"Oh! you are looking at these odds and ends." "I like them so much," I replied, carefully abstaining from looking towards Mary Stuart. "Do you?" "Indeed I do; they are beautiful, and then they remind me of our Gallery--you remember our Gallery, Cornelius?" "Yes, I think I remember something of the kind,--you were an odd little girl, Daisy." "I wish you would explain these sketches to me." He sat down by me; leaned one arm on the back of my chair, and, with the hand that was free, turned over the sketches, giving a few words of brief but graphic explanation to each. He allowed me to admire them, but made no comment of his own. At length the pleasant task was ended; Cornelius rose and put away the portfolio; I was thinking with inward self- gratulation that he had forgotten all about the picture, when to my dismay he said very quietly-- "Daisy, you have not told me what you think of my Mary Stuart." "Have I not?" "No, indeed. Whilst Kate was here you looked at it, but never opened your lips; when I came back, I found you sitting with your back to it, intent over these sketches, mere foolish trifles, Daisy, with which I relaxed my mind from graver labours; so pray forget them, look at Mary Stuart, and give me, without flattery of course, your candid opinion." Here was a predicament! I came out with-- "A picture of yours cannot but be good, Cornelius." "Thank you, Daisy, but that is stating a fact, not giving me your opinion." "I dare not give an opinion." "Very modest; but you know whether you like a thing or not; _ergo_, do you or do you not like Mary Stuart?" Oh for a good genius to suggest some reply that might please him and not violate truth! All I could find was a foolish "Of course not," which prolonged, but did not elude the difficulty. "Do you like it or not?" he repeated. I did not reply. "A plain yes or no, Daisy." "Well, then,--no," I exclaimed, desperately. Cornelius whistled. "She is grown up," he said; "not like my picture! decidedly she is grown up! Why, the other one would have admired any daub I painted!" Tears of vexation rose to my eyes; he stooped, and smiled in my face. "Why should you be annoyed when I am not?" he asked, very kindly. "I am mortified at my bad taste, Cornelius." "Then since you are conscious of bad taste, why don't you like Mary Stuart?" "I can't help it; I am afraid I have no feeling, for when I look at Mary Stuart I feel as if I did not care whether they put her to death or not." "How hard-hearted you must be! but go on; what else?" "Nothing else, Cornelius, save that I fear I don't care about Mary Stuart at all." I looked at him rather shyly; he was laughing. "You are as odd a girl as you were an odd child," he said, with his look bent on my face; "why, Daisy, that is just my case; I did not care about Mary Stuart whilst I painted her, and, poor thing! I don't care much about her now." "Don't you, Cornelius?" I asked, astonished.