The spring that followed it was lovely. One day I remember especially for its joyous brightness. The garden was green and blooming; Kate sat sewing on the bench by the house; I stood at the door looking down the lane. The hawthorn hedge that faced the west was ready to break out in blossom; the sun was warm; the air clear; the south-western wind was gently blowing; the newly leaved trees seemed rejoicing in a second birth; afar, through the stillness of this quiet place, the cuckoo's voice was faintly heard. I know not why I record these things, save that there is a portion of our hearts to which the aspects of this lovely world ever cling, and that, as I stood there looking, Cornelius came up the lane. He had gathered the ripest hawthorn bough; he gave it to me smiling; entered and sat down on the bench by his sister: I sat on a step at their feet. For awhile they talked of indifferent things, then he said—
"Kate, will you sit to me?"
"What for?" she asked, looking rather startled.
"A little oil painting: subject, Mother and child. You we to be the mamma, Daisy the child."
"Where will you send it?"
"To the Academy, of course. Can you give me early sittings?"
"I can; but can Daisy?"
I saw his face express keen disappointment, and I said eagerly—
"I shall get up early, Cornelius; with dawn; I shall not mind a bit."
"Nonsense, you shall get up at your usual hour—and there's an end of it."