I did not know what to make of him. He looked as oddly as he spoke, and I had not the faintest idea of the generous sacrifice he resolutely contemplated, at an age when most men are dead to all, save the gratification of their own vehement passions.
Since then I have understood both what Cornelius feared and what he intended to do. I have admired his generosity and wondered at his rashness in forgetting what was not merely likely to happen, but what really did happen; namely, that he was to love again.
This imprudent resolve had however the result of giving him momentary peace, and, perhaps because its realization was still so distant, of banishing from his mind all thought of the future.
CHAPTER II.
Of course Cornelius had gone on painting all this time. He finished his Stolen Child, painted two other smaller and more simple pictures, and he sent in the three to the Academy.
"1 don't see why you should always send your pictures to the Academy," said Kate; "I don't think it is fair to the other Exhibitions."
Cornelius confessed that the argument had its weight.
"But then you see, Kitty," he added, "I cannot do less; they behaved so well to me last year about that trashy Happy Time: it really was a poor thing, and yet see how well they hung it—they did not think much of it, but they saw that it promised something for the future. Yes, they really behaved very well—so well that though I am certain they will reject the two minor pictures and only take in the Stolen Child, I feel I cannot do less than give them the chance of the three."
"You are too generous," sighed Kate; "you will never get on in the world with those disinterested notions, my poor brother—never; besides, I put it to your sense of justice, now, is it fair to the other Exhibitions?"
Cornelius said perhaps it was not, but added that he really could not do less, and persisted in his original intention. I remember, when the pictures were sent off, that he said to me,—