I looked at him; he did not seem angry, very far from it. Alas! it was but too plain; every word I had uttered had passed for the ravings of an insane jealousy. Cornelius sat down and called me to his side.
"Come here," he said kindly, "and let us reason together."
"If you knew." he continued taking both my hands in his, "how thoroughly blind you are, you would regret speaking thus. How can you imagine that Miriam, who is so good, so kind, should—hate you? Promise me that you will dismiss the idea."
"I cannot—I know better—there is not a day but she torments me."
"Poor child! you are your own tormentor. She torment you! look at that beautiful face, and ask yourself, is it possible?"
"Beautiful!" I echoed, "I don't think she is beautiful, Cornelius."
"Yes, I know," he composedly replied, "but that is because you don't like her."
"No more I do," I exclaimed passionately, "nor anything of or about her: no—not even your picture, Cornelius!"
He dropped my hands; rose and looked down at me, flushed and angry.
"You need not tell me that," he said indignantly, "the look of aversion and hate you have just cast at that picture, shows sufficiently that though the power to do the original some evil and injury may be wanting, the will is not."