Daisy would have liked the shelter of her mossy hiding-place

again. She stood in the shade of a tree looking after the

boat; feeling very much left alone and greatly disposed to

have a good crying time; but that was not her way of meeting

trouble. What a strange day of pleasure this Silver Lake

business had turned out! Yet Daisy had enjoyed many things in

it; but her mother's attack upon her at luncheon had sobered

her completely. It was such a sign of what she might expect.

Daisy presently fell to considering what she should do; and

then remembered her old refuge, prayer; and then concluded

that she was a very happy little girl after all. And instead

of being hurt that Nora had been with her so little that day,

it was very natural, Daisy said to herself. Of course, Nora

wanted to go in the boat with Preston after fish; it was too

good an opportunity to be lost; and of course she had liked

the walk in the morning with the larger and gayer party. It

was all right, Daisy decided, although not what she herself

would have done ill the circumstances. Would her note to her

father have been reckoned "silly" too? Very likely. Daisy

turned her wistful eyes to where he was; sitting in a group of

ladies and gentlemen, talking. Daisy could not go to him.

Further along, Mrs. Gary was fighting the heat under a tree by

herself. No attraction there. Still further — the doctor was

standing talking to the two young ladies. As Daisy looked, he

quitted them and came towards her.

"Have I spoiled all your pleasure, Daisy?"

"No, sir."

"Are you angry with me?"

The answer this time was given with such an affectionate

bright smile that the doctor must have been hard not to feel

it.

"You do not seem to have much pleasure on hand just now," said

he; "would you like to take a little walk with me, and see if

we can find any wonderful things?"

Daisy's face was quite answer enough, it was so full of

content. The doctor had no intention to tire her; he strolled

along the borders of the lake, which was wild and lovely all

the more as they got further away from the picnic ground. Firs

and oaks stood thick all along, with many other trees also;

the ground was carpeted with layers of moss; great rocks rose

up by the water's edge, grey and brown with lichens. It was

not so hot now. The sun's glare was shielded off. On a mossy

carpet beside the water's edge the doctor and Daisy sat down.

Undoubtedly the doctor had never taken so much trouble with a

child before; but Daisy was a study to him.

"We do not find the wonderful things, Daisy," he remarked,

throwing himself back upon the moss with his hands under his

head. His cap fell off; his blue eyes looked at her with a

sort of contented laziness; never sleepily.

Daisy smiled at him. "I do," she said.

"You do! What have you found?"

"I think everything is wonderful."

"A profound truth," said the doctor; "but you are very young

to find it out. Instance, Daisy."

"But you want to go to sleep, sir."

"How dare you say so? No, I don't. I want to have a talk with

you about something wonderful."

Daisy thought he looked a little sleepy, for his eyelids

drooped well over his eyes; nevertheless, the eyes saw keenly

enough the start of pleasure into hers. And they had seen the

pale, subdued look of the face that it had worn before.

Nevertheless, in spite of that start, Daisy remained as quiet

as a mouse, looking at him.

"Don't you think I can talk while I am enjoying myself in this

fashion?" said the doctor.

"I think you can talk any way," said Daisy; "but you look a

great deal more like sleeping, sir."

"None of that. Go on, Daisy. Only do not say anything about

the sun, now that it has gone under a cloud. Let us forget it

for a little while."

"What shall I take, then?"

"I don't care. Something green and refreshing."

Daisy looked around her. On every side she saw things that she

had no doubt would be very interesting to talk about; she did

not know which to choose. There were the trees; the firs and

hemlocks, and the oaks and maples, growing thick on every

hand. No doubt those beautiful structures had uses and

characters of wonder; she had a great mind to ask the doctor

to tell her about them. But the great boulder beside which

they were hid from view, divided her attention; it was very

large, and rounded off on all sides, lying quietly on the

ground; and Daisy was curious to know how it came to be so

grown over with green things; mosses and ferns draped it all

over; how could they grow on the bare rock?

"Well, Daisy?" said her friend, watching how Daisy's

countenance woke up from its subdued expression.

"Dr. Sandford, how could these things grow on the rock? these

green things?"

"What green things?"

"Why, ever so many sorts. Here is moss, a great deal of it, of

different kinds; and there is beautiful brake at the top, like

plumes of feathers. How can they grow there?"

"Why not?"

"I thought everything wanted some earth to grow in."

"Have they none?"

"I don't know. I thought not. They must have very little

indeed, Dr. Sandford."

"Very little will do, I suppose."

"But I do not see how any earth got there," said Daisy. "It

was only a bare rock at first, of course."

"At first," repeated the doctor. "Well, Daisy, I suppose it

was no more. But there is something else growing there, which

you have not spoken of."

"Is there?" said Daisy. "I do not see anything else."

"Pardon me — you do see it."

"Then I do not know what it is," said Daisy, laughing.

Absolutely, the sober, sober little face had forgotten its

care, and the eyes were alight with intelligence and

curiosity, and the lips were unbent in good honest laughter.

The doctor raised himself up to a sitting posture.

"What do you call those grey and brown patches of colour that

hide your rock all over?"

"Grey and brown?" said Daisy, wistfully — "those are just the

colours of the rock, aren't they?"

"No. Look close.

"Why, Dr. Sandford, what is it? It is not the rock — some of

it is not — but here is a spot of yellow that is nothing else,

I think."

"You must learn not to trust your eyes, Daisy. That is

something that grows; it is not rock; it is a vegetable. If I

had my pocket lens here I would show you; but I am afraid —

yes, I have left it at home."

"Why, it is!" cried Daisy. "I can see now — it is not rock.

What is it, Dr. Sandford?"

"Lichen."

"What is that, sir?"

"It is one of the lowest forms of vegetable life. It is the

first dress the rocks wear, Daisy."

"But what does it live on?"

"Air and water, I suppose."

"I never knew that was a vegetable," said Daisy, musingly. "I

thought it was the colour of the rock."

"That goes to prepare soil for the mosses, Daisy."

"Oh, how, Dr. Sandford?"

"In time the surface of the rock is crumbled a little by its

action; then its own decay furnishes a very little addition to

that. In favourable situations a stray oak leaf or two falls

and lies there, and also decays, and by and by there is a

little coating of soil or a little lodgment of it in a crevice

or cavity, enough for the flying spores of some moss to take

root and find home."

"And then the moss decays and makes soil for the ferns?"

"I suppose so."

Daisy stood looking with a countenance of delighted

intelligence at the great boulder, which was now to her a

representative and witness of natural processes she had had no

knowledge of before. The mosses, the brakes, the lichen, had

all gained new beauty and interest in her eyes. The doctor

watched her, and then scrambled up to his feet and came to her

side.

"Look here, Daisy," said he, stooping down at the foot of the

rock, and showing her where tufts of a delicate little green

plant clustered, bearing little umbrella-like heads on tiny

shafts of handles.

"What is that, Dr. Sandford?"

"Something wonderful."

"Is it? It is pretty. What is it, sir?"

"It is a plant somewhere between the mosses and the lichens in

its character — it is one of the liverworts, and they are some

of the first plants to go in advance of superior vegetation.

This is called _Marchantia_."

"And is it wonderful, Dr. Sandford?"

"If I could show it to you, you would think so. Look here,

Daisy — on the surface of this leaf do you see little raised

spots here and there?"

"Yes, I see them."

"Those are, when they are finished, little baskets."

"Baskets?" exclaimed Daisy, delightedly. "I can't see anything

like a basket now."

"No, it is too small for you to see; you must take it on my

word, who have seen it. They are baskets, and such baskets as

you never dreamed of. The shape is elegant, and round the

edge, Daisy, they are cut into a fringe of teeth, and each

tooth is cut again into teeth, making a fringe around its tiny

edge.

"I wish I could see it," said Daisy.

"Now if you were my little sister, and lived with me, I could

show you these things in the evenings."

Daisy responded to this with a very grateful and somewhat

wistful smile, but immediately went on with the business in

hand.

"Do these little baskets hold anything, Dr. Sandford?"

"Yes. Baskets are always made to hold something."

"What do they hold?"

"They hold what are called _spores;_ that is, little bits of

things which, whenever they get a chance, begin to grow and

make new plants."

"Seeds?" said Daisy.

"They answer the purpose of seeds."

"How do they get out of the basket? Do the winds blow them

out."

"Or the rain washes them out. If they lie long enough in the

basket, they will take root there, and then there is a new

plant seen growing out of the old one."

"How wonderful it is!" said Daisy.

"There is another wonder about it. It does not matter which

way these little spores lie on the ground or in the basket;

but the side that happens to be exposed to the light, after a

time, prepares itself to expand into the surface of a frond,

while the dark side sends down a tiny root."

"And it does not matter which side lies uppermost?"

"No, not in the beginning."

"What is a _frond_, Dr. Sandford?"

"This sort of seed-bearing leaf is called so."

"How pretty it is!" said Daisy. "What are these little things

like umbrellas?"

"These carry the real seed vessels of the plant."

"Other seeds. Dr. Sandford, is _everything_ wonderful?"

"What do you think about it?"

"I do not know but a very little," said Daisy; "but I never

should have thought this little green moss — or what did you

say it was?"

"Liverwort. Its name is Marchantia."

"This liverwort; I never should have supposed it was anything

but pretty, and of course good for something; but now I never

heard anything so wonderful."

"More than the sun?" said Dr. Sandford, smiling.

"It is more surprising, I think," said Daisy.

"Pray, what makes you conclude so securely that this little

Marchantia is _good for something?_"

Daisy gave him a quick look of wisdom and suspicion mingled.

The doctor was getting a very good amusement himself, and

quite entered into the matter. He waited for Daisy's answer.

It came diplomatically.

"_Isn't_ everything good for something, sir?"

" 'Pon my word, I don't know," said the doctor. "My enquiry was

for the grounds of your opinion, Daisy."

"It was not an opinion. I do not think I am old enough to have

an opinion."

"What was it, Daisy?"

The doctor was still crouching down by the side of the rock,

examining carelessly whatever he found there. Daisy looked at

him, and waited, and felt at last that good manners required

her to speak.

"You said, sir, that baskets were made to hold something."

"So your remark was an inference from mine."

"No, sir."

"Go on, Daisy."

"I only said it, sir, because I knew it was true."

There was an odd contrast between the extreme modesty of

Daisy's manner and the positiveness of her words.

"It is said to be a great philosophical truth, Daisy; but what

I want to know is how you, not being a philosopher, have got

such firm hold of it?"

He faced Daisy now, and she gave way as usual before the

searching blue eyes. One soft look, and her eyes fell away.

"I only thought it, Dr. Sandford, because in the beginning —

when God had made everything — the Bible says he saw that it

was all good."

"Daisy, how came you to be such a lover of the Bible?"

Daisy did not speak at once, and when she did it was a

departure from the subject.

"Dr. Sandford, I felt a drop of rain on my face!"

"And here is another," said the doctor, getting up. "This is

what I have expected all day. Come, Daisy — you must be off in

your chaise-à-porteurs without delay."

"But Nora, and Ella, and the boys! — they are away off on the

lake."

"They will scuttle home now," said the doctor, "but I have

nothing to do with them. You are my business, Daisy."

Accordingly he carried her back to the lunching-place, not

indeed in his arms, but with a strong hand that made her

progress over the stones and moss very rapid, and that gave

her a great flying leap whenever occasion was, over any

obstacle that happened to be in the way. There was need enough

for haste. The light veil of haze that had seemed to curtain

off the sunlight so happily from the lake and the party,

proved now to have been only the advancing soft border of an

immense thick cloud coming up from the west. No light veil

now; a deep, dark covering was over the face of the sky,

without break or fold; the drop or two of rain that had been

felt were merely the outriders of an approaching storm. Low,

threatening, distant mutterings of thunder from behind the

mountains, told the party what they might expect before long.

There was sudden confusion. Nobody wanted to be out in the

storm, and to avoid it seemed a difficult problem. Hastily the

ladies caught up their scarfs and bags, and set off upon a

scattering flight through the woods to the shore, those who

were nearest or first ready not stopping to wait for the

others. Quickly the luncheon-ground was deserted; fast the

blue and white flutter of muslins disappeared in the

enveloping woods; hastily the remainder of the packing went on

to get the hampers again in readiness to move. In the midst of

all this, who was to carry Daisy's chair?

"You say there is a house somewhere on the way," said Mr.

Randolph to the doctor. "If you will go forward with Daisy at

once, I will stay to look after those children in the boat.

They are coming now as fast as they can."

"Can you carry my gun?"

"Certainly. Doctor, I will take that office, if you will stay

behind till the boat gets to land."

"Thank you — it is better arranged the other way. The storm

will be upon us before the ladies get to the shore, I fear."

"Then they had better take the other route."

Mr. Randolph in haste despatched one of the men to recall the

fleeing members of the party, and bring them round by the

other road to the house. But before that, the doctor had put

Daisy in her chair, and with Logan at the other end of it, had

set off to reach shelter. It grew very dark; and it was

sultrily still in the woods. Not a leaf trembled on its stem.

The steps of the two chair-bearers sounded ominously in the

entire hush of everything. The gloom still deepened. The

doctor and Logan with swift, steady strides carried the chair

along at a goodly rate; not as it had come in the morning. In

the midst of this, and after it had gone on some time in

silence, Daisy twisted herself round to look at the doctor and

give him a smile.

"You do not seem concerned, Daisy, in the view of getting

wet?"

"Why, no," said Daisy, twisting round again, "it is nice. I am

only sorry for the people who are so frightened."

"What is nice? getting wet?"

"Oh, no," said Daisy. "Maybe I shall not get wet — you go so

fast."

But at this moment there came a nearer growl of thunder, and

the leaves in the tops of the trees rustled as if a breath had

passed over them. Then were still.

"Can you mend your pace, Logan?" said the doctor.

"Ay, sir!" — came in the deep, cheery utterance of Logan's

Scotch voice.

"Hold fast, Daisy" — said the doctor; and the two chair-

bearers changed their pace for a swinging trot. It was needful

to hold on now indeed, for this gait jolted the chair a good

deal; but it got over the ground, and Daisy found it

excessively amusing. They passed the thick-standing tree-stems

in quick succession now; the rocks uprising from the side of

the path were left behind one after another; they reached the

sharp bend in the road; and, keeping up the swinging trot with

a steadiness which showed good wind on the part of both the

chair-bearers, at last the little house where Sam had been

left hove in view. Time it was; — full time. One and another

sough of the wind had bowed the tree-tops with a token of what

was coming; one and another bright flash of lightning had

illumined the woody wilderness; and now, just as the chair

stopped, drops began to fall which seemed as large as cherry-

stones, mingled with hail a good deal larger. Their patter

sounded on the leaves a minute or two; then ceased.

"That will do, Logan," said the doctor. "Bring the chair in

under shelter if you can; and come in yourself. This will be a

shower." And he led Daisy into the house.

If ever you saw a dark-looking place, that was the room into

which the house-door admitted them. Two little windows seemed

at this instant to let in the darkness rather than the light;

they were not very clean, besides being small — a description

which Daisy would have said applied to the whole room. She

stood still in the middle of the floor, not seeing any place

to sit down, that she could make up her mind to take. The

doctor went to the window. Logan took a chair. Sam was sitting

disconsolately in a corner. It was hard to say to what class

of people the house belonged; poor people they were of course;

and things looked as if they were simply living there because

too poor to live anywhere else. A slatternly woman stared at

the intruders; a dirty child crawled over the hearth. Daisy

could not endure to touch anything, except with the soles of

her shoes. So she stood upright in the middle of the floor;

till the doctor turned round.

"Daisy! — are you going to stand there till the shower is

over?"

"Yes, sir," — Daisy answered, patiently. A smile curled the

doctor's lips. He opened the door and lifted in the chair with

its long poles, which indeed half filled the little room; but

Daisy sat down. The woman looked on in astonishment.

"Be she weakly, like?" she asked at length of the doctor.

"Has been —" he answered.

"And what be that thing for?"

"It is for going up and down mountains."

"Have you come from the mountings!" she asked, in great

surprise. The doctor was in for it. He was obliged to explain.

Meanwhile the darkness continued, and the rain did not yet

fall. A breath of wind now and then brushed heavily past the

house, and sunk into silence. The minutes passed.

"It will be a happiness if they get here before it begins,"

said Dr. Sandford; "it will come when it comes!"

"Be there _more_ comin'?" said the woman.

"A housefull. We are only the beginning."

She moved about now with somewhat of anxiety to get sundry

things out of the way, which yet there seemed no other place

for; a frying-pan was set up in a corner; a broom took

position by the fire place; a pail of water was lifted on the

table; and divers knives and forks and platters hustled into a

chimney cupboard. Little room enough when all was done. At

last the woman caught up the sprawling baby and sat down with

it opposite the broom, on the other side the fire, in one of

the three chairs the place contained. Sam had another. Logan

was on a box. The woman's eyes said, "Now I am ready to see

all that comes."

CHAPTER XXVI.

DAISY'S SUPPER.

It was some time first, and the rain still did not fall. It

was very black, and flashes from distant lightning with

mutterings of the thunder were frequent and threatening; still

no rain unless a few ominous drops. At last voices and

fluttering muslins came down the road; the flutter came near,

and in poured a stream of gay people at the door of the poor

little room. Gay as to their dress and attire, that is; for

gaiety was not to be found at present in their words and

behaviour. The woman in the chimney corner hugged up closer

her dirty baby with the delight of so unwonted a feast to her

eyes.

"Is there nothing better than _this_ to be had?" said Mrs. Fish.

And her tone was indescribable.

"How long have we got to remain here, doctor?" said a more

cheery voice.

"Mrs. Stanfield, until the rain has come, and gone."

"It would be better to be out in it," whispered Theresa to her

mother.

"My love, there is no other shelter on this side the river."

"There will not be standing room for us all presently —" said

Eloise Gary.

Pretty nearly so; for when the second detachment of the party

arrived, in a minute more, people looked at each other across

a throng of heads. They got in; that was all. To sit down or

to move much was out of the question.

"Daisy, you can't have this big chair of yours in here," said

Ransom in an energetic whisper. "Don't you see there is no

room for it?"

Daisy saw there was very little. She got up patiently and

stood, though feeling very tired; while her chair was got out

of the door with a good deal of difficulty.

"Are you tired, my darling?" said her father, bending down to

the pale little face.

"A little, papa," said Daisy, sighing.

No more words, but Mr. Randolph lifted Daisy in his arms and

gave her a resting place there. Daisy was afraid she was too

heavy for him, but it was very comfortable to sit there, with

her arm on his shoulder. Her face looked its content; the only

face in which such an expression could be seen at present;

though the gentlemen took the thing coolly, and Mr. Randolph

and the two Sandfords looked as usual. But now the delayed

storm drew near. The thunder notified with every burst the

fact that it was coming speedily; the lightning became vivid

and constant. A premonitory sweep of the wind — and the clouds

gave out their treasures of rain and hail with tremendous

fury. The lightning was terrible now, and the darkness of the

intervals between so great that the company could scarcely see

each other's faces. This was more than some of the party had

bargained for, and there was a degree of confusion. Screams

from a few of the ladies and exclamations of terror from

others were mixed now and then with words that sounded very

like an oath to Daisy's ear, though they were not spoken in

levity. She bent her head round to look in the face of the

lady who had last used them, as if to assure herself what was

meant; and then her head went down on Mr. Randolph's shoulder

and her face was hidden.

"Daisy —" whispered her father.

"Yes, papa."

"Are you afraid?"

"No, papa — not for myself."

"What? Look up here, Daisy."

She lifted her face; it was wistful and troubled.

"Are you concerned about the storm, my darling?"

"No, papa; not myself."

"How then, Daisy?"

She shuddered. "Papa, I wish they would not scream so!"

"Why does that trouble _you?_" said Mr. Randolph, smiling.

But Daisy's face was unutterably grave, as a new brilliant

band of forked lightning glittered outside the windows, and

the burst of the thunderbolt sounded as if at their very feet,

making a renewal of the same cries and exclamations.

"Why does it trouble you, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph,

soothingly, feeling the quiver of the child's frame.

"Papa," said Daisy, with intense expression, — "they do not

love Jesus!" — And her head went down again to be hid on her

father's shoulder.

Mr. Randolph did nothing to bring it up again; and Daisy lay

quite still, while the storm raged in full fury, and the

screams and ejaculations of the ladies were joined now and

then by a word of impatience from one of the gentlemen, or a

"Hech, sirs!" in Logan's smothered Scotch brogue. Once Mr.

Randolph felt Daisy's lips pressed against his face, and then

her other arm came round his neck, and nestling there closely

she was after that as still as a mouse. The storm lasted a

long time. The lightning and thunder at last removed their

violence some distance off; then the wind and the rain did

their part, which they had not fully done before. And all the

while the poor party of pleasure sat or stood as thick as bees

in a hive, in the miserable shelter of the cottage. —

Miserable, yet welcome. Very tired and impatient the people

became as they grew less frightened. Daisy had long been fast

asleep. The day waned and drew near its ending. When sunset

was, nobody could tell by the light; but that night was at

hand was at last evident from the darkness.

"Your arms must be weary, Mr. Randolph," said Dr. Sandford.

"Let me relieve you of your burden."

"I cannot let you do that."

"I will," said the doctor. "Daisy being my charge as well as

yours, gives me a right." And the transfer was actually made

before Daisy was aware of it. She waked up however, with a

feeling of some change and a doubt upon her mind as to what

custody she was in; but she was not sure, till the woman of

the house lit a miserable dip candle, which threw a light that

mocked the darkness over the weary company. Daisy did not like

the arrangement at all.

"Dr. Sandford!" she exclaimed. "I shall tire you. Please put

me on the floor and let me stand."

"No, you cannot," said the doctor, decidedly. "Be a good

child, Daisy. Lay your head down and go to sleep again."

And greatly to Daisy's astonishment the doctor's moustache

brushed her lip. Now Daisy had always thought to herself that

she would never allow anybody that wore a moustache to kiss

her; here it was done, without leave asked; and if the doctor

was so independent of rules as that, she thought she had best

not provoke him. Besides, she remembered that her father must

be tired with carrying her so long; and moreover, if Dr.

Sandford liked her well enough to kiss her, maybe he would not

care for the trouble of holding her for a while. At any rate

Daisy submitted peaceably to the necessity; put her arm over

the doctor's shoulder to support herself, and laid her head

down; though not to sleep. She watched everything that was

going on now. What a roomful of weary and impatient people

they were! packed like cattle in a pen, for closeness; and how

the rain poured and beat outside the house! The shelter was

something to be thankful for, and yet how unthankful everybody

looked. Some of the gentlemen showed calm fortitude under

their trials; but the poor ladies' chagrined faces said that

days of pleasure were misnamed. Alexander Fish had gone to

sleep; Ransom looked cross; Preston as usual gentlemanly,

though bored. From one to another Daisy's eye roved. Nora and

Ella were sitting on the table; in full confab. Other people

were sitting there too; the table was full.

"The storm is slackening —" Mr. Randolph remarked to the

doctor.

"It will be over in a little while more."

"What do you think of it, Daisy?" said her father, noticing

her look.

"Of what, papa?"

"Parties of pleasure in general."

"Papa, — I have had a very nice time."

"You have had a nice sleep," said her father, laughing; "and

that colours your views of things. The rest of us have not had

that advantage."

"Daisy, I am surprised to hear you say what you do," the

doctor remarked as Mr. Randolph turned away. He spoke softly.

"Why, sir?"

"I thought your day had not been _altogether_ agreeable?"

"Do you think anything is apt to be altogether agreeable, Dr.

Sandford?" Daisy said, with a demure waiving of the subject

which was worthy of much older years. The quaintness of this

remark was infinite.

"What has been the agreeableness to-day, for instance?"

"Oh, a great deal; my ride in the chair, — that was nice! and

all our walk, and what, you were telling me; and coming over

the river —" Daisy paused.

"And what do you think of being carried in the arms of

gentlemen," said Mrs. Gary, who had overheard a few words, —

"while other little girls have to get along as they can? as

tired as you are, I dare say."

"I cannot help it, aunt Gary," said Daisy. But the remark

served to justify her view of things; for what had in truth

been altogether agreeable up to that minute was so no longer.

Daisy was uneasy.

"Dr. Sandford," she whispered after a few moments, "I am

rested — I can stand now. I am tiring you. Please set me

down."

"No. Be quiet, Daisy," said her friend, peremptorily. And as

the little head went down again obediently on his shoulder, he

gave again a gentle kiss to her lips. Daisy did not mind Mrs.

Gary after that.

The storm slackened off now rapidly. The patter of the rain

lessened and grew still; a sweet reviving air blew in at the

windows. Of course the road was drenched with wet and every

tree dripping; nevertheless the journey must be made to the

boats, and the poor ladies were even glad to set out to

undertake it. But it would not be an easy journey either, on

the whole. Some time before this the doctor had despatched

Logan on an errand. He now declared he must wait for his

return; and desired Mr. Randolph to go forward and help take

care of the rest of the party and have no concern about Daisy;

he would keep her in charge.

"Shall I do that, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, fearing it might

trouble her.

But Daisy said, "Yes, papa" — with no hesitation; and the plan

was acted upon. Gathering up their floating muslin dresses,

tying handkerchiefs over their heads, with shrinking and yet

eager steps, one by one they filed out at the door of the

little hut. Just as the last one went, Logan came; he had been

to the boats and brought thence the doctor's cloak, which,

with more providence than the rest of the party who were less

used to travelling, he had taken the precaution to bring. Now

this, by the doctor's order, was spread over Daisy's chair,

which having been pushed out of doors, had got wet; she was

placed in it then, and the folds of the cloak brought well

round and over her, so that nothing could be more secure than

she was from the wet with which every leaf and bough was

dripping overhead, and every foot of soil loaded underneath.

Dr. Sandford took one end of the poles and Logan the other,

and the last of the party they set forth. Why Dr. Sandford had

made this arrangement, was best known to himself. Perhaps he

preferred it to having Mrs. Fish on his arm, who was a very

fine lady; perhaps he preferred it to the attentions he might

have had to pay to the younger damsels of the party, who would

all three have been on his hands at once, very likely. At all

events he did prefer to be one of the chair-bearers, and Daisy

was very glad of it.

The rest of the party were well in advance, out of sight and

hearing. Tramp, tramp, the steady regular footfall of her

bearers, and the light plashing of rain drops as they fell,

and the stir of the wind in the leaves, were all the sounds

that Daisy heard. No rain fell now; on the contrary the heaven

was clear as a bell, and light enough came through the woods

to show the way with comfortable certainty. Overhead, the

stars were shining down with wonderful brilliancy, through the

air which the storm had cleansed from all vapours; the moon

was coming up somewhere, too. The smell of the trees and other

green things was exceedingly sweet after the rain; and the

delicious soft air was very delicious after the sultry day.

Never in her life after did Daisy forget that night's work.

This ride from the cottage to the shore was something she

enjoyed with all her might. It was so wild and strange as well

as sweet. Rocks and tree-trunks, and the turnings of the road

had all such a mysterious new look, different from what

daylight showed them; it was an endless pleasure. Till the

walk ended. It came out at last upon the shore of the river

and into the moonlight. High in the eastern sky the moon hung,

shedding her broad light down all over the river, which

crisped and sparkled under it; and there by the water's edge

the members of the party of pleasure were huddled together

preparing to embark. Over their heads the sails of Mr.

Randolph's boat stood up in the moonlight. The doctor and

Logan set down their burden and waited. The Fish's were

getting on board their little vessel, which was moved by oars

alone.

"Mrs. Stanfield, you had better come with us," Mr. Randolph

said. "There is plenty of room. Your boat is too small. You

would find it unpleasantly rough in mid-channel."

"Oh, is it rough?" exclaimed the lady.

"For your little row-boat — I am afraid you would find it so.

The wind has roughened the water considerably, and it has not

had time to get quiet. Come with us, and we will all take

supper together at Melbourne."

It was arranged so. The party were stowed away in the large

sail-boat, which held them all well enough; the children being

happy at finding themselves seated together.

"What are we waiting for?" said Mrs. Gary when all had been in

their places some minutes, and conversation was the only thing

moving. "What are we staying here for?"

"Sam."

"Where's Sam?"

"He is yonder — in our late place of shelter. James and

Michael have gone to fetch him with Daisy's chair."

"Sam! Why, he might have stayed there till to-morrow and no

hurt. Have we got to wait till the men go there and bring him

back? We shall be late at supper!"

"The river will be all the quieter, Mrs. Gary," said Mr.

Randolph, mischievously.

"The river? You don't mean to say it is not quiet?"

"It was not quiet a while ago, I assure you."

"Well, I do think, if ever there was a misnamed thing, it is a

party of pleasure," said the lady, disconsolately.

"They are very pleasant when they are over, sister Gary," said

Mr. Randolph.

"Daisy," Nora whispered, "are you afraid?"

"No."

"Your father says it is rough."

"He knows how to manage the boat," said Daisy.

"It isn't rough, I don't believe," said Ella Stanfield. "It

isn't rough now."

"I wish we were at the other side," said Nora.

"Oh, Nora, I think it is nice," said Daisy. "How bright the

moonlight is! Look! — all over the river there is a broad

strip. I hope we shall sail along just in that strip. Isn't it

wonderful, Nora?"

"No. What?" said Nora.

"That there should be something like a looking-glass up in the

sky to catch the sunlight and reflect it down to us when we

cannot see the sun itself."

"What looking-glass?"

"Well, the moon catches the sunlight just so, as a looking-

glass would."

"How do you know, Daisy? _I_ think it shines."

"I know because I have been told. It does not shine, any more

than a looking-glass."

"Who told you?"

"Dr. Sandford," Daisy whispered.

"Did he! Then why don't we have the moon every night?"

"Because the looking-glass, if you can imagine that it is a

looking-glass, does not always hang where it can catch the

sun."

"Don't it? I don't like to think it is a looking-glass," said

Nora. "I would a great deal rather think it is the moon."

"Well, so it is," said Daisy. "You can think so."

"Daisy, what should we do if it should be rough in the middle

of the river?"

"_I_ like it," said Ella Stanfield.

"Perhaps it will not be very rough," said Daisy.

"But suppose it should? And where the moon don't shine it is

so dark!"

"Nora," said Daisy, very low, "don't you love Jesus?"

Nora at that flounced round, and turning her face from Daisy.

and the moonlight, began to talk to Ella Stanfield on the

other side of her. Daisy did not understand what it meant.

All this while, and a good while longer, the rest of the

people were waiting with various degrees of patience and

impatience for the coming of Sam and the men. It was pretty

there by the shore, if they had not been impatient. The

evening breeze was exceedingly fragrant and fresh; the light

which streamed down from the moon was sparkling on all the

surface of the water, and laid a broad band of illumination

like a causeway across the river. In one or two places the

light showed the sails of a sloop or schooner on her way up or

down; and along the shore it grew daintily hazy and soft. But

impatience was nevertheless the prominent feeling on board the

sail-boat; and it had good time to display itself before

Michael and James could go all the distance back to the house

and bring Sam away from it.

"Here he is!" "There they are at last!" were the words of hail

with which their appearance was greeted. "Now off" — and with

all haste the three were received on board and the vessel

pushed out into the stream. Immediately her sail caught the

breeze which came fair down the river, and careening a little

as she took it, her head began to make good speed across the

causeway of moonlight. But then the ladies began to scream;

for in mid-channel the wind was fresh and the waters had not

quite forgotten yet the tumult of the late storm, which had

tossed them well. The sail-boat danced bravely, up and down,

going across the waves. Among the frightened people was Nora,

who, grasping Daisy's dress with one hand and some part of the

boat with the other, kept uttering little cries of "Oh Daisy —

" "Oh! Daisy," — with every fresh lurch of the vessel. Ella

Stanfield had thrown herself down in her mother's lap. Daisy

was very much tried.

"Nora," she said, "I wish you would not cry so!"

"But I am afraid!"

"I wish you would be comforted, and not cry out so," sighed

Daisy. "Papa says there is no danger — didn't you hear him?"

"But, oh, I am afraid!" re-echoed Nora.

Daisy folded her hands, and tried to bide patiently the time

of smooth water. It came, partially at least, as they neared

the opposite bank. The boat went steadily; spirits revived;

and soon the passage was brought to an end and the sail-boat

laid alongside the little jetty, on which the party, men,

women and children, stepped out with as sincere a feeling of

pleasure as had moved them all day. Carriages were in waiting;

a few minutes brought the whole company to Melbourne House.

Here they were to stay supper; and the ladies and gentlemen

dispersed to various dressing rooms to prepare for it. Soonest

of all ready and in the drawing-room were the three children.

"I am so hungry!" said Nora.

"So am I!" said Ella Stanfield.

"We shall have supper presently," said Daisy.

"Oh, Daisy, weren't you afraid in the boat, when it went up

and down so?"

"I do not think I was afraid," said Daisy, "if other people

had not been so disturbed."

"I don't see how they could help being disturbed," said Ella

Stanfield. "Why, the boat didn't sail straight at all."

"But _that_ does not do any harm," said Daisy.

"How do you know?" said Nora. "_I_ think it does harm; I do not

think it is safe."

"But you know, Nora, when the disciples were in the boat, and

thought it was not safe — the wind blew so, you know — they

ought to have trusted Jesus, and not been afraid."

Nora and Ella both looked at Daisy for a minute after this

speech, and then by some train of association Nora started

another subject.

"Daisy, have you got my Egyptian spoon yet?"

Now was Daisy in a great difficulty. She flushed; the little

face which had been pale enough before, became of a delicate

pink hue all over. Not knowing what to say, she said nothing.

"Have you got it yet?" repeated Nora, curiously.

"No, Nora. I have not."

"You have not? What have you done with it?"

"Nothing."

"My Egyptian spoon! that Marmaduke gave me to give to you! You

have not kept it! What did you do with it, Daisy?"

"I did nothing with it."

"Did you break it?"

"No."

"Did you give it away?"

"Oh, Nora, I loved it very much," said poor Daisy; "but I

could not keep it. I could not!"

"Why couldn't you? I would not have given it to you, Daisy, if

I had thought you would not have kept it."

"I wanted to keep it very much — but I could not," said Daisy,

with the tears in her eyes.

"Why 'could not'? why couldn't you? Did you give it away,

Daisy? — that spoon I gave you?"

"Nora, I could not help it! Somebody else wanted it very much,

and I was obliged to let her have it. I could not help it."

"I shall tell Marmaduke that you did not care for it," said

Nora in an offended tone. "I wish I had kept it myself. It was

a beautiful spoon."

Daisy looked very much troubled.

"Who has got it?" Nora went on.

"It is no matter who has got it," said Daisy. "I couldn't keep

it."

"She is right, Nora," said Preston, who came up just then, at

the same time with the doctor. "She could not keep it, because

it was taken away from her without any leave asked. I mean she

shall have it back, too, one of these days. Don't you say

another word to Daisy! — she has behaved like a little angel

about it."

Preston's manner made an impression, as well as his words.

Nora was checked.

"What is all that, Nora?" the doctor asked.

Now Nora had a great awe of him. She did not, dare not answer.

"It is about a spoon I gave Daisy, that she gave away."

"She did not, I tell you!" said Preston.

"A spoon?" said the doctor. "Silver?"

"Oh, no! A beautiful, old, very old, carved, queer old spoon,

with a duck's bill, that came out of an old Egyptian tomb, and

was put there ever so long ago."

"Did your brother give it to you?"

"Yes, to give to Daisy, and she gave it to somebody else."

"Nora, I did not give it as you think I did. I loved it very

much. I would not have let anybody have it if I could have

helped it."

"Who has got it, Daisy?" asked the doctor.

Daisy looked at him, looked perplexed, flushed a little,

finally said with demure gentleness, "Dr. Sandford, I think I

ought not to tell."

The doctor smiled, took Daisy's hand, and led her off to the

supper room, whither they were now invited. So it happened

that her seat at the table was again by his side. Daisy liked

it. Just then she did not care about being with Nora.

The people gathered, bright and fresh, around the supper

table, all seeming to have forgotten their fatigues and

frights; and every face looked smiling or gracious. The day

was over, the river was crossed; the people were hungry; and

the most dainty and perfectly arranged supply of refreshments

stood on the board. Coffee and tea steamed out their grateful

announcements; ice cream stood in red and white pyramids of

firmness; oysters and cold meats and lobster salad offered all

that hungry people could desire; and everybody was in a

peculiar state of gratified content and expectation.

Daisy was no exception. She had let slip her momentary trouble

about the Egyptian spoon; and in her quiet corner, quite

unnoticed as she thought, looked at the bright scene and

enjoyed it. She liked being under the doctor's care too, and

his care of her was very thoughtful and kind. He did not

forget the little quiet mouse at his elbow; but after he had

properly attended to the other people whose claims came first,

he served her nicely with whatever was good for her. Was Daisy

going to omit her usual giving of thanks? She thought of her

mother's interference with a moment's flash of hesitancy; but

resolved to go on just as usual. She did not think she would

be noticed, everybody was so busy; and at any rate there was a

burden of gladness in her little heart that must speak. While

the talking and laughing and click of knives and forks was

thick all around her, Daisy's little head bent in a moment's

oblivion of it all behind her hand.

She had raised her head and just taken her fork in her fingers

when she heard her own name. She looked up.

"Daisy —" said her mother, quietly — "come here."

Daisy left her seat, and went round to her mother's side.

"You may go up stairs," said Mrs. Randolph.

"Mamma?"

"Go — and remain till I send for you."

Daisy slipped away quietly, before anybody could notice that

she was gone or going. Then slowly went up the stairs and

along the passages to her own room. It was empty and dark,

except for the moonlight without; June had not expected her to

be there, and had not made preparation. Daisy went, and

kneeled down in her old place by her window; her eyes filled

as full of tears as they could hold. She bent her little head

to brush them away, but they came again. Daisy was faint and

tired; she wanted her supper very much; and she had enjoyed

the supper-table very much; it was a great mortification to

exchange it for the gloom and silence of her moonlit room. She

had not a bit of strength to keep her spirits up. Daisy felt

weak. And what was the matter? Only — that she had, against

her mother's pleasure, repeated her acknowledgment of the hand

that had given her all good things. How many good things that

day! And was she not to make such acknowledgment any more?

Ought she to please her mother in this? Had she really done

wrong? Daisy could not tell; she thought not; she could not

wish she had not done what she did; but at the same time it

was very miserable to have Mrs. Randolph at odds with her on

such a point as this.

Daisy shed some tears about it; yet not a great many, and

without the least bitterness in them. But she felt faint and

tired and disappointed. Here, however, at her own room-window,

and alone, there was no bar to thanksgivings; and Daisy had

them in her heart, as well as prayers for the people who had

them not. She was too tired to pray at last; she only knelt at

the window with her arms on the sill, — Daisy was raised up on

an ottoman — and looked out at the moonlight, feeling as if

she was going into a dream.

"Miss Daisy!" — said the smothered voice of June behind her —

"are you there, Miss Daisy?"

June's accent was doubtful and startled. Daisy turned round.

"Miss Daisy! — I thought you was in the supper-room."

"No, June — I'm here."

"Will you go to bed, Miss Daisy?"

"I wish, June, you would get me something to eat, first," said

Daisy, languidly.

"Didn't you get your supper, Miss Daisy?"

"No, and I'm hungry. I haven't had anything since the dinner

at the lake. I wish you'd make haste, June."

June knew from Daisy's way of speaking, as well as from the

facts of the case, that there was some trouble on foot. She

went off to get supper, and as she went along the passages the

mulatto woman's hand was clenched upon itself, though her face

showed only its usual wrinkles.

Small delay was there before she was back again, and with her

June had brought a supply of very nearly everything there had

been on the supper-table. She set down her tray, prepared a

table for Daisy, and placed a chair. The room was light now

with two wax candles. Daisy sat down and took a review.

"What will you have now, Miss Daisy? Here's some hot oysters —

nice and hot. I'll get you some ice-cream when you're ready to

eat it — Hiram's got it in the freezer for you. Make haste,

Miss Daisy — these oysters is good."

But Daisy did not make haste. She looked at the supper tray

thoughtfully.

"June," she said, with a very gentle pure glance of her eyes

up at the mulatto woman's face — "I am very much obliged to

you — but I don't think mamma means me to eat these things to-

night — Will you just get me some milk and some bread? I'll

take some bread and milk!"

"Miss Daisy, these oysters is good for you," said June.

"I'll take some bread and milk to-night — if you will please

make haste. Thank you, June."

"Miss Daisy, then, maybe take a sandwich."

"No — I will have nothing but bread and milk. Only quick,

June."

June went off for the bread and milk, and then very

unwillingly carried her supper-tray down stairs again. Going

through one of the passages she was met by her master.

"Where is that coming from, June?" he asked her, in surprise.

"From Miss Daisy's room, sir."

"Has she been taking supper up there?"

"No, sir — Miss Daisy wouldn't touch nothing."

"Is she unwell?" — Mr. Randolph asked, in a startled tone.

"No, sir." June's tone was dry.

Mr. Randolph marched at once to the room in question, where

Daisy was eating her bread and milk.

"What are you doing, Daisy?"

"Papa!" — said the child, with a start; and then quietly, "I

am taking my supper."

"Were you not at the table down stairs?"

"Yes, papa."

"How came you not to have your supper there?"

"I had to come away, papa."

"Are you not well, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, tenderly,

bending down over her chair.

"Yes, papa — quite well."

"Then, why did you come away?"

Daisy's spoon lay still in her fingers and her eyes reddened.

"Mamma sent me."

If the child was to have any supper at all, Mr. Randolph saw,

he must forbear his questioning. He rose up from leaning over

her chair. "Go on, Daisy —" he said; and he left her, but did

not leave the room. He walked up and down the floor at a

little distance, while Daisy finished her bread and milk She

was too much in want of it not to do that. When it was done

she got out of her chair and stood on the floor looking at her

father, as gentle as a young sparrow. He came and wheeled her

chair round and sat down upon it.

"What is the matter, Daisy?"

"Mamma was displeased with me." The child dropped her eyes.

"What about?"

"Papa" — said Daisy, slowly, trying for words and perhaps also

for self-command — "mamma was displeased with me because — I —

"

"What?"

"Papa — because I did what she did not like at dinner."

"At dinner? what was that?"

The child lifted her eyes now to her father's face, a little

wistfully.

"Papa — don't you know? — I was only praying a minute."

Mr. Randolph stretched out his arm, drew Daisy up to him,

placed her on his knee, and looked down into her face.

"Did you have no supper downstairs?"

"No, sir."

"Do you like bread and milk better than other things?"

"No, papa."

"I met June with a great tray of supper things, and she said

you would not eat them. Why was that?"

"Papa," said Daisy, "I thought mamma did not mean me to have

those things to-night."

"She did not forbid you?"

"No, papa."

Mr. Randolph's arm was round Daisy; now he wrapped both arms

about her, bringing her up close to his breast, and putting

down his lips to her face, he kissed her over and over, with a

great tenderness.

"Have you had a pleasant day?"

"Papa, I have had a great many pleasant things," said Daisy,

eagerly. Her voice had changed and a glad tone had come into

it.

"Dr. Sandford took proper care of you?"

"Papa, he is _very_ good!' said Daisy, strongly.

"I rather think he thinks you are."

"He is nice, papa."

"Nice —" said Mr. Randolph. "He is pretty well. But now,

Daisy, what do you think of going to bed and to sleep?"

"Yes, papa."

"And to-morrow, if you have got into any difficulty, you may

come to me and talk about it."

Daisy returned a very earnest caress to her father's good-

night kiss, and afterwards had no difficulty in doing as he

had said. And so ended the day on Silver Lake.

CHAPTER XXVII.

RANSOM AND FIDO.

Daisy reflected the next morning as to what was her right

course with respect to the action that had troubled her mother

so much. Ought she to do it? In the abstract it was right to

do it; but ought _she_ in these circumstances? And how much of a

Christian's ordinary duty might she be required to forego? and

where must the stand be made? Daisy did not know; she had

rather the mind of a soldier, and was much inclined to obey

her orders, as such, come what might. That is, it seemed to

her that so she would be in the sure and safe way; but Daisy

had no appetite at all for the fighting that this course would

ensure. One thing she knew by experience; that if she drew

upon herself a direct command to do such a thing no more, the

order would stand; there would be no dealing with it

afterwards except in the way of submission. That command she

had not in this case yet received, and she judged it prudent

not to risk receiving it. She went down to breakfast as usual,

but she did not bow her little head to give any thanks or make

any prayers. She hoped the breakfast would pass off quietly.

So it did as to that matter. But another subject came up.

"What became of you last night at supper, Daisy?" her aunt

asked. "Dr. Sandford was enquiring for you. I think you

received quite your share of attention, for so young a lady,

for my part."

"Daisy had more than anybody else, yesterday," remarked

Eloise.

"A sprained or a broken ankle is a very good thing

occasionally," said Mr. Randolph.

"Yes," said Mrs. Gary — "I think Daisy had quite the best time

of anybody yesterday. A palanquin with gentlemen for her

porters, and friendly arms to go to sleep in — most devoted

care!"

"Yes, I was one of her porters," — said Ransom. "I think Dr.

Sandford takes rather too much on himself."

"Did he take _you?_" said Mr. Randolph.

"Yes, sir, — when there was no occasion."

"Why, Ransom," said Daisy, "there was no one else to carry my

chair but Preston and you."

"Did Preston feel aggrieved?" asked his uncle.

"Certainly not, sir," replied the boy. "It was a pleasure."

"It was not Ransom's business," said Mrs. Randolph.

"I suppose it was not the doctor's business either," said Mr.

Randolph — "though he made it so afterwards."

"Oh, I dare say it was a pleasure to him, too," said Mrs.

Gary. "Really, the doctor did not take care of anybody

yesterday, that I saw, except Daisy. I thought he admired

Frederica Fish — I had heard so — but there was nothing of it.

Daisy was quite queen of the day."

Mr. Randolph smiled.

Ransom seemed to consider himself insulted. "I suppose that

was the reason," he said, "that she called me worse than a

dog, because I took a meringue from the dinner-spread."

"Did you do that, Daisy?" asked her mother.

"No, mamma," said Daisy, low. Her face had flushed with

astonishment and sorrow.

"You did," said Ransom. "You said just that."

"Oh, no, Ransom — you forget."

"What _did_ you say, Daisy?" asked her mother.

"Mamma, I did not say _that_. I said something — I did not mean

it for anything like that."

"Tell me exactly what you did say — and no more delay."

"Wait till after breakfast," said Mr. Randolph. "I wish to be

present at the investigation of this subject, Felicia — but I

would rather take it by itself than with my coffee."

So there was a lull in the storm which seemed to be gathering.

It gave Daisy time to think. She was in a great puzzle. How

she could get through the matter without exposing all Ransom's

behaviour, all at least which went before the blow given to

herself, Daisy did not see; she was afraid that truth would

force her to bring it all out. And she was very unwilling to

do that, because in the first place she had established a full

amnesty in her own heart for all that Ransom had done, and

wished rather for an opportunity to please than to criminate

him; and, in the second place, in her inward consciousness she

knew that Mrs. Randolph was likely to be displeased with her,

in any event. She would certainly, if Daisy were an occasion

of bringing Ransom into disgrace; though the child doubted

privately whether her word would have weight enough with her

mother for that. Ransom also had time to think, and his brow

grew gloomy. An investigation is never what a guilty party

desires; and judging her by himself, Ransom had reason to

dread the chance of retaliation which such a proceeding would

give his little sister. So Daisy and Ransom wore thoughtful

faces during the rest of breakfast-time; and the result of

Ransom's reflections was that the investigation would go on

most pleasantly without him. He made up his mind to slip away,

if he had a chance, and be missing. He had the chance; for Mr.

and Mrs. Randolph were engaged with a call of some neighbours

immediately after breakfast; all thought of the children's

affairs seemed to be departed. Ransom waited a safe time, and

then departed too, with Preston, on an expedition which would

last all the morning. Daisy alone bided the hour, a good deal

disturbed in the view of what it might bring.

She was summoned at last to the library. Her father and mother

were there alone; but just after Daisy came in she was

followed by Dr. Sandford. The doctor came with a message. Mrs.

Sandford, his sister, he said, sent by him to beg that Daisy

might come to spend the day with Nora Dinwiddie, who much

desired her presence. In the event of a favourable answer, the

doctor said he would himself drive Daisy over, and would call

for that purpose in another hour or two. He delivered his

message, and Mrs. Randolph replied at once that Daisy could

not go; she could not permit it.

Mr. Randolph saw the flush of hope and disappointment on

Daisy's face and the witness of another kind in her eyes;

though with her characteristic steady self-control she neither

moved nor spoke, and suffered the tears to come no further.

Dr. Sandford saw it too, but he said nothing. Mr. Randolph

spoke.

"Is that decision on account of Daisy's supposed delinquency

in that matter?"

"Of course —" Mrs. Randolph answered, dryly.

"Can you explain it, Daisy?" her father asked, gravely, and

kindly drawing her up to his side. Daisy struggled with some

thought.

"Papa," she said, softly, "will mamma be satisfied to punish

me and let it go so?"

"Let it go how?"

"Would she be satisfied with this punishment, I mean, and not

make me say anything more about it?"

"I should not. I intend to know the whole. Can you explain

it?"

"I think I can, papa," Daisy said, but with a troubled

unwillingness, her father saw. He saw too that it was not the

unwillingness of a troubled conscience.

"Dr. Sandford, if you are willing to take the trouble of

stopping without the certainty of taking Daisy back with you,

I have some hopes that the result may be satisfactory to all

parties."

"_Au revoir_, then," said the doctor, and he strode off.

"Now, Daisy," said her father, still having his arms about her

— "what is it?"

Mrs. Randolph stood by the table and looked coldly down at the

group. Daisy was under great difficulty; that was plain.

"Papa — I wish Ransom could tell you!"

"Where is the boy?"

Mrs. Randolph rang the bell.

"It is no use, mamma; he has gone off with Preston somewhere."

"That is a mere subterfuge, Daisy, to gain time."

Daisy certainly looked troubled enough, and timid also; though

her meek look at her mother did not plead guilty to this

accusation.

"Speak, Daisy; the telling whatever there is to tell must come

upon you," her father said. "Your business is to explain the

charge Ransom has brought against you."

All Daisy's meditations had not brought her to the point of

knowing what to say in this conjuncture. She hesitated.

"Speak, Daisy!" her father said, peremptorily.

"Papa, they had put me — Eloise and Theresa Stanfield — they

had put me to watch the things."

"What things?"

"The dinner —the things that had been taken out of the hampers

and were spread on the tablecloth, where we dined."

"Watch for fear the fishes would carry them off?"

"No, sir, but Fido; Ransom's dog; he was running about."

"Oh! Well? —"

"I kept Fido off, but I could not keep Ransom —" Daisy said,

low. "He was taking things."

"And why should he not?" said Mrs. Randolph, coldly. "Why

should not Ransom take a sandwich, or a peach, if he wanted

one? or anything else, if he was hungry. There was enough

provision for everybody."

Daisy looked up at her mother, with a quick refutation of this

statement of the case in her mind, but something stayed her

lips. Mr. Randolph saw and read the look. He put his arm round

Daisy and drew her up to him, speaking with grave decision.

"Daisy, say all you have to say at once — do you hear me? and

spare neither for Ransom nor yourself. Tell all there is to be

told, without any shuffling."

"Papa, I should not have objected to his having a sandwich —

or as many as he liked. I should have thought it was proper.

But he took the meringues — and so many that the dish was left

very small; and then he carried off Joanna's lark pie, the

whole of it; and he did not mind what I said; and then, I

believe — I suppose that is what Ransom meant — I believe I

told him he was worse than Fido."

"Was Ransom offended at that?"

"Yes, papa. He did not like my speaking to him at all."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Randolph. "Boys never like to be

tutored by girls; and Daisy must expect her brother will not

like it if she meddles with him; and especially if she

addresses such language to him."

"I said only exactly that, mamma."

"Ransom put it differently."

A flush came up all over Daisy's face; she looked at her

mother appealingly, but said nothing and the next moment her

eyes fell.

"Did Ransom answer you at the time, Daisy?"

"Yes, sir," Daisy said, in a low voice.

"How?"

"Papa! —" said Daisy, confounded.

"What did he say to you?"

"He did not say much —" said Daisy.

"Tell me what his answer was?"

"Papa, he struck my ears," said Daisy. A great crimson glow

came all over her face, and she hid it in her father's breast;

like an injured thing running to shelter. Mr. Randolph was

lying on a sofa; he folded his arm round Daisy, but spoke

never a word. Mrs. Randolph moved impatiently.

"Boys will do such things," she said. "It is very absurd in

Daisy to mind it. Boys will do such things — she must learn

that it is not her place or business to find fault with her

brother. I think she deserved what she got. — It will teach

her a lesson."

"Boys shall not do such things in my house," said Mr.

Randolph, in his usual quiet manner.

"As you please!" said the lady, in a very dissatisfied way;

"but I think it is only what all boys do."

"Felicia, I wish to reverse your decision about this day's

pleasure. Seeing Daisy has had her lesson, do you not think

she might be indulged with the play after it?"

"As you please!" returned the lady, very dryly.

"Do you want to go, Daisy?"

"If you please, papa." Daisy spoke without showing her face.

"Is Mr. Dinwiddie at Mrs. Sandford's?" inquired Mrs. Randolph.

"Oh, no, mamma!" Daisy looked up. "He is not coming. He is

gone a great way off. I do not suppose he is ever coming here

again; and Nora is going away soon."

Mrs. Randolph moved off.

"Felicia —" said her husband. The lady paused. "I intend that

Ransom shall have a lesson, too. I shall take away the

remaining week of his vacation. To-morrow he goes back to

school. I tell you, that you may give the necessary orders."

"For this boy's freak, Mr. Randolph?"

"For what you please. He must learn that such behaviour is not

permitted here."

Mrs. Randolph did not share the folly with which she charged

Daisy; for she made no answer at all, and only with a slight

toss of her haughty head resumed her walk out of the room.

Daisy would fain have spoken, but she did not dare; and for

some minutes after they were left alone her father and she

were profoundly silent. Mr. Randolph revolving the behaviour

of Daisy as he now understood it; her willing silence and

enforced speech, and the gentleness manifested towards her

brother, with the meek obedience rendered to her mother and

himself. Perhaps his thoughts went deeper still. While Daisy

reflected with sorrow on the state of mind sure to be produced

now both in Ransom and Mrs. Randolph towards her. A matter

which she could do nothing to help. She did not dare say one

word to change her father's purpose about Ransom; she knew

quite well it would be no use. She stood silent by his sofa,

one little hand resting fondly on his shoulder, but profoundly

quiet. Then she remembered that she had something else to talk

about.

"Papa—" she said, wheeling round a little to face him.

"Well, Daisy?"

"Do you feel like talking?"

"Hardly — it is so hot," said Mr. Randolph. "Set open that

sash-door a little more, Daisy. Now come here. What is it?"

"Shall I wait till another time, papa?"

"No."

He had passed an arm round her, and she stood as before with

one hand resting on his shoulder.

"Papa — it was about — what last night you said I might talk

to you about."

"I remember. Go on, Daisy."

"Papa," said the child, a little in doubt how to go on — "I

want to do what is right."

"There is generally little difficulty in doing that, Daisy."

Daisy thought otherwise!

"Papa, I think mamma does not like me to do what I think is

right," she said, very low and humbly.

"Your mother is the best judge, Daisy. What are you talking

about?"

"_That_, papa — that you said I might talk to you about."

"What is it? Let us understand one another clearly."

"About — it was only that I liked to pray and give thanks a

minute at meal times." Daisy spoke very softly and as if she

would fain not have spoken.

"That is a mere indifferent ceremony, Daisy, which some people

perform. It is not binding on you, certainly, if your mother

has any objection to your doing it."

"But, papa," — Daisy began eagerly, and then checked herself,

and went on slowly — "you would not like it if you were to

give me anything, and I should not thank you?"

"Cases are not parallel, Daisy."

She wondered in her simplicity why they were not; but her

questions had already ventured pretty far; she did not dare

count too much upon her father's gentleness. She stood looking

at him with unsatisfied eyes.

"In one sense we receive everything we have from the bounty of

Heaven."

"Yes, papa."

"If your wish were carried out, we should be covering our

faces all the time — if that formality is needed in giving

thanks."

Daisy had thoughts, but she was afraid to utter them. She

looked at Mr. Randolph with the same unsatisfied eyes.

"Do you see, Daisy?"

"No, papa."

"Don't you!" said Mr. Randolph, smiling. "Difficulties still

unsolved. Can you state them, Daisy?"

"Papa, you said I might show you in the Bible things — do you

remember?"

"Things? What things?"

"Papa, if I wanted to do things that I thought were right —

you promised that if you thought they were in the Bible, I

might do as it said."

"Humph!" — said Mr. Randolph, with a very doubtful sort of a

grunt, between displeasure at his own word, and annoyance at

the trouble it might bring upon him. Nevertheless, he

remembered the promise. Daisy went on timidly.

"When you get up — by and by, papa, — may I show you what is

in the Bible?"

"You need not wait till I get up — show it to me now."

"I cannot lift that big Bible, papa."

Mr. Randolph rose up from the sofa, went to the shelves where

it lay, and brought the great Bible to the library table. Then

stood and watched Daisy, who kneeled in a chair by the table

and busily turned over the large leaves, her little face very

wise and intent, her little hands small to manage the big book

before her. Had such a child and such a book anything to do

with each other, Mr. Randolph thought. But Daisy presently

found her place, and looking up at him drew a little back that

her father might see it. He stooped over Daisy and read, "In

everything give thanks."

"Do you see it, papa?"

"Yes."

"Then here is another place — I know where to find it —"

She turned over more leaves, stopped again, and Mr. Randolph

stooped and read, "Giving thanks always for all things unto

God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Mr. Randolph read, and went and threw himself on his sofa

again. Daisy came beside him. A wistful earnestness in the one

face; a careless sort of embarrassment on the other.

"You are led astray, little Daisy, by a common mistake of

ignorant readers. You fancy that these words are to be taken

literally — whereas they mean simply that we should cultivate

a thankful spirit. That, of course, I agree to."

"But, papa," said Daisy, "is a thankful spirit the same thing

quite as giving thanks?"

"It is a much better thing, Daisy, in my opinion."

"But, papa, would not a thankful spirit like to _give_ thanks?"

"I have no objection, Daisy."

The tears came into Daisy's eyes. Her mother _had_.

"Papa —"

"Well? Let us get to the end of this difficulty if we can."

"I am afraid we cannot, papa. Because if you had told me to do

a thing so, you would mean it just so, and I should do it."

Mr. Randolph wrapped his arms round Daisy and brought her

close to his breast. "Look here, Daisy," said he — "tell me.

Do you really try to give thanks everywhere, and for all

things, as the word says?"

"I do not _try_, papa — I like to do it."

"Do you give thanks for _everything?_"

"I think I do, papa; for everything that gives me pleasure."

"For Mrs. Sandford's invitation to-day, for instance."

"Oh, yes, papa," said Daisy, smiling.

He brought the little head down within reach of his lips and

kissed it a good many times.

"I wish my little Daisy would not think so much."

"I think only to know what is right to do, papa."

"It is right to mind mamma and me, and let us think for you."

"And the Bible, papa?"

"You are quite growing an old woman a good while before the

time."

Daisy kissed him with good childlike kisses, laying her little

head in his neck and clasping her arms around him; for all

that, her heart was busy yet.

"Papa," she said, "what do you think is right for me to do?"

"Thinking exhausts me, Daisy. It is too hot to-day for such an

exercise."

Daisy drew back and looked at him, with one hand resting on

his shoulder. She did not dare urge any more in words; her

look spoke her anxious, disappointed questioning of her

father's meaning. Perhaps he did not care to meet such a gaze

of inquiry, for he pulled her down again in his arms.

"I do not want you to be an old woman."

"But, papa — that is not the thing."

"I will not have it, Daisy."

"Papa," she said with a small laugh, "what shall I do to help

it? I do not know how I came to be an old woman?"

"Go off and play with Nora Dinwiddie. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, papa — except my hat and gloves."

"Do not think any more to-day. I will think for you by and by.

But, Daisy, why should you and I set ourselves up to be better

than other people?"

"How, papa?"

"Do you know anybody else that lives up to your views on the

subject of thanksgiving?"

"Oh, yes, papa."

"Who?"

Daisy softly said, "Juanita does, papa, I think."

"A poor ignorant woman, Daisy, and very likely full of

superstitions. Her race often are."

"What is a superstition, papa?"

"A religious notion which has no foundation in truth."

"Then papa, can it be superstition to do just what God tells

us to do?"

"You are too deep for me, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph,

languidly. "Go and get ready for Dr. Sandford. He will be here

presently."

So Daisy went, feeling very uncertain of the result of her

talk, but doubtful and discouraged. Mr. Randolph had a book in

hand when she returned to the library: she could not speak to

him any more; and soon indeed the doctor came, helped her into

his gig, and drove off with her.

Now it was pleasant. The fine gravelled roads in the grounds

of Melbourne were in beautiful order after the rain; no dust

rose yet, and all the trees and flowers were in a refreshed

state of life and sweetness. Truly it was a very hot day, but

Daisy found nothing amiss. Neither, apparently, did the

doctor's good horse. He trotted along without seeming to mind

the sun; and Daisy in a good deal of glee enjoyed everything.

It was private glee — in her own mind; she did not offer any

conversation; and the doctor, of Mr. Randolph's mind, perhaps,

that it was a warm day, threw himself back in his seat and

watched her lazily. Daisy on the contrary sat up and looked

busily out. They drove in the first place for a good distance

through her own home grounds, coming out to the public road by

the church where Mr. Pyne preached, and near which the

wintergreens grew. It looked beautiful this morning, with its

ivy all washed and fresh from the rain. Indeed all nature was

in a sort of glittering condition. When they came out on the

public way it was still beautiful; no dust, and fields and

grass and trees all shining.

The road they travelled now was one scarce known to Daisy; the

carriages from Melbourne never went that way; another was

always chosen at the beginning of all their excursions whether

of business or pleasure. No gentlemen's seats were to be seen;

an occasional farmhouse stood in the midst of its crops and

meadows; and more frequently a yet poorer sort of house stood

close by the roadside. The road in this place was sometimes

rough, and the doctor's good horse left his trot and picked

his way slowly along, giving Daisy by this means an

opportunity to inspect everything more closely. There was

often little pleasure in the inspection. About half a mile

from the church, Daisy's attention was drawn by one of these

poor houses. It was very small, unpainted and dreary-looking,

having a narrow court-yard between it and the road. As the gig

was very slowly going past, Daisy uttered an exclamation, the

first word she had uttered in a long while.

"Oh, Dr. Sandford! — what is that? Something is the matter!"

"No," said the doctor coolly, "nothing is the matter — more

than usual."

"But a woman was on her hands and knees on the ground? Wasn't

it a woman?"

"Yes. She cannot move about in any other way. She is a

cripple."

"She cannot stand up?" said Daisy, looking distressed and

horrified.

"No. She has no use of her lower limbs. She is accustomed to

it, Daisy; she never had the use of them, or never for a very

long while."

"Is she _old?_"

"Pretty old, I fancy. But she does not know her age herself,

and nobody else knows it."

"Has she got nice people to take care of her?"

The doctor smiled at the earnest little face. "She has

nobody."

"No one to take care of her?" said Daisy.

"No. She lives there alone."

"But, Dr. Sandford, how does she do — how does she manage?"

"In some way that would be difficult for you and me to

understand, I suppose — like the ways of the beavers and

wasps."

"I can understand those," said Daisy, "they were made to get

along as they do; they have got all they want."

Daisy was silent, musing, for a little time; then she broke

out again.

"Isn't she very miserable, Dr. Sandford?"

"She is a very crabbed old thing, so the inference is fair

that she is miserable. In fact, I do not see how she can avoid

it."

Daisy pondered perhaps this misery which she could so little

imagine; however, she let the subject drop as to any more

words about it. She was only what the doctor called "quaintly

sober," all the rest of the way.

"Why, she looks child-like and bright enough now," said Mrs.

Sandford, to whom he made the remark.

Daisy and Nora were exchanging mutual gratulations. The doctor

looked at them.

"At the rate in which she is growing old," said he, "she will

have the soul of Methuselah in a body of twenty years."

"I don't believe it," said Mrs. Sandford.

Nora and Daisy had a great day of it. Nothing broke the full

flow of business and pleasure during all the long hours; the

day was not hot to them, nor the shadows long in coming.

Behind the house there was a deep grassy dell through which a

brook ran. Over this brook in the dell a great black walnut

tree cast its constant flickering shadow; flickering when the

wind played in the leaves and branches, although to-day the

air was still and sultry, and the leaves and the shadows were

still too, and did not move. But there was life enough in the

branches of the old walnut, for a large family of grey

squirrels had established themselves there. Old and young,

large and small; it was impossible to tell, by counting, how

many there might be in the family; at least now, while they

were going in and out and running all over; but Nora said Mrs.

Sandford had counted fifteen of them at one time. That was in

cold weather, when they had gathered on the piazza to get the

nuts she threw to them. This kind of intercourse with society

had made the squirrels comparatively tame, so that they had no

particular objections to show themselves to the two children;

and when Nora and Daisy kept quiet they had great

entertainment in watching the gambols of the pretty grey

creatures. One in particular, — the mother of the family, Nora

said, — was bolder or more familiar than the rest; and came

often and came pretty near, to look at the children with her

bright little eyes, and let them see her beautiful feathery

tail and graceful motions. It was a great delight to Daisy.

Nora had seen them before, as she said, and did not care quite

so much about the sight.

"I wonder what use squirrels are?" said Daisy.

"I guess they are not of any use," said Nora.

"Oh, I guess everything is of use."

"Why, no, it isn't," said Nora. "Grass is not of any use."

"Oh, Nora! Think — what would the cows and horses do?"

"Well, then, stones are not of any use."

"Yes, they are — to build houses — don't you know?"

"Houses might be built of wood," said Nora.

"So they might. But then, Nora, wooden houses would not last

so long as stone ones."

"Well — people could build new ones."

"But houses might be wanted where there was not wood enough to

build them."

"I never saw such a place," said Nora. "I never saw a place

where there was not wood enough. And if there is such a place

anywhere, people could not live in it, because they would have

nothing to make fires with."

Daisy considered.

"But Nora, I think it cannot be so. I guess everything is made

for some use. Dr. Sandford told me yesterday what the use is

of those queer brown leaves that grow upon rocks — you know —

and the use of little mosses, that I never thought before were

good for anything. They are to begin to prepare a place on the

rocks where things can grow."

"Why, they grow themselves," said Nora.

"Yes, but I mean other things — ferns and flowers and other

things."

"Well, what is the use of _them?_" said Nora.

"Oh, Nora — just think how pretty they are."

"But prettiness isn't use."

"I think it is," said Daisy; "and I dare say they have other

uses that we do not know. And I think, Nora, that God would

not have taken such care to dress up the old rocks if the

rocks were no good."

"Did He do it?" said Nora.

"Why, certainly. He did everything, you know."

"Of course; but I thought they just grew," said Nora.

The children were silent a little, watching the squirrels.

Daisy began again abruptly.

"Nora, did you ever see that crippled woman that lives on the

mill road a little way from our church?"

"Old Molly Skelton, do you mean?"

"I do not know what her name is — she cannot walk; she creeps

about as if she had no legs."

"I've seen her. Isn't she horrid?"

"Did you ever see her near by?"

"No, I guess I haven't. I have heard Duke tell about her."

"What? do tell me."

"Oh, she's a horrid old thing — that is all I know."

"How, horrid?"

"Why, she is wicked, and she don't know anything. She would

hardly listen to Marmaduke when he wanted to talk to her."

"Has she got a Bible, I wonder?" said Daisy, in an awestruck

voice.

"She? She can't read. She don't know anything; and she is as

ugly and cross as she can be."

"Was she cross to Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Yes, indeed. He said he never saw such a crabbed old thing.

Oh, she's horrid. I don't like to ride by that way."

The children were called in to dinner, and kept in the house

by Mrs. Sandford during the intensest heat of the day. But

when the afternoon was cooling off, or at least growing less

oppressive, the two children again sought the shade under the

walnut tree, where the gurgle of the water over the stones,

and the company of the squirrels in the tree, made the place

pleasant. And there they sat down in a great state of mutual

contentment. Nora's feet were swinging about for very jollity.

But Daisy sat still. Perhaps she was tired. Nevertheless it

could not be that which made her little face by and by take on

it as profound an expression as if she had been looking over

all Methuselah's years.

"Nora —" said Daisy, and stopped.

"What?" said Nora, kicking her heels.

"You know that poor old crippled woman — what did you call

her?"

"Molly Skelton."

"Suppose you were in her place — what do you think you would

wish for,"

"In her place!" said Nora. "I should wish for everything."

"Yes, but I mean, things that you could have."

"I should wish some doctor would come and make me straight,

the first thing; and then —"

"No, Nora, but I mean, things that might be possible, you

know. I do not mean things like a fairy tale."

"I don't know," said Nora. "I don't believe Molly Skelton

wishes for anything."

"But what would you wish for, in her place?"

"I should want to be straight, and stand and go about like

other people."

"Yes, Nora, but I say! I mean, what would you wish for that

would not be impossible?"

"Why, Daisy, how funny! Let me see. I should wish that

somebody would come and be good to me, I think."

"How?"

"Oh — tell me stories and read to me, and take tea with me —

and I don't know what!"

"Do you suppose nobody ever does take tea with her?" said

Daisy, upon whose fancy a new shadow of wretchedness darkened.

"I guess not," said Nora. "I don't believe anybody would. I

guess nobody likes her well enough, she is so bad."

"Who gets her tea for her then?"

"Why, nobody. She does it herself."

"How can she?"

"I don't know. Marmaduke says she keeps her house clean too,

though she only goes about on her hands and knees."

"Nora," said Daisy, "that isn't like the Bible."

"What isn't?"

"Don't you remember what the Bible says? that whatever we

would like other people to do to us, we should do so to them."

"What do you mean, Daisy?"

"I mean just so."

"But what isn't like the Bible?"

"Why — to let that poor old woman go without what we would

like if we were in her place."

"Why, Daisy! Molly Skelton! The Bible does not mean that we

ought to go and make visits to such horrid people as that."

"You said you would like it if you were in her place,"

observed Daisy, "and I know I should. I thought so when you

told me."

"But, Daisy, she is wicked!"

"Well, Jesus loves wicked people," said Daisy, calmly. "Maybe

she will wear a white robe in heaven, and have a crown of gold

upon her head."

"Daisy! — she is wicked," exclaimed Nora, indignantly. "Wicked

people do not go to heaven."

"Yes, but if Jesus gives them His white robe, they do," said

Daisy. "He came to save wicked people."

"I don't want to talk any more about Molly Skelton," said

Nora. "Look, Daisy! — there's the old mother squirrel peeping

out of her hole. Do you see? Now she is coming out — see her

black eyes! now there's her beautiful feather tail!"

This subject was to the full as interesting to Daisy as it was

to her friend; and in watching the grey family in the walnut

tree, and trying to induce them to come near and get some

almonds, the rest of the afternoon flew by. Only the "mother

squirrel" could be tempted near; but she, older in experience

and wisdom than her young ones, did venture into the

neighbourhood of the children, attracted by the nuts they

threw down; and getting pretty close to them, before she would

venture quite so far as where the nuts lay, she sat down on

her haunches to look and see whether all were safe; curling

her thick, light plume of a tail up along her back, or

whisking it about in various lines of beauty, while her bright

little black eyes took all the observations they were equal

to. It was unending amusement for the children; and then to

see Mrs. Bunny finally seize an almond and spring away with

it, was very charming. So the afternoon sped; nor ever brought

one moment of weariness, until the summons came to bid the

children into the house again to tea.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MRS. GARY'S PRESENT.

After tea the doctor took Daisy in his gig and drove her home.

The drive was unmarked by a single thing; except that just as

they were passing the cripple's house Daisy broke silence and

asked, "Is that woman — Molly Skelton — is she very poor, Dr.

Sandford?"

"If to live on charity be poor. I do not suppose the

neighbours let her suffer."

"Is she cross to everybody, Dr. Sandford?"

"She has the name of it, I believe, Daisy. I really do not

remember whether she was cross to me or not."

"Then you know her?"

"Yes. I know everybody."

The family at Melbourne were found just taking their late tea

as the doctor and Daisy entered. They were met with complaints

of the heat; though Daisy thought the drawing room was

exceeding pleasant, the air came in at the long windows with

such gentle freshness from the river.

The doctor took a cup of tea and declared the day was

excellent if you only rode fifty miles through the heat of it.

"Coolness is coolness, after that," he said.

Daisy sat in a corner and wondered at the people. Hot? and

suffocating? she had no recollection of any such thing all

day. How delicious it had been in that green dell under the

walnut tree, with the grey squirrels!

"How has it been with you, Daisy?" said her aunt at last.

"Nice, aunt Gary."

Two or three people smiled; Daisy's favourite word came out

with such a dulcet tone of a smooth and clear spirit. It was a

syrup drop of sweetness in the midst of flat and acid

qualities.

"It has been satisfactory, has it?" said her aunt, in a tone

which did not share the character. "Come here, Daisy — I have

got something for you. You know I robbed you a little while

ago, and promised to try to find something to make amends. Now

come and see if I have done it. Preston, fetch that box here."

A neat wooden case of some size was brought by Preston and set

at his mother's feet. Mrs. Gary unlocked it, and went on to

take out of its enveloping coverings a very elegant French

doll; a real empress Eugénie. The doll's face was even

modelled into some likeness to the beauty she was named after;

a diadem sat gracefully on her head, and her robes were a

miniature imitation of royalty, but very exquisitely

fashioned. Everybody exclaimed at the perfection of the

beautiful toy, except Daisy herself who stood quite still and

quiet looking at it. Mrs. Gary had not done yet. The empress

had a wardrobe; and such variety and elegance and finish of

attire of all sorts rarely falls to the lot of a doll. A very

large wardrobe it was, and every article perfectly finished

and well made as if meant for actual wear. Mrs. Gary displayed

her present; Daisy looked on, standing by her father's knee

and with one hand resting on it.

"Have you nothing to say to express your pleasure, Daisy?" —

This was Mrs. Randolph's question.

Daisy at the word pronounced a sober "I thank you, aunt Gary."

But it was so very sober and passionless that Mrs. Randolph

grew impatient.

"I do not hear you express any pleasure, Daisy," she said,

meaningly.

Daisy turned her face towards her mother with a doubtful look,

and was silent.

"Speak!" said Mrs. Randolph.

"What, mamma?"

"Whatever you choose, to show your sense of your aunt's

kindness."

"Do not concern yourself, my dear," said her sister. "I am

sorry if I have failed in meeting Daisy's taste — that is

all."

"Daisy, speak, or leave the room" — said Mrs. Randolph.

"Mamma," said Daisy, pushed into a corner, "I would speak, but

I do not know what to say."

"Tell your aunt Gary she has given you a great deal of

pleasure."

Daisy looked again mutely at her mother, somewhat distressed.

"Tell her so, Daisy!" Mrs. Randolph repeated, in a tone of

command.

"I cannot, mamma —" the child answered, sorrowfully.

"Do you mean to tell your aunt that her exquisite present

gives you _no_ pleasure?"

"I did not intend to tell her so," Daisy answered, in a low

voice. Another storm rising! Storms seemed to get up very

easily in these days.

"My dear," said Mrs. Gary, "do not concern yourself. It is not

of the least consequence, as far as I am concerned. Preston,

remove this box. If Daisy chooses to receive it, perhaps it

will find more favour at another time."

Mrs. Gary got up and moved off.

"Mr. Randolph, I will trouble you to dismiss Daisy," said his

wife. "If she cannot behave properly she cannot be in the room

with me."

Daisy was still standing with her hand on her father's knee.

The other little hand came for a moment across her brows and

rested there; but she would not cry; her lip did not even

tremble.

"First let me understand," said her father; and he lifted

Daisy on his knee kindly. "Daisy, I never saw you uncivil

before."

"Papa, I am very sorry —" said the child.

"Can you explain it?"

"Papa, I would have been civil if I could; but I had nothing

to say."

"That is the very place where a person of good manners shows

himself different from a person who has no manners at all.

Good manners finds something to say."

"But, papa, there was nothing _true_."

"The doll gave you no pleasure?"

"No, papa," said Daisy, low.

"And you felt no obligation for the thoughtfulness and

kindness of your aunt in getting for you so elegant a

present?"

Daisy hesitated and flushed.

"Daisy, answer," said her father, gravely.

"No, papa," — Daisy said, low as before.

"Why not?"

"Papa," said Daisy, with a good deal of difficulty and

hesitation — "that is all passed — I do not want to say

anything more about it."

"About what?"

"About — papa, I do not think mamma would like to have me talk

about it."

"Go on, Daisy. — About what?"

"All that trouble we had, papa."

"What I want to know is, why you did not feel grateful for

your aunt's kindness just now, which she had been at some

pains to show you."

"Papa," said Daisy, wistfully, — "it was not kindness — it was

pay; and I did not want pay."

"Pay? For what?"

"For my Egyptian spoon, papa."

"I do not understand what you are talking of, Daisy."

"No, papa," said Daisy; so simply showing her wish that he

should not, as well as her knowledge that he did not, that Mr.

Randolph could not forbear smiling.

"But I mean to understand it," he said.

"It was my old Egyptian spoon, papa; the doll was meant to be

pay for that."

A little explanation was necessary in order to bring to Mr.

Randolph's mind the facts Daisy referred to, the spoon itself

and the time and occasion when it was bestowed on her.

"Did you give your Egyptian spoon to your aunt Gary?"

"I said she might have it, papa."

"Unwillingly?"

"No, papa — willingly."

"In exchange for this doll?"

"Oh, no, papa — not in exchange for anything. I did not want

any exchange."

"If I remember, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, "your aunt Gary

desired to have that spoon the very day it was given to you;

and I thought you did not wish she should have it?"

"No, papa — so I didn't."

"Your mind changed afterward?"

"I do not think my mind changed," said Daisy, slowly — "but I

was willing she should have it."

"Daisy, this whole affair is a mystery to me yet. In this

case, why was it not kind in your aunt to bestow this French

doll upon you? It seems to me very kind."

"Yes papa — you do not understand."

"Make me understand. Daisy, I command you to tell me all that

you have not told me. You need not think of anything now,

except my command."

Daisy did, perhaps; for now her lip quivered slightly; and for

a moment she hid her face, in her father's bosom. Mr. Randolph

wrapped his arms round her and stooped his head to hear the

story which Daisy was obliged to give. She gave it fully, and

he heard it quite through in silence. And he made no

observation upon it when it was finished; he only asked her,

"Was there no resentment in your refusal of thanks to your

aunt just now?"

"No, papa" — said Daisy; with too sweet and artless utterance

for him to doubt her.

"But, then, Daisy, we come back to the cause of your mother's

displeasure. Good breeding requires that people should not be

rude, even by silence."

"Papa, I did not know how to be polite with truth."

"You could have said you were very much obliged to your aunt."

"But, I was _not_, papa."

"Not obliged to her?"

"No, sir."

"But, Daisy, that is a civil form of expression which it is

usual to avail oneself of upon such occasions. It does not

necessarily mean much."

"But, papa, would she not have thought I meant it, if I had

said so?"

"Very likely. That is the polite advantage gained."

"But papa, _I_ should have known that I did not mean it; and it

would not have been true."

"This is getting to be too deep a question for you to discuss

to-night — it is time for you to go to bed. But I cannot have

you rude."

Daisy kissed her father, who had been extremely gentle and

tender with her, and went off to her room. Mr. Randolph's brow

looked moody.

"Have you brought Daisy's ideas into order?" asked his wife,

who had been engaged in conversation with Dr. Sandford.

"She has rather brought confusion into mine," said the

gentleman.

"What is the matter?"

"Truth and Daisy, _versus_ civility and the world. And it is not

so easy to make a child comprehend some of the fine

distinctions we are accustomed to draw. White and black are

_very_ white and black, to such eyes, and no allowance is made

for a painter's lights and shades."

"She must make allowance for what your eyes see," said Mrs.

Randolph.

Mr. Randolph made no answer.

"Daisy is entirely changed," her mother went on, — "and is

become utterly obstinate and unmanageable. Perfectly self-

important too — she thinks there is no wisdom now but her own.

I may thank you for it, Dr. Sandford."

"You do me too much honour," said the doctor.

"It is an honour you share with Mr. Dinwiddie."

"I did not know I shared anything with Mr. Dinwiddie."

"He has infected the child with a set of perfectly fanatical

notions; and you persisted in keeping her under that

creature's care, where they had time to grow strong."

"I will do all I can to repair mischief done," said the

doctor. "Mrs. Benoit is a good nurse for the body, and you

will bear me witness it was for repairs of _that_ I was called

in. What is the other damage referred to?"

"Fanaticism."

"Rather young for that disease to take deep root," said the

doctor.

"Anything takes deep root in Daisy; whatever she takes up she

holds to."

"I advise you to let her be fanatical then a little while

longer," said the doctor, "till she has time to lay up some

strength."

And the doctor took his departure.

"I am sure that is wise counsel, Felicia," Mr. Randolph said.

But the lady made him no answer.

Ransom went off to school the next day, as his father had

promised. Mrs. Randolph looked very gloomy; Mrs. Gary looked

lot otherwise; and Daisy thought the mental and social horizon

foreboded stormy weather. But very happily, as it seemed to

her, before dinner there was an arrival of some expected

visitors, coming to stay for a time in the house. They had

been desired as well as expected; there was a famous lady and

a learned gentleman among them; and every eye and ear were

taken up with attending to their words or waiting upon their

movements. Daisy and her concerns were, she thought,

forgotten.

She enjoyed the feeling of this for a little while; and then

ordered her pony chaise. And presently you might have seen a

little figure in a white frock come out upon the front steps,

with a large flat on her head, and driving gloves on her

hands, and in one of them a little basket. Down the steps she

came and took her place in the chaise and gathered up the

reins. The black pony was ready, with another boy in place of

Sam; nobody interfered with her; and off they went, the wheels

of the little chaise rolling smoothly over the gravel, Loupe

in a gentle waddling trot, and Daisy in a contented state of

mind. It was very pleasant! Clear sunny air, yet not too hot,

and the afternoon shadows beginning to make all things look

lovely. Daisy took the way to the church, passed out upon the

high road, and turned the pony's head in the direction which

she had taken with Dr. Sandford the day before. She did not go

quite so fast, however; so that it was a little time before

she came in sight of the poor old house which she recognised

as Molly Skelton's. Daisy drew the reins then, and let Loupe

walk slowly up a slight ascent in the road which led to it.

But when the chaise was fairly opposite the house door, Daisy

drew the reins still more and brought Loupe to a standstill.

She peered forth then anxiously to see if the poor old inmate

of the house were to be seen anywhere.

As she looked, the house door opened; and with a very

straitened and touched heart Daisy watched the crippled old

creature come from within, crawl down over the door step, and

make her slow way into the little path before the house. A

path of a few yards ran from the road to the house door, and

it was bordered with a rough-looking array of flowers. —

Rough-looking, because they were set or had sprung up rather

confusedly, and the path between had no care but was only worn

by the feet of travellers and the hands and knees of the poor

inhabitant of the place. Yet some sort of care was bestowed on

the flowers themselves, for no weeds had been suffered to

choke them; and even the encroaching grass had been removed

from trespassing too nearly on their little occupation of

ground. The flowers themselves shot up and grew as they had a

mind. Prince's feather was conspicuous, and some ragged

balsams. A few yellow marigolds made a forlorn attempt to look

bright, and one tall sunflower raised its great head above all

the rest; proclaiming the quality of the little kingdom where

it reigned.

The poor cripple moved down a few steps from the house door,

and began grubbing with her hands around the roots of a bunch

of balsams. Daisy looked a minute or two, very still, and then

bade the boy hold her pony; while, without troubling herself

about his mystification, she got out of the chaise, and,

basket in hand, opened the wicket, and softly went up the

path. The neat little shoes and spotless white dress were

close beside the poor creature grubbing there in the ground

before she knew it, and there they stood still; Daisy was a

good deal at a loss how to speak. She was not immediately

perceived; the head of the cripple had a three-cornered

handkerchief thrown over it to defend it from the sun, and she

was earnestly grubbing at the roots of her balsam; the earth-

stained fingers and the old brown stuff dress, which was of

course dragged along in the dirt too, made a sad contrast with

the spotless freshness of the little motionless figure that

was at her side, almost touching her. Daisy concluded to wait

till she should be seen, and then speak, though how to speak

she did not very well know, and she rather dreaded the moment.

It came, when, in throwing her weeds aside, a glance of the

cripple saw, instead of stones and grass, two very neat and

black and well-shaped little shoes planted there almost within

reach of her hand. She drew herself back from the balsam, and

looked sideways up, to see what the shoes belonged to. Daisy

saw her face then; it was a bad face; so disagreeable that she

looked away from it instantly to the balsams.

"What are you doing to your flowers?" she asked, gently.

The gentle little child-voice seemed to astonish the woman,

although after an instant she made surly answer, "Whose

business is it?"

"Wouldn't it be easier," said Daisy, not looking at her, "if

you had something to help you get the weeds up? Don't you want

a fork, or a hoe, or something?"

"I've got forks," said the cripple, sullenly. "I use 'em to

eat with."

"No, but I mean, something to help you with the weeds," said

Daisy — "that sort of fork, or a trowel."

The woman spread her brown fingers of both hands, like birds'

claws, covered with the dirt in which she had been digging.

"I've got forks enough," she said, savagely — "there's what

goes into my weeds. Now go 'long! —"

The last words were uttered with a sudden jerk, and as she

spoke them she plunged her hands into the dirt, and bringing

up a double handful, cast it with a spiteful fling upon the

neat little black shoes. Woe to white stockings, if they had

been visible; but Daisy's shoes came up high and tight around

her ankle, and the earth thrown upon them fell off easily

again; except only that it lodged in the eyelet holes of the

boot-lacing and sifted through a little there, and some had

gone as high as the top of the boot and fell in. — Quite

enough to make Daisy uncomfortable, besides that the action

half frightened her. She quitted the ground, went back to her

pony chaise without even attempting to do anything with the

contents of her basket. Daisy could go no further with her

feet in this condition She turned the pony's head, and drove

back to Melbourne.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE ROSE-BUSH.

"Will I take him to the stable, Miss Daisy?" inquired the boy,

as Daisy got out at the back door.

"No. Just wait a little for me, Lewis."

Upstairs went Daisy; took off her boots and got rid of the

soil they had brought home; that was the first thing. Then, in

spotless order again, she went back to Lewis and inquired

where Logan was at work. Thither she drove the pony chaise.

"Logan," said Daisy, coming up to him — she had left Loupe in

Lewis's care — "what do you use to help you get up weeds?"

"Maybe a hoe, Miss Daisy; or whiles a weeding fork."

"Have you got one here."

"No, Miss Daisy. Was it a fork you were wanting?"

"Yes, I want one, Logan."

"And will you be wanting it now?"

"Yes, I want it now, if you please."

"Bill, you go home and get Miss Daisy one o' them small hand

forks — out o' that new lot — them's slenderer."

"And Logan, I want another thing. I want a little rose-bush —

and if you can, I want it with a rose open or a bud on it."

"A rose-bush!" said Logan. "Ye want it to be set some place,

nae doute?"

"Yes, I do; but I want to set it out myself, Logan; so it must

not be too big a bush, you know, for I couldn't manage it."

"Perhaps Miss Daisy had better let me manage it. It's dirty

work, Miss Daisy."

"No; I only want the rose bush. I will take care of it, Logan.

Have you got one that I can have?"

"Ou, ay, Miss Daisy! there's a forest of rose bushes — ye can

just please yourself."

"Where is it?"

Seeing his little mistress was greatly in earnest and must be

presently satisfied, Logan cast a wistful glance or two at his

own proper work in hand which he was abandoning, and walked

away with Daisy. The flower garden and nursery were at some

distance; but Daisy trudged along as patiently as he. Her

little face was busy-looking now and eager, as well as wise;

but no tinge of colour would yet own itself at home in those

pale cheeks. Logan glanced at her now and then and was, as she

said, "very good." He thought he was about the best business,

after all, that could occupy him. He directed his steps to a

great garden that yet was not the show garden, but hid away

behind the plantations of trees and shrubbery. There were a

vast number of plants and flowers here, too; but they were not

in show order, and were in fact only the reserve stock, for

supplying vacancies or preparing changes, or especially for

furnishing cut flowers to the house; of which a large quantity

must every day be sent in. There was a very nursery of rose

trees, smaller and larger. Logan peered about, very particular

in his own line as to how every thing should be done; at last

he found and chose just the right thing for Daisy. A slender,

thrifty young plant, with healthy strong leaves and shoots,

and at the top a bud showing red, and a half opened sweet

rose. Daisy was quite satisfied.

"Now where is it going, Miss Daisy?" Logan inquired.

"I am going to plant it out myself, Logan; it is going in a

place — where I want it."

"Surely! but does Miss Daisy know how to plant a rose tree?"

"Won't you tell me how, Logan?"

"Weel, Miss Daisy, there must be a hole dug for it, in the

first place; you must take a trowel and make a hole for it —

But your dress will be the waur!" he exclaimed, glancing at

his little mistress's spotless draperies.

"Never mind; only go on and tell me exactly how to manage,

Logan."

"Does Miss Daisy intend to do it this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Aweel, you must take a trowel and make a hole," said Logan,

nipping off some useless buds and shoots from the plants in

his neighbourhood as he was speaking — "and be sure your hole

is deep as it should be; and make the bottom soft with your

trowel, or throw in a little earth, well broken, for the roots

to rest on —"

"How shall I know when my hole is deep enough?"

"Weel, Miss Daisy, it depends on the haighth of the roots — ye

must even try and see till ye get it deep enough; but whatever

ye do, keep the crown of the plant above ground."

"And what is the crown of the plant, Logan?"

Logan stooped down, and put his fingers to the stem of a rose

tree.

"It's just called the crown o' the plant, Miss Daisy, here

where the roots goes one way and the stem springs up another.

Miss Daisy sees, there's a kind o' shouther there."

"No, I don't see," said Daisy.

Logan put in his spade, and, with a turn or two, brought up

the little rose bush he had chosen for her purpose; and

holding the ball of earth in his hand, showed her the part of

the plant he spoke of, just above the surface of the soil.

"It's the most tenderest pairt of the vegetable nature," he

said; "and it must be kept out of the ground, where it can

breathe, like; it won't answer to cover it up."

"I will not," said Daisy. "Then? —"

"Then, when ye have gotten the place prepared, ye must set in

this ball of earth, as haill as ye can keep it; but if it gets

broken off, as it's like it will! —then ye must set the roots

kindly in on the soft earth, and let them lie just natural;

and put in the soft earth over them; and when ye have got a

little in press it clown a bit; and then more, after the same

manner, until it's all filled up."

"Why must it be pressed down?"

"Weel, Miss Daisy, it must be dune; the roots is accustomed to

have the soil tight round them, and they don't like it unless

they have it so. It's a vara good way, to have a watering pot

of water and make a puddle in the bottom of the hole, and set

the roots in that, and throw in the soil; and then it settles

itself all round them, and ye need not to coax it with your

fingers. But if ye don't puddle the roots, the bush must be

well watered and soaked when ye have dune."

"Very well, Logan — thank you. Now please put it in a basket

for me, with a trowel, and let me take a watering pot of water

too; or Lewis can carry that, can't he?"

"He can take whatever ye have a mind," said Logan; "but where

is it going?"

"I'll take the basket with the rose," said Daisy — "it's going

a little way — you can set it just here, in my chaise, Logan."

The gardener deposited the basket safely in the chaise, and

Daisy got in and shook the reins. Lewis, much wondering and a

little disgustful, was accommodated with a watering pot full

of water, by the grinning Logan.

"See ye ride steady now, boy," he said. "Ye won't want to show

any graces of horsemanship, the day!"

Whatever Lewis might have wanted, the necessity upon him was

pretty stringent. A watering pot full of water he found a very

uncomfortable bundle to carry on horseback; he was bound to

ride at the gentlest of paces, or inflict an involuntary cold

bath upon himself every other step. Much marvelling at the

arrangement which made a carriage and horses needful to move a

rose-bush, Lewis followed, as gently as he could, the progress

of his little mistress's pony-chaise; which was much swifter

than he liked it; until his marvelling was increased by its

turning out of Melbourne grounds and taking a course up the

road again. Towards the same place! On went Daisy, much too

fast for the watering pot; till the cripple's cottage came in

sight a second time. There, just at the foot of the little

rise in the road which led up to the cottage gate, Loupe

suddenly fell to very slow going. The watering pot went easily

enough for several yards; and then Loupe stopped. What was the

matter?

Something was the matter, yet Daisy did not summon Lewis. She

sat quite still, looking before her up to the cottage, with a

thoughtful, puzzled, troubled face. The matter was, that just

there, and not before, the remembrance of her mother's command

had flashed on her — that she should have nothing to do with

any stranger out of the house unless she had first got leave.

Daisy was stopped short. Get leave? She would never get leave

to speak again to that poor crabbed, crippled, forlorn

creature; and who else would take up the endeavour to be kind

to her? Who else would even try to win her to a knowledge of

the Bible and Bible joys? and how would that poor ignorant

mortal ever get out of the darkness into the light? Daisy did

not know how to give her up; yet she could not go on. The

sweet rose on the top of her little rose-tree mocked her, with

kindness undone and good not attempted. Daisy sat still,

confounded at this new barrier her mother's will had put in

her way.

Wheels came rapidly coursing along the road in front of her,

and in a moment Dr. Sandford's gig had whirled past the

cottage and bore down the hill. But recognizing the pony

chaise in the road, he too came to a stop as sudden as Daisy's

had been. The two were close beside each other.

"Where away, Daisy?"

"I do not understand, Dr. Sandford."

"Where are you going? or rather, why are you standing still

here?"

"Because I was in doubt what to do."

"Did the doubt take you here, in the middle of the road?"

"Yes, Dr. Sandford."

"What is it, Daisy? To whom are you carrying a rose-bush?"

"I am afraid — nobody."

"What is the matter — or the doubt?"

"It is a question of duty, Dr. Sandford."

"Then I will decide it for you. Go on and do what you wish to

do. That will be right."

"Oh, no, sir," said Daisy, smiling at her adviser — that is

just what would be wrong. I cannot."

"Cannot what?"

"Do that, sir; do what I wish to do." And Daisy sighed withal.

"What do you wish to do?"

The doctor was quite serious, and as usual a little imperative

in his questions, and Daisy knew him to be trusted.

"I wanted to take this little rose-bush and set it out in the

garden up there."

"_There?_ do you mean the garden of that cottage?" said the

doctor, pointing with his whip.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you bound thither now?"

"No, sir — I am going home."

"Rose-bush and all? Daisy, let Lewis get Loupe home, and you

come here and ride with me. Come! I want you."

Truly Daisy wanted nothing else. She left rose-bush and

watering pot, chaise and pony, to Lewis's management, and

gladly let the doctor take her up beside him. She liked to

drive with him; he had a fine horse and went fast; and there

were other reasons.

Now they drove off in fine style; fast, over the good roads;

whisked by Melbourne, sped away along south, catching glimpses

of the river from time to time, with the hills on the further

side hazily blue and indistinct with the September haze of

sunbeams. Near hand the green of plantations and woodland was

varied with brown grainfields, where grain had been, and with

ripening Indian corn and buckwheat; but more especially with

here and there a stately roof-tree or gable of some fine new

or old country house. The light was mellow, the air was good;

in the excitement of her drive Daisy half forgot her

perplexity and discomfiture. Till the doctor said, suddenly

looking round at her with a smile, "Now I should like to know

the history of that rose-bush."

"Oh, there is no history about it," said Daisy, quite taken by

surprise.

"Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end," said the

doctor. "What was the beginning of this?"

"Only, Dr. Sandford," said Daisy, doubtfully, — "I was sorry

for that poor woman, after what you told me about her."

"Molly Skelton?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you thought to comfort her with rose-bushes?"

"No sir, — but — I wanted to get on good terms with her."

"Are you on any other terms?"

"She does not know me, you know, sir," said Daisy, lifting to

her friend a face that was beyond his comprehension, — "and I

do not think she was very well pleased to see me in her garden

a little while ago."

"You have been in her garden, then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Daisy, will you excuse me for asking, why you should be on

any terms whatever with Molly Skelton?"

"She is so unhappy, Dr. Sandford," — Daisy said, looking up

again.

"And do you think you can do anything to make her less

unhappy?"

"I thought" — Daisy did not look up now, but the doctor

watching her saw a witnessing tinge that he knew coming about

her eyelids, and a softened line of lip, that made him listen

the closer, — "I thought — I might teach her something that

would make her happy, — if I could."

"What would you teach her, Daisy?"

"I would teach her to read — perhaps — I thought; if she would

like me and let me."

"Is reading a specific for happiness?"

"No sir — but — the Bible!" Daisy said, with a sudden glance.

And so clear and sure the speech of her childish eye was, that

the doctor, though believing nothing of it, would not breathe

a question of that which she believed.

"Oh, that is it!" he said. "Well, Daisy, this is the

beginning; but though I came in upon the middle of the subject

I do not understand it yet. Why did not the rose-tree get to

its destination!"

"Because — I remembered, just when I had got to the bottom of

the hill, that mamma would not let me."

Daisy's tone of voice told more than she knew of her subdued

state of disappointment.

"Mrs. Randolph had forbidden you to go to Molly's cottage?"

"No sir; but she had forbidden me to speak to anybody without

having her leave. I had forgotten it till just that minute."

"Ask her leave, and then go. What is the difficulty in that,

Daisy?"

"She will not give me leave, Dr. Sandford. Mamma does not like

me to do such things."

"Do you care much about it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Present your request to Mrs. Randolph to-morrow, Daisy — that

is my advice to you."

"It would be no use, Dr. Sandford."

"Perhaps not; but I advise you to take my advice; and lay the

rose-bush by the heels till to-morrow afternoon."

"By the heels, sir."

"Yes. Logan will tell you what that means."

Daisy looked with such a gaze of steadfast inquiry up in the

doctor's face, that he had hard work to command his

countenance. She could not make out anything from his face,

except that somehow she got a little encouragement from it;

and then they whirled in at the gate of Melbourne, and in

another minute were at home. Daisy went off to see after her

rose-bush, find Logan, and have it laid by the heels. The

doctor marched in through the hall, into the library, and then

catching sight of Mr. Randolph on the piazza, he went out

there. Mr. Randolph was enjoying the September sunlight, and

seemed to be doing nothing else.

"Good afternoon!" said the doctor.

"How do you do?" said Mr. Randolph. "Can you, possibly have

business on hand, doctor, in this weather?"

"Very good weather for business," said the doctor.

"Too good. It is enough to look and breathe."

All Mr. Randolph was doing, apparently. He was lounging on a

settee, with a satisfied expression of countenance. The doctor

put himself in a great cane chair and followed the direction

of his host's eyes, to the opposite river and mountains; over

which there was a glory of light and atmosphere. Came back to

Mr. Randolph's face with an air of the disparaged business.

"It is not bad, driving."

"No, I suppose not!"

"Your little daughter likes business better than you do."

A smile came over Mr. Randolph's face, a smile of much

meaning.

"She likes it too well, doctor. I wish I could infuse some

degree of nonchalant carelessness into Daisy's little wise

head."

"We must deal with things as we find them," said the doctor.

"I met her this afternoon in the road, with a carriage-load of

business on hand; but what was very bad for her, it was

arrested business."

"How do you mean?"

The doctor rose here to give his chair to Mrs. Randolph, who

stepped out through the library window. He fetched another for

himself, and went on.

"She was in the middle of the road, her chaise loaded with

baskets and greenhouse plants, and with a general distribution

of garden tools between herself and her outrider. All in the

middle of the road at a stand-still — chaise and pony and all,

— and Daisy herself in particular. I found it was an

interrupted expedition, and invited Daisy to take a ride with

me; which she did, and I got at the rationale of the affair.

And I come now to make the request, as her physician, not as

her friend, that her expeditions may be as little interfered

with as possible. Let her energies work. The very best thing

for her is that they should find something to work upon, and

receive no interruption."

"What interrupted her this afternoon."

"Conscience — as I understand it."

"There is no dealing with Daisy's conscience, doctor," said

Mr. Randolph, with a smile. "What _that_ says, Daisy feels

herself bound to do."

"Do not burden her conscience then," said the doctor. "Not

just now — till she gets stronger."

"Where was she going this afternoon?" Mrs. Randolph asked in

her calm voice.

"On an errand of the most Utopian benevolence —"

"Having what for its object?"

"A miserable old crippled creature, who lives in a poor

cottage about half a mile from your gate."

"What was Daisy desiring to do, doctor?"

"Carry some comfort to this forlorn thing, I believe; whom

nobody else thinks of comforting."

"Do you know what shape the comfort was to take?"

"I think," said the doctor, — "I am not quite sure, but I

think, it was a rose-bush."

Mr. Randolph looked at his wife and straightened himself up to

a sitting posture.

"And what hindered her, Dr. Sandford?"

"I think, some understanding that she had not liberty to go

on."

"Very proper in Daisy," said Mrs. Randolph.

"That is your child who is wanting in docility," remarked Mr.

Randolph.

"She might have remembered my orders before she got so far," —

said the lady.

"I wish you would change the orders," said Dr. Sandford,

boldly.

"Not even to oblige you, doctor," said Mrs. Randolph. "Daisy

has an idea that the companions who are not fit for her are

precisely the ones whom she should cultivate."

"I think Daisy would state the question differently, however,"

Mr. Randolph remarked.

"She has a tinge of the wildest fanaticism," Mrs. Randolph

went on, dropping her work, and facing the doctor. "Wherever

there are rags and dirt, there, by force of contrast, Daisy

thinks it is her business to go. This is a miserable place, I

suppose, that she was aiming for this afternoon — is it not?"

"Very miserable. But the point is, to visit it would have made

Daisy happy."

"It is sheer fanaticism!" said Mrs. Randolph. "I cannot let

her encourage it. If I did, she would not be fit for anything

by and by. She is fit for very little now."