"There," he said, biting his lip and looking provoked, "do you see her,
Kate?"
"She is young and merry. Let her laugh."
"But why will she not be serious? Why will she be so provokingly flighty and slippery?"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Kate. "Let her be what she likes now; she'll be grave enough a few years hence."
He sighed, and called me his perverse darling. I laughed again, and bade him sing me an Irish song. He obeyed, and thus it ended.
As I was not conscious of giving Cornelius any real cause of offence, I made light of his vexation or annoyance, of which, indeed, as I have felt since then, he showed me but that which he could not help betraying. Had he been more tyrannical or exacting, my eyes might have opened; but he could not bear to give me pain. He let me torment him to my heart's content, also disdaining, it may be, to complain or lament. Once only he lost all patience. It was towards the close of winter. Kate was out; we sat alone in the parlour by the fireside. Cornelius had made me put down my work, and sat by me, holding my two hands in one of his, smoothing my hair with the other, and telling me—he had an eloquent tongue that knew how to tell those things, neither too much in earnest, nor yet too much in jest—of his fondness and affection. But I was not just then in the endearing mood. I tried to disengage my hands, and not succeeding, I said a little impatiently:—
"Pray don't!"
He understood, or rather misunderstood me; for he drew away, reddening a little, and looking more embarrassed than displeased, he observed:—
"Where is the harm, Daisy?"
"The harm?" I echoed, astonished at the idea, for between him and me I had never felt the shadow of a reserved thought; "why, of course, there is no harm, since it is you," I added, giving one of his dark locks a pull; "but it gives me the fidgets."