"Why, so it is!" exclaimed Miss Russell, seeming astonished; "how could I recognize the child in such unbecoming attire?"
"Unbecoming! Do you know, Miriam, I rather admire Daisy in her rags: her attitudes are so graceful and picturesque; and is she not wonderfully fair?" he added, taking up one of my arms and seeming to call on Miss Russell for confirmation.
"You have made quite a drudge of her," she said, looking at the picture.
"Not a degraded one, I hope," rather quickly replied Cornelius: "Marie Antoinette looked a queen, even when she swept the floor of her prison; if I have not made Daisy look superior and intellectual in her rags, the fault is mine, Miriam."
He looked at her, she did not reply; he continued—"I am taking great pains with that stolen child; as a contrast to the coarse enjoyment of the two Gipsies, and a type of unworthy degradation borne patiently and with unconscious dignity. I mean it to be the principal figure of the group: you understand?"
"I should not have guessed it," was her discouraging reply. He looked mortified; she smiled, and added, "I know nothing of Art. I have nearer seen an artist at work. Let me look at you and learn."
Cornelius looked delighted, and giving her a somewhat proud smile, set to work at once. She stood by the easel in an attitude of simple and attentive grace; she had taken off her black beaver bonnet, and the wintry light by which the artist painted, fell with a pale subdued ray on her fair head, and defined her perfect profile on the sombre background of the room. But his picture and his sitter absorbed Cornelius; his glance never wandered once to the spot where his beautiful mistress stood in such dangerous proximity. I saw her look at him with wonder, almost with pity, then with something like displeasure.
Cornelius was more than usually intent. From his face I knew he was obstinately striving against some difficulty. He frowned; he bit his lip; his very manner of holding palette and pencil was annoyed and irritated. At length he threw both down with an impetuous and indignant exclamation—
"I cannot—do what I will—I cannot!" I was accustomed to such little outbreaks, but Miriam drew back, and said in a tone of ice—
"Mr. O'Reilly, you will break your palette."