He passed his arm around his sister's neck, and gave her a warm kiss. She half smiled.
"That always was the way," she said, with a sigh: "I argued; you talked me out of my better knowledge, and then you would put your arm around my neck, and—"
"There was no resisting that, Kate; but then I looked up, and now I look down."
"Yes, you are a man now," she replied, looking at him with an admiring smile, "and the O'Reillys have always been fine men."
"And the women lovely, gifted, admired—"
"And minded as much as the whistling of the wind. Don't look vexed, my poor boy. I know I am not fair to you; that many a son is not so good and dutiful to his mother as you are to me; but, you see, it is as if you had been marrying a girl I hated; I can't get over it, even though I feel you have a right to please yourself. The best course will be not to talk of it: we should not agree; and where's the use of disagreeing?"
"If wives were as sensible as you are—"
"Nonsense!" she interrupted, smiling; "no woman of spirit would give in to her husband; but to her boy! oh, that's very different. Please yourself; paint your pictures, my darling, only—only—if the public don't like them, don't break your heart."
She now stood by him, with her hand resting lightly on his fine dark hair, and her eyes seeking his with wistful fondness. He laughed at her last words, laughed and knit his brow as he said—
"The public may break its heart about me, Kate—not that I wish it such a fate, poor thing!—but against the reverse I protest. And now have mercy on your brother, who has heard something about Daisy, and a good deal about painting, but nothing about tea."