He laughed, but the jest was forced; the laugh was not real. He looked like one who vainly seeks to brave the sting of some secret pain, and as I sat by him he bent on me a dreary, vacant look, that saw me not; but in a few minutes, almost a few seconds, he was himself again.
"No," he observed in his usual tone, "the other picture is much the best, and with it I must now go on."
In that opinion and decision Miriam fully concurred. Every day she came up to the studio for awhile, and she never left without having admired the Stolen Child, and, though very gently, depreciated Medora. One day in the week that followed her return, as she stood behind Cornelius looking at him painting, she was more than usually eloquent.
"There is so much thought, sadness, and poetry about that figure," she said,—"it expresses so well civilized intelligence captive amongst those half-savage Gipsies, that I never look at it without a new feeling of admiration."
I detected the ill-repressed smile of proud pleasure which lit up the whole countenance of Cornelius, but he carelessly replied—
"I am glad you think so."
Miriam continued.
"The difference between this and Medora is even to me quite astonishing."
Cornelius reddened; she resumed—
"One is as earnest as the other is indifferent."