"What do I want to paint pictures for?" I asked. "You do; that is enough."
"But to be my pupil?"
"Yes, that would be pleasant."
"To work in the same studio; have an easel—"
"Near yours. Yes, Cornelius, I should like that."
"Yes," said a very sweet, but very cold voice, "the artist is loved better than his art."
We both looked up to the back-parlour window above us, whence the voice proceeded. Miriam was standing there in the half-shadow of the room; her fair head was bare; her cashmere scarf fell back from her graceful shoulders; one hand held the light lace bonnet which she had taken off, the other, ungloved and as transparently fair as alabaster, rested on the dark iron bar of the balcony. She looked down at us, smiling from above, calm, like a beautiful image in her frame. Cornelius looked up, gave a short joyous laugh, and lightly bounding over the three stone steps, he vanished under the ivied porch, and was by her side in a minute.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, and the very sound of his voice betrayed his delight,
"I did not expect you for weeks yet."
"My aunt is still at Hastings; but I was obliged to leave, the air made me so unwell."
"And you never told me."