"What else?" I asked, a little impatiently.
"What else?" he echoed, still looking at me.
"Yes, what else?"
"Nothing else; save that I am thinking of something else just now."
"I knew you would notice it," I exclaimed, feeling myself reddening; "I told Kate so."
"Indeed?"
"Yes; it was her doing, not mine. She said you hated grey, and made me put on this blue muslin, though it looks so gay for the morning."
"Well," replied Cornelius, with a smile, "blue is as charming a colour as grey is cold and dull to the eye. But to tell you the truth, I was not thinking about your dress."
"Ah!" I said, rather abashed.
"No,—I was thinking of the change two years have wrought, and wondering I never noticed it last night. The other one was a pale, sickly little thing, a poor wee Daisy, coming up weak and stunted on the outskirts of the town; this one is fresh and fair as any wild flower that grows. Why, where did she, once so wan and sallow, get that clear, rosy freshness? What kind fairy has changed the pale yellow hair I still remember, into those heavy tresses of rich brown, tinged with gold—a hue both exquisite and rare, which I shall assuredly transfer to my next picture. As for the eyes, she could not improve them,—so she left them what they still are— the finest I have ever seen."