of having entered active life had freed his manner from much of its ungracious roughness. Of these changes I was conscious, but other change I saw not: William was to me what he had been since we had become friends--frank, ingenuous, and boyish in his kindness. I had often spoken to him of Cornelius, and I now closed my brief recital with the remark-- "Oh, William! I am so happy that I scarcely know what to do with myself." He looked at me silently, began tracing figures in the sand with a slender wand which he held, then suddenly looked up again, and said, very earnestly-- "He is quite like a father to you, Daisy." "More than a father," I replied, ardently, "for a father is bound to do for his child what, of his own free-will, Cornelius did for me. And then so kind! always giving me new playthings, or books, or things I liked." "And you were quite like a daughter to him." "I was, and am. Look, here is his last letter, beginning with 'my dear child,' and signed, 'your old friend, Cornelius;' but I have another at home, in which he actually calls me 'his dear, adopted daughter.' I am quite proud of it, for he is to be very celebrated, you know, and it is a great honour." William again traced figures in the sand, but he did not speak. "Well," I said, bending down to look at him, "what are you thinking of?" "That I should like you to be proud of being my friend," he replied, with an earnest look.