"Pray don't burn them!" I exclaimed, tearfully.
"Leave the room," he said, impatiently.
I obeyed, but as I reached the door I saw Cornelius go to the fire-place and take down the match-box. It might be to light a cigar, or make a bonfire of the drawings.
"Don't, pray don't," I entreated.
"Don't what?" he asked, lighting the match.
"Don't burn your beautiful drawings, Cornelius, pray don't."
"Daisy! did I or did I not tell you to leave the room?"
I stood near the door: I opened and closed it again, but unable to resist the temptation of ascertaining to what fate the drawings were reserved, I was stooping to look through the keyhole, when the door suddenly opened, and Cornelius appeared on the threshold.
"Go down at once," he said, angrily.
I obeyed, and, crying with vexation and grief. I entered the parlour where Kate sat sewing.