"No," I replied, half indignantly.
"She won't have me," he said, feigning deep dejection; "ungrateful girl! is it for this I have so often brought you home apples, gingerbread and nuts, not harder than your heart?"
Unmoved by this pathetic appeal, I persisted in rejecting Cornelius, whom, even in jest, I could not consider otherwise than as my dear adopted father. Miss O'Reilly settled the point by saying it was quite ridiculous for little girls not yet twelve to be sitting up so late. As she rose and took me by the hand, I bade Cornelius good-night. He kissed me, not once, but two or three times, and so much more tenderly than usual, that Kate said, smiling—
"Cornelius, you are very fond of that child."
"Yes, Kate, I am. Next to you, there is nothing I like half so well in this world, and, somehow or other, I do not think I have ever felt fonder of her than this evening."
My cheek lay close to his, his heavy hair brushed my face, his eyes looked into mine with something sad in their fondness. I felt how much, how truly, how purely the good young man loved the child he had adopted, and returning his tender embrace, I was happy even to a sense of pain.
I believe in the presentiments of the heart, and I believe that on this evening, and at that moment, Cornelius and I unconsciously had each ours, and each, though different from the other, was destined to be fulfilled. The next day Cornelius knew why he had felt so fond of me: I was dangerously ill, and for days and weeks my life was despaired of.
CHAPTER XI.
That time is still to me a blank, on the vague back-ground of which stand forth two vivid and distinct images. One is that of Cornelius, sitting by me and holding my hand in his: the other, that of a tall, pale, and fair- haired lady, who stood at the foot of my bed, clad in white, calm and beautiful as a vision. I had never seen her before, and I remember still how vainly I tormented my poor feverish brain to make out who she was. I have a vague recollection that I one day framed the question, "Who are you?"
"Miriam," she replied, in a voice as sweet and as cold as a silver bell, and she laid her fingers on her lips, to enjoin silence. The name told me nothing, but my wandering mind was too much confused to follow out any train of thought. I accustomed myself to her presence, without striving to know more. Another day, I remember her better still. She was standing at the foot of the bed, half hidden by the white curtain. A little further on, Cornelius talked to a grave-looking man, in tones which, though low, awoke me from my dreamy unconsciousness.