Cornelius looked surprised, then indignant. As I walked away from them, I heard the sweet voice of Miriam saying, sadly—
"How unfortunate I am to make mischief when I meant a kindness!"
"Do not mention it," replied Cornelius, in a tone of sincere distress, "it is inexpressibly bitter to me to trace such feelings in Daisy."
I stood by the sun-dial, with my back turned to them, and still trembling from head to foot with the intensity of those feelings which Cornelius deplored, but which—I felt he might have known that—sprang from the sincerity of my love for him. But it was destined that she should ever be in the right, and I in the wrong. I attempted no useless justification, and heard them going in, without so much as looking round.
Domestic quarrels are an endless progeny: each has a distinct existence; but as it dies it gives birth to a successor, and so on for ever. Even for this day, this was not enough. When Miriam returned in the afternoon, she had scarcely sat an hour to Cornelius before she said to me—
"Daisy, I never thanked you for your beautiful snowdrops; you must forgive me the omission."
"Forgive!" echoed Cornelius, who was now sitting by her for a few minutes, and who probably thought this much too condescending.
"Why not? It is the very least I can do to thank the poor child for her flowers; I also want to give her something: what would please you, my dear?"
She was again addressing me, and she spoke very sweetly: she always did speak so to me. There was the misery and the snare: she knew well enough I could never speak so to her; that, though I dare not say much on account of Cornelius, my very voice changed when I had to address or answer her. I now felt what a mockery it was for her, who had robbed me of everything I cared for, to talk of making me a present, yet I compelled myself to reply—
"Anything you like, thank you."