"Nonsense, boy, go and sing your song."
He laughed; rose and kissed her blooming cheek. He had never so much as looked at me. Whilst he sang, I sat at the end of the piano as usual; when he closed the instrument and went to the sofa, I followed him and drew my stool at the foot of the couch. There he indolently lay for awhile; then suddenly started up, and walked, or rather lounged about the room, looking at the books on the table, at the flowers in the stand, and talking to his sister. I rose, and, unperceived as I thought, I followed him quietly; walking when he walked, stopping when he stopped, and waiting for the favourable moment to catch a look and obtain, perhaps, a negligent caress.
"It is most extraordinary," exclaimed Miss O'Reilly, who had been watching me.
"What is extraordinary, Kate?"
"How that child persists in sneaking after you, as if she were a little spaniel and you were her master!"
"Is she not gone to bed yet?" asked Cornelius, turning round to give me a surprised look.
"She is going," replied Miss O'Reilly, rising and taking my hand: "early to bed and early to rise. By the bye, Cornelius, do try and get up earlier. It is too bad to keep breakfast as you do until near nine every morning, with the tea not worth drinking, and the ham getting cold with waiting."
She spoke with some solemnity. He laughed, and promised to amend, throwing the whole fault on "that dreadful indolence of his."
But he did not amend; for though the next morning was bright and sunny as an autumn morning can be, eight struck, and yet Cornelius did not come down, to the infinite detriment of tea and ham. This was but the repetition of a long-standing offence, until then patiently endured; but Miss O'Reilly now put by patience; she looked at the clock, gave the fire a good poke, and, knitting her smooth brow, exclaimed—
"I should like to know why it is that Cornelius will persist in getting up late!"