"You cannot mean it, Daisy—you cannot mean it."
"Why not, Cornelius?" I asked, amazed at his manner.
"Do you mean to say that I love you as my daughter or child?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
"Do you mean to say that you love me as your father?"
"Yes, Cornelius."
His voice rose and rang with each question; mine sank with every reply.
He darted at me a look of the keenest reproach.
"Never," he exclaimed, with a fire and vehemence that startled me, "never have I loved you, or shall I love you so; never for a second in the past; never for a second in the future; never, Daisy, never!" And turning from me, he paced the room with hasty steps, a flushed brow, and angry look. At length he stopped before me; for, being somewhat calmer, the fire of his look seemed more earnest and concentrated, the accents of his voice more measured and deep. He said:
"Confess you have been jesting."
"No, Cornelius, I spoke as I thought."