Our first greeting over, Cornelius and I sat down on the wooden bench. The wind came from the west. It blew fresh in our faces, and bowed over us the pine-trees and their rustling branches, through which the slanting rays of the sun behind came warm and pleasant. Our glance rested on a sweep of winding shore, half veiled in light sparkling mists; on that sea which looked so serene, and yet seemed so living and so free in its very repose. Our ear was greeted by the low dash of waves on the beach below, by the murmurs of a breeze that died away far inland amongst low hills and lonely places, and looking up at one another with a smile, we both said what a lovely morning it was. I passed my arm within that of Cornelius, and clasping both my hands over it, I looked up into his face and began a series of questions. "Tell me all about your pictures and your painting." A light cloud passed over his brow, as he replied-- "Never mind about the pictures just now, Daisy." "Well, then," I said, though a little disappointed, "tell me all about Italy." "All about it--there's a modest request!" "Well, then, tell me something. Are the Italian women so handsome?" "Some are, some are not." His tone and manner were abstracted. I could not but notice that he was surveying me from head to foot. "What else?" I asked, a little impatiently. "What else?" he echoed, still looking at me. "Yes, what else?" "Nothing else; save that I am thinking of something else just now." "I knew you would notice it," I exclaimed, feeling myself reddening; "I told Kate so." "Indeed?" "Yes; it was her doing, not mine. She said you hated grey, and made me put on this blue muslin, though it looks so gay for the morning." "Well," replied Cornelius, with a smile, "blue is as charming a colour as grey is cold and dull to the eye. But to tell you the truth, I was not thinking about your dress." "Ah!" I said, rather abashed. "No,--I was thinking of the change two years have wrought, and wondering I never noticed it last night. The other one was a pale, sickly little thing, a poor wee Daisy, coming up weak and stunted on the outskirts of the town; this one is fresh and fair as any wild flower that grows. Why, where did she, once so wan and sallow, get that clear, rosy freshness? What kind fairy has changed the pale yellow hair I still remember, into those heavy tresses of rich brown, tinged with gold--a hue both exquisite and rare, which I shall assuredly transfer to my next picture. As for the eyes, she could not improve them,--so she left them what they still are-- the finest I have ever seen." I opened them a little on hearing him speak so. He quietly took out my comb; my hair rolled down in waves below my waist; he surveyed it admiringly, with a glance in which blended the fondness of a father for his pet child and the ever-observant eye of the artist.