"You spoil her, do you not?" asked Miriam.

"Kate says so. Do I spoil you, Daisy?"

I said "Yes," and half hid my face on his shoulder, whence I looked at Miriam, who smiled, as if the fondness of Cornelius for me, and mine for him, gave her pleasure to see.

"She spoils me, but she won't let me have my way," said a soft lisping voice from the porch. We looked, and saw Miss Ducky's pretty curled head bending forward and looking at us. Her sister's whole face underwent a change on seeing her.

"But then she's so jealous," continued Ducky, pouting, "I hope you are not jealous of Daisy."

"Foolish child!" said Miriam, striving to smile.

"But then she's very fond of me," resumed Ducky, smiling; "when Doctor Johnson, stupid man, said I could not live, she was nearly distracted.

Silly of her, was it not, Mr. O'Reilly?"

Her look so pertinaciously sought his that he could scarcely have avoided looking at her. She was very pretty thus in the gloom of the porch, and he smiled at her fresh young beauty. I saw Miriam glance uneasily from one to the other, then a cloud gathered on her brow. She bade us a sudden adieu, went up to her sister, and led her away, spite of her evident reluctance. Cornelius continued to look like one entranced on the spot where Miriam had lately stood; I was but a child, yet I knew he was now listening to the sweet and delusive voice of pa.s.sion, unheeded during the earlier years of his youth, and enchanting him at last. I was watching his face attentively: he looked down, met my glance, and said quietly--

"Confess Miss Ducky is much prettier than her sister."

If he wanted me to contradict, he was disappointed.

"Yes, Cornelius," I replied, "she is."

"I thought you admired Miriam most," he said a little shortly.

"I did not know then she had green eyes."

This was true: the hue of Miriam's eyes, of a blue verging on green, was the fault of her face; I had been quick to detect it; Cornelius reddened and never broached the subject again.

Miriam came no more near us, and kept such good watch on her young sister, that we never had the opportunity of again comparing them together. Strange and sad to say, as autumn opened, the young girl sickened and in a few weeks died in the arms of her sister, childish and unconscious to the last. Miss O'Reilly and I watched the funeral leaving the house; as I saw it pa.s.s by, I felt as if Death, baulked of one prey and unwilling to leave our dwelling unsated, had seized on her, and I startled Kate by observing--

"Kate, don't you think poor Miss Ducky died instead of me?"

"Bless the child!" exclaimed Kate, turning pale; "never say that again."

But the fancy had taken hold of me, and, unless I am much deceived, of another too. Weeks elapsed before we saw anything of the bereaved sister.

We heard that, wrapt in her grief, she remained for days locked in her room, and there brooded over her loss, rejecting consolation with scorn, and indulging in pa.s.sionate mourning. Kate blamed this excessive sorrow; her brother never uttered one word of praise or blame.

Though my health was much improved, I was still delicate and subject to attacks of languor. One evening, Kate, seeing me scarcely able to sit up, wanted me to go to bed; but Cornelius had been out all day, I wished to await his return, so I went to the back-parlour, reclined on a couch, and there fell asleep.

I was partly awakened by the sound of voices talking earnestly in the next room, of which the door stood half open. I listened, still half asleep: one of the voices was that of Cornelius, pa.s.sionately entreating; the other that of Miriam, coldly denying and accusing him of infidelity to the dead, whilst with ardent warmth he protested that she alone had been mistress of his thoughts. I sat up on the couch amazed and confounded. My room was dark, they could not see me, but I could see them. Miriam sat by the table, clad in deep mourning; Cornelius by her, with his face averted from me; he held her hand in his, still entreating; she said nothing, but she no longer denied. He raised her hand to his lips unreproved; whilst a bright rosy hue, that seemed too ardent for a blush, pa.s.sed over her face, late so pale with grief.

I sank back on my couch, frightened at having heard and seen what had never been meant for my ear or sight; but I could not help it; I could not leave the room where I was, without breaking in upon them; twice I rose to do so, but each time my courage failed me. So I kept quiet, and stopping my ears with my fingers, did my best not to hear. I could not however help catching words now and then, and once I heard Miriam saying--

"Do you know why I, who never thought of you before this last hour, now wish to love you?--Because you are so unlike me."

What Cornelius replied I know not. Soon after this Miss Russell left.

Cornelius had followed her to the door. He returned to the parlour, and throwing himself on the sofa, he there fell into a smiling reverie.

I softly left my couch, entered the parlour, and quietly sat down on a cushion at his feet. Cornelius looked as if he could not believe his eyes, then slowly sat up, and bent on me a face that darkened as he looked.

CHAPTER XII.

"Where do you come from?" he asked.

"From the next room."

"Have you been there long?"

"The whole evening."

"I thought you were upstairs sleeping?"

"No, Cornelius, I was lying on the couch."

"And you have just awakened, I suppose?" he carelessly observed, but with his look bent keenly on my face. I answered in a faltering tone--

"I have been awake some time."

"Before Miss Russell left?"

"Yes, Cornelius."

The blood rushed up to his brow.

"You listened?" he exclaimed, with a wrathful glance.

"I heard, Cornelius," I replied, unwilling to lose the distinction, "and heard as little as I could."

"Heard!" he indignantly echoed. "Upon my word! and why did you hear? Why did you not leave the room?"

"Twice I rose to do so; I made a noise on purpose; but you did not hear me, and I did not dare to disturb you."

Cornelius did not say which of the two evils--being disturbed or overheard by me--he would have preferred. I sat at his feet, wistfully looking up into his face. It was always expressive, and now told very plainly his annoyance and vexation. It would scarcely have been in the nature of mortal man, not to resent the presence of a witness on so interesting and delicate an occasion.

"I never heard anything like it," he exclaimed, indignantly. "I am fond of you, Daisy, but you do not imagine I ever contemplated taking you--a little girl too--into my confidence, as twice I have been compelled to do. What do you mean by it?" he added, with a perplexed and provoked air, that to a looker-on might have been amusing.

"I mean nothing, Cornelius."

"Foolish child," he continued, impatiently, "not to stay on your couch, and let me fancy you had slept through it!"

"But that would have been a great shame," I replied very earnestly; "I came out on purpose that you might know."

"Thank you!" he said drily.

"I shall not tell," I observed, in a low tone.