"You will of course judge as you please about it," said the

doctor; "but it is my duty to tell you that the danger in that

line is far more than compensated by the advantage to be

gained. For Daisy's health, she should be checked in nothing;

let her go where she will and do what she will; the more

business on hand the better, that carries her out of doors and

out of herself. With a strong body and secure health, you will

find it far easier to manage fanaticism."

"I am sure Dr. Sandford is right, Felicia," said Mr. Randolph.

"I know Daisy —" said the lady.

"I think I know fanaticism," said the doctor; "and if I do,

the best thing you can do with it is to give it plenty of sun

and air."

"Is it quite safe for Daisy to go to this cottage you speak

of?" Mr. Randolph asked.

"Quite safe."

"I cannot think of letting Daisy go there, Mr. Randolph!" said

his wife.

"What danger do you apprehend, Felicia?"

It was not quite so easy to say. The lady handled her tetting-

pins, which were in her fingers, for a moment or two in

silence; then let them fall, and raised her handsome head.

"Daisy must be withdrawn entirely from the associations which

have taken possession of her — if it is possible. The very

best thing for her in my opinion would be to send her to a

boarding-school. — Unless you wish your daughter to grow up a

confirmed _religieuse_, Mr. Randolph. Do you wish that?"

"I have not considered it. What do you suppose Daisy will do

to harm herself at this place Dr. Sandford speaks of?"

"Some absurdity, that just cherishes the temper she is in."

"Quite as likely" — to wear it out, Mr. Randolph was going to

say; but some remembrance of Daisy came up and stopped him.

"Good evening!" said the doctor, rising to his feet.

"Are you going, Dr. Sandford?"

"Yes."

"Then you recommend that we let Daisy go to this place, and

alone?"

"In my capacity of physician I _should_ order it," said the

doctor, with a smile; "only, I do not like to give orders and

have them dishonoured."

Off he went.

"Felicia," said Mr. Randolph, "I believe he is right."

"I am sure he knows nothing about it," said the lady.

"Do you? Daisy is very delicate."

"She will never die of want of resolution."

"Felicia, I mean to enquire into Daisy's wishes and purposes

about this matter; and if I find them unobjectionable, I shall

give her leave to go on with it."

"You do not know what you are about, Mr. Randolph."

"I shall find out, then," said the gentleman. "I would rather

she would be a _religieuse_ than a shadow."

CHAPTER XXX.

MOLLY'S GARDEN.

Daisy pondered over the doctor's counsel. It was friendly; but

she hardly thought well advised. He did not know her father

and mother so well as she did. Yet she went to find out Logan

that afternoon on her return from the drive, and saw the rose-

bush laid by the heels; with perhaps just a shadow of hope in

her heart that her friend the doctor might mean to put in a

plea for her somewhere. The hope faded when she got back to

the house, and the doctor was gone, and Mrs. Randolph's

handsome face looked its usual calm impassiveness. What use to

ask her such a thing as leave to go to the cripple's cottage?

No use at all, Daisy knew. The request alone would probably

move displeasure. Every look at her mother's face settled this

conviction more and more deeply in Daisy's mind; and she ended

by giving up the subject. There was no hope. She could do

nothing for any poor person, she was sure, under her mother's

permission, beyond carrying soup and jelly in her pony-chaise,

and maybe going in to give it. And that was not much; and

there were very few poor people around Melbourne that wanted

just that sort of attention.

So Daisy gave up her scheme. Nevertheless next morning it gave

her a twinge of heart to see her rose-bush laid by the heels,

exactly like her hopes. Daisy stood and looked at it. The

sweet half-blown rose at the top of the little tree hung

ingloriously over the soil, and yet looked so lovely and smelt

so sweet; and Daisy had hoped it might win poor Molly

Skelton's favour, or at least begin to open a way for it to

come in due time.

"So ye didn't get your bush planted —" said Logan, coming up.

"No."

"Your hands were not strong enough to make the hole deep for

it, Miss Daisy?"

"Yes, I think they could; but I met with an interruption

yesterday, Logan."

"Weel — it'll just bide here till ye want it."

Daisy wished it was back in its old place again; but she did

not like to say so, and she went slowly back to the house. As

she mounted the piazza steps she heard her father's voice. He

was there before the library windows.

"Come here, Daisy. What are you about?" he said, drawing her

up in his arms.

"Nothing, papa."

"How do you like doing nothing?"

"Papa, I think it is not at all agreeable."

"You do! So I supposed. What were you about yesterday

afternoon?"

"I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."

"Did that occupy the whole afternoon?"

"Oh, no, papa."

"Were you doing nothing the rest of the time?"

"No sir, not _nothing_."

"Daisy, I wish you would be a little more frank. Have you any

objection to tell me what you were doing?"

"No, papa; — but I did not think it would give you any

pleasure. I was only trying to do something."

"It would give me pleasure to have you tell about it."

"I must tell you more then, papa." And standing with her arm

on her father's shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains

on the other side of the river, Daisy went on.

"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa,

that I saw one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is

a cripple. Papa, her legs and feet are all bent up under her,

so that she cannot walk at all; her way of moving is by

dragging herself along over the ground on her hands and knees;

her hands and her gown all clown in the dirt."

"That is your idea of extreme misery, is it not, Daisy?"

"Papa, do you not think it is — it must be — very

uncomfortable?"

"Very, I should think."

"But that is not her worst misery. Papa, she is all alone; the

neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with

her. She is all alone by night and by day; and she is

disagreeable in her temper, I believe, and she has nobody to

love her and she loves nobody."

"Which of those two things is the worst, Daisy?"

"What two things, papa?"

"To love nobody, or to have nobody to love her?"

"Papa — I do not know." Then, remembering Juanita, Daisy

suddenly added, — "Papa, I should think it must be the worst

to love nobody."

"Do you? Pray why?"

"It would not make her happy, I think, to have people love her

if she did not love them."

"And you think loving others would be better, without anybody

to give love back?"

"I should think it would be very hard!" — said Daisy, with a

most profound expression of thoughtfulness.

"Well — this poor cripple, I understand, lacks both these

conditions of happiness?"

"Yes, papa."

"What then? You were going to tell me something about her."

"Not much about _her_," said Daisy, "but only about myself."

"A much more interesting subject to me, Daisy."

You could only see the faintest expression of pleasure in the

line of Daisy's lips; she was looking very sober and a trifle

anxious.

"I only thought, papa, I would try if I could not do something

to make that poor woman happier."

"What did you try?"

"The first thing was to get her to know me and like me, you

know, papa; because she is rather cross, and does not like

people generally, I believe."

"So you went to see her?"

"I have never spoken much to her, papa. But I went inside of

her gate one day, and saw her trying to take care of some poor

flowers; so then I thought, maybe, if I took her a nice little

rose-bush, she might like it."

"And then like you? Well — you tried the experiment?"

"No, papa. I did get a rose-bush from Logan, and he told me

how to plant it; and I was on my way to the cottage, and had

almost got there; and then I recollected mamma had said I must

not speak to anybody without her leave."

"So you came home?"

"Yes, papa. No, papa, I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."

"Have you asked leave of your mother?"

"No, papa," — said Daisy, in a tone of voice which

sufficiently expressed that she did not intend it.

"So, my dear little Daisy," said her father, drawing his arm

round her a little more closely — "you think a rose-bush would

serve instead of friends to make this poor creature happy?"

"Oh, no, papa!"

"What was the purpose of it, then?"

"Only — to get her to like me, papa."

"What were _you_ going to do to make her happy?"

"Papa, if you lived in such a place, in such a way, wouldn't

you like to have a friend come and see you sometimes?"

"Certainly! — if you were the friend."

"I thought — by and by — she might learn to like it," Daisy

said, in the most sedately meek way possible.

Her father could not forbear a smile.

"But, Daisy, from what you tell me, I am at a loss to

understand the part that all this could have had in your

happiness."

"Oh, papa — she is so miserable!" was Daisy's answer.

Mr. Randolph drew her close and kissed her.

"_You_ are not miserable?"

"No, papa — but —"

"But what?"

"I would like to give her a little bit of comfort."

There was much earnestness, and a little sorrow, in Daisy's

eyes.

"I am not sure that it is right for you to go to such places."

"Papa, may I show you something?" said the child, with sudden

life.

"Anything, Daisy."

She rushed away; was gone a full five minutes; then came

softly to Mr. Randolph's shoulder with an open book in her

hand. It was Joanna's Bible, for Daisy did not dare bring her

own; and it was open at these words —

"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so

to them."

"What does this mean, Daisy? It seems very plain; but what do

I want with it?"

"Only, papa, that is what makes me think it is right."

"What is right?"

"To do this, papa."

"Well, but, are you in want of somebody to come and make you

happy?"

"Oh, no, papa — but if I were in her place, then I should be."

"Do you suppose this commands us to do in every case what we

would like ourselves in the circumstances?"

"Papa — I suppose so — if it wouldn't be something wrong."

"At that rate, I should have to let you go with your rose-

bush," said Mr. Randolph.

"Oh, papa!" said Daisy, "do you think, if you asked her, mamma

would perhaps say I might?"

"Can't tell, Daisy — I think I shall try my powers of

persuasion."

For answer to which, Daisy clasped her arms round his neck and

gave him some very earnest caresses, comprised in one great

kiss and a clinging of her little head in his neck for the

space of half a minute. It meant a great deal; so much that

Mr. Randolph was unable for the rest of the day to get rid of

a sort of lingering echo of Daisy's Bible words; they haunted

him, and haunted him with a strange sense of the house being

at cross purposes, and Daisy's line of life lying quite

athwart and contrary to all the rest. "Whatsoever ye would

that men should do unto you;" — who else at Melbourne

considered that for one moment?

However, Mr. Randolph had a fresh talk with his wife; the end

of which was that he gave Daisy leave to do what she liked in

the matter of Molly Skelton; and was rewarded on the spot by

seeing the pink tinge which instantly started into the pale

cheeks.

No lack of energy had Daisy for the rest of that day. She went

off first to see what was the condition of her rose-bush;

pretty fair; lying by the heels seemed to agree with it quite

well. Then the pony chaise was ordered, and a watering-pot of

water again; much to the boy's disgust who was to carry it;

and Daisy took her dinner with quiet satisfaction. So soon as

the afternoon had become pleasantly cool, Daisy's driving

gloves and hat went on, the chaise was summoned, and rose-bush

and all she set forth on her expedition. Mr. Randolph watched

her off; acknowledging that certainly for the present the

doctor was right; whether in the future Mrs. Randolph would

prove to have been right also, he was disagreeably uncertain.

Still, he was not quite sure that he wished Daisy anything

other than she was.

Troubled by no fears or prognostications, meanwhile, the pony-

chaise and its mistress went on their way. No, Daisy had no

fears. She did doubt what Molly's immediate reception of her

advances might be; her first experience bade her doubt; but

the spirit of love in her little heart was overcoming; it

poured over Molly a flood of sunny affections and purposes, in

the warmth and glow of which the poor cripple's crabbedness

and sourness of manner and temper were quite swallowed up and

lost. Daisy drove on, very happy and thankful, till the little

hill was gained, and slowly walking up it Loupe stopped,

nothing loth, before the gate of Molly Skelton's courtyard.

A little bit of hesitation came over Daisy now, not about what

was to be done, but how to do it. The cripple was in her

flowery bit of ground, grubbing around her balsams as usual.

The clear afternoon sunbeams shone all over what seemed to

Daisy all distressing together. The ragged balsams — the

coarse bloom of prince's feather and cockscomb — some

straggling tufts of ribband grass and four-o'clocks and

marigolds — and the great sunflower nodding its head on high

over all; while weeds were only kept away from the very growth

of the flowers and started up everywhere else, and grass grew

irregularly where grass should not; and in the midst of it all

the poor cripple on her hands and knees in the dirt, more

uncared-for, more unseemly and unlovely than her little plot

of weeds and flowers. Daisy looked at her, with a new tide of

tenderness flowing up in her heart, along with the doubt how

her mission should be executed or how it would be received;

then she gave up her reins, took the rose-tree in her hands,

and softly opened the little wicket gate. She went up the path

and stood beside the cripple, who hearing the gate shut had

risen from her grubbing in the earth and sat back looking at

who was coming. Daisy went on without hesitation now. She had

prayed out all her prayer about it before setting out from

home.

"I have brought you a rose-bush," she said simply. "Do you

like roses? this is very sweet. I thought maybe you would like

a rose. Where would you like to have it go?"

The answer was a very strange sort of questioning grunt —

inarticulate — nevertheless expressive of rude wonder and

incredulity, as far as it expressed anything. And Molly

stared.

"Where shall I put this rose-tree?" said Daisy. "Where would

it look prettiest? May I put it here, by these balsams?"

No answer in words; but instead of a sign of assent, the

cripple after looking a moment longer at Daisy and the rose-

tree, put her hand beyond the balsams and grubbed up a tuft of

what the country people call "creepin' Charley;" and then

sitting back as before, signified to Daisy by a movement of

her hand that the rose-bush might go in that place. That was

all Daisy wanted. She fell to work with her trowel, glad

enough to be permitted, and dug a hole, with great pains and

some trouble; for the soil was hard as soon as she got a

little below the surface. But with great diligence Daisy

worked and scooped, till by repeated trials she found she had

the hole deep enough and large enough; and then she tenderly

set the roots of the rose-tree in the prepared place and shook

fine soil over them, as Logan had told her; pressing it down

from time to time, until the job was finished and the little

tree stood securely planted. A great feat accomplished. Daisy

stayed not, but ran off to the road for the watering-pot, and

bringing it with some difficulty to the spot without soiling

herself, she gave the rose-bush a thorough watering; watered

it till she was sure the refreshment had penetrated down to

the very roots. All the while the cripple sat back gazing at

her; gazing alternately at the rose-bush and the planting, and

at the white delicate frock the child wore and the daintily

neat shoes and stockings, and the handsome flat hat with its

costly ribband. I think the view of these latter things must

in some degree have neutralised the effect of the sweet rose

looking at her from the top of the little bush; because Molly

on the whole was not gracious.

Daisy had finished her work and set down her empty watering

pot, and was looking with great satisfaction at the little

rose-bush; which was somewhat closely neighboured by a ragged

bunch of four-o'clocks on one side and the overgrown balsams

on the other; when Molly said suddenly and gruffly, "Now go

'long!"

Daisy was startled, and turned to the creature who had spoken

to see if she had heard and understood aright. No doubt of it.

Molly was not looking at her, but her face was ungenial; and

as Daisy hesitated she made a little gesture of dismissal with

her hands. Daisy moved a step or two off, afraid of another

shower of gravel upon her feet.

"I will come to-morrow and see how it looks" — she said

gently.

Molly did not reply yes or no, but she repeated her gesture of

dismissal, and Daisy thought it best and wisest to obey. She

bid her a sweet "good-bye," to which she got no answer, and

mounted into her chaise again. There was a little

disappointment in her heart; yet when she had time to think it

all over she was encouraged too. The rose-tree was fairly

planted; that would keep on speaking to Molly without the fear

of a rebuff; and somehow Daisy's heart was warm towards the

gruff old creature. How forlorn she had looked, sitting in the

dirt, with her grum face!

"But perhaps she will wear a white robe in heaven!" thought

Daisy.

Seeing that the rose-tree had evidently won favour, Daisy

judged she could not do better than attack Molly again on her

weak side, which seemed to be the love of the beautiful! — in

one line at least. But Daisy was not an impatient child; and

she thought it good to see first what sort of treatment the

rose-bush got, and not to press Molly too hard. So the next

day she carried nothing with her; only went to pay a visit to

the garden. Nothing was to be seen but the garden; Molly did

not show herself; and Daisy went in and looked at the rose.

Much to her satisfaction, she saw that Molly had quite

discarded the great bunch of four-o'clocks which had given the

little rose tree no room on one side; they were actually

pulled up and gone; and the rose looked out in fair space and

sunshine, where its coarse-growing neighbour had threatened to

be very much in its way. An excellent sign. Molly clearly

approved of the rose. Daisy saw with great pleasure that

another bud was getting ready to open and already showing red

between the leaves of its green calyx; and she went home

happy.

Next morning she went among the flower-beds, and took a very

careful survey of all the beauties there to see what best she

might take for her next attack upon Molly. The beauties in

flower were so very many, and so very various, and so

delicious all to Daisy's eye, that she was a good deal

puzzled. Red and purple, and blue and white and yellow, the

beds were gay and glorious. But Daisy reflected that anything

which wanted skill in its culture or shelter from severities

of season would disappoint Molly, because it would not get

from her what would be necessary to its thriving. Some of the

flowers in bloom, too, would not bear transplanting. Daisy did

not know what to do. She took Logan into her confidence, so

far as she could without mentioning names or circumstances.

"Weel, Miss Daisy," said the gardener, "if ye're bent on being

a Lady Flora to the poor creature, I'll tell ye what ye'll do

— ye'll just take her a scarlet geranium."

"A geranium?" said Daisy.

"Ay. Just that."

"But it would want to be in the greenhouse when winter comes."

"Any place where it wouldn't freeze," said Logan. "You see,

it'll be in a pot e'en now, Miss Daisy — and you'll keep it in

the pot; and the pot you'll sink in the ground till frost

comes; and when the frost comes, it'll just come up as it is

and go intil the poor body's house, and make a spot of summer

for her in her house till summer comes again."

"Oh, Logan, that is an excellent thought!"

"Ay, Miss Daisy — I'm glad ye approve it."

"And then she would have the flowers all winter."

"Ay — if she served it justly."

The only thing now was to choose the geranium. Daisy was some

time about it, there were so many to choose from. At last she

suited herself with a very splendid new kind called the

"Jewess" — a compact little plant with a store of rich purple-

red blossoms. Logan murmured as he took up the pot in which it

was planted — "Less than the best will never serve ye, Miss

Daisy" — but he did not grumble about it after all, and Daisy

was content.

She was very content when she had got it in her pony-chaise

and was driving off, with the magnificent purple-red blossoms

at her feet. How exquisitely those delicate petals were

painted, and marked with dashes of red and purple deeper than

the general colour. What rich clusters of blossoms. Daisy gave

only half an eye to her driving; and it was not till she had

almost reached Melbourne gate that she discovered her trowel

had been forgotten. She sent her attendant back for it and

waited.

Loupe was always willing to stand, lazy little fat fellow that

he was; and Daisy was giving her undivided attention to the

purple "Jewess," with a sort of soft prayer going on all the

while in her heart that her errand might be blessed; when she

was suddenly interrupted.

"Why, where are you going, Daisy?"

"Where have you been, Preston?" said Daisy, as suddenly

drawing up.

"Little Yankee!" said Preston. "Answer one question by another

in that fashion? You mustn't do it, Daisy. What are you

doing?"

"Nothing. I am waiting."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I am going to drive."

"Do you usually carry a pot of geraniums for company?"

"No, not usually," said Daisy, smiling at him.

"Well, set out the pot of geraniums, and we will have a

glorious ride, Daisy. I am going to the Fish's, to see some of

Alexander's traps; and you shall go with me."

"Oh, Preston — I am sorry; I cannot."

"Why?"

"I cannot this afternoon."

"Yes, you can, my dear little Daisy. In fact you _must_.

Consider — I shall be going away before very long, and then we

cannot take rides together. Won't you come?"

"Not now — I cannot, Preston! I have got something to do

first."

"What?"

"Something which will take me an hour or two. After that I

could go."

"Scarcely, this afternoon. Daisy, it is a long drive to the

Fish's. And they have beautiful things there, which you would

like to see, I know you would. Come! go with me — that's my

own little Daisy."

Preston was on horseback, and looked very much in earnest. He

looked very gay and handsome too, for he was well mounted, and

knew how to manage himself and his horse. He wanted to manage

Daisy too; and that was difficult. Daisy would have been

tempted, and would have gone with him at the first asking; but

the thought of Molly and her forlornness, and the words warm

at her heart, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you"

— and a further sense that her visitations of Molly were an

extraordinary thing and very likely to be hindered on short

notice, kept her firm as a rock. She had an opportunity now in

hand; she would not throw it away; not for any self-

gratification. And to tell the truth, no sort of self-

gratification could balance for a moment in Daisy's mind the

thought of Molly's wearing a crown of gold in heaven.. That

crown of gold was before Daisy's eyes; nothing else was worth

a thought in comparison.

"Are you going to see that wretched old being?" said Preston,

at last.

"Yes."

"Daisy — dear Daisy — I do not know what to do with you. Do

you like, is it possible that you can like, dirt and

vulgarity?"

"I don't think I do," Daisy said, gently; "but, Preston, I

like the poor people."

"You do!" said Preston. "Then it is manifest that you cannot

like me." And he dashed spurs into his horse and sprung away,

with a grace and life that kept Daisy looking after him in

admiration, and a plain mood of displeasure which cast its

shadow all over her spirit.

"Here is the trowel, Miss Daisy."

Her messenger had come back, and Daisy, recalled to the

business in hand, took up her reins again and drove on; but

she felt deeply grieved. Now and then her gauntleted hand even

went up to her face to brush away a tear that had gathered. It

was not exactly a new thing, nor was Daisy entirely surprised

at the attempt to divert her from her purpose. She was wise

enough to guess that Preston's' object had been more than the

pleasure of her company; and she knew that all at home, unless

possibly her father might be excepted, neither liked nor

favoured her kindness to Molly, and would rejoice to interrupt

the tokens of it. All were against her; and Daisy's hand went

up again and again. "It is good I am weak and not very well,"

she thought; "as soon as I grow strong mamma will not let me

do this any more. I must do all I can now."

So she came to the cripple's gate; and by that time the tears

were all gone.

Nobody was in the little courtyard; Daisy went in first to see

how the rose looked. It was all safe and doing well. While she

stood there before it, the cottage door opened and the poor

inmate came out. She crawled down the walk on hands and knees

till she got near Daisy, and then sat back to look at her.

"What do you want?" she said, in a most uninviting and

ungracious tone of voice.

"I came to see you," said Daisy, venturing to let her eyes

rest for the first time on those poor, restless, unloving eyes

opposite her — "and I wanted to see the rose, and I have

brought you another flower — if you will let me bring it in."

Her words were sweet as honey. The woman looked at her, and

answered again with the unintelligible grunt, of unbelieving

wonder, which Daisy had heard once before. Daisy thought on

the whole the safest way was not to talk, but to fetch her

beautiful "Jewess" flowers to speak for themselves. So she ran

off and brought the pot, and set it on the ground before

Molly. It was a great attraction; Daisy could see that at

once. The cripple sat back gazing at it. Daisy prudently

waited till her eyes came round again from the flowers and

rested on her little visitor's face.

"Where shall I put it?" said Daisy. "Where would you like to

have it go?"

Molly's eyes presently followed hers, roaming over the little

flower plot in search of room for the geranium, which did not

appear; prince's feather and marigolds so choked up the ground

where balsams did not straggle over it. Molly looked as Daisy

did at the possibilities of the case, looked again at the

strange sweet little face which was so busy in her garden; and

then made a sudden movement. With two or three motions of

hands and knees she drew herself a few steps back to one of

the exclusive bunches of balsams, and began with her two hands

to root it up. Actually she was grubbing, might and main, at

the ungainly stalks of the balsams, pulling them up as fast as

she could and flinging them aside, careless where. Daisy came

to help with her trowel, and together they worked, amicably

enough but without a word, till the task was done. A great

space was left clear, and Molly threw herself back in her

wonted position for taking observations. Daisy wasted no time.

In hopeful delight she went on to make a hole in the ground in

which to sink the pot of geraniums. It was more of a job than

she thought, and she dug away stoutly with her trowel for a

good while before she had an excavation sufficient to hold the

pot. Daisy got it in at last; smoothed the surface nicely all

round it; disposed of the loose soil till the bed was trim and

neat, as far as that was concerned; and then stood up and

spoke. Warm, — how warm she was! her face was all one pink

flush, but she did not feel it, she was so eager.

"There," she said, "that will stand there nicely; and when the

cold weather comes, you can take the pot up and take it into

the house, just as it is; and if you do not let it freeze, it

will have flowers for you in the winter."

"Cold?" said Molly.

"Yes — by and by, when the cold weather comes, this must be

taken up. The cold would kill it, if it was cold enough to

freeze. It would have to go in the house. The rose can stay

out all winter if you like; but this must be kept warm. This

is a geranium. And it will give you flowers in the winter."

"J'anium?" said Molly.

"Yes. This is called the 'Jewess' — there are so many kinds

that they have to be named. This is the 'Jewess' geranium."

"Water?" — said Molly.

"Water? No, this does not need water, because the roots are in

a pot, you know, and have not been disturbed. It will want

water if rain don't come, by and by."

"What's you?" was Molly's next question, given with more

directness.

"Me? I am Daisy Randolph. And I love flowers; and you love

flowers. May I come and see you sometimes? Will you let me?"

Molly's grunt this time was not unintelligible. It was queer,

but there was certainly a tone of assent in it. She sat

looking now at the "Jewess" blossoms and now at Daisy.

"And I love Jesus," the child went on. "Do you love Him?"

The grunt was of pure question, in answer to this speech.

Molly did not understand. Daisy stooped down to face her on

more equal terms.

"There is a great King up in heaven, who loves you, Molly. He

loves you so well that He died for you. And if you love Him,

He will take you there when you die and give you a white robe

and a crown of gold, and make you blessed."

It is impossible to describe the simple earnestness of this

speech. Daisy said it, not as a philosopher nor as even a

preacher would have done; she said it as a child. As she had

received, she gave. The utter certainty and sweetness of her

faith and love went right from one pair of eyes to the other.

Nevertheless, Molly's answer was only a most ignorant and

blank, "What?" — but it told of interest.

"Yes," said Daisy. "Jesus loved us so well that He came and

died for us — He shed His blood that we might be forgiven our

sins. And now He is a Great King up in heaven; and He knows

all we do and all we think; and if we love Him He will make us

good and take us to be with Him, and give us white robes and

crowns of gold up there. He can do anything, for He raised up

dead people to life, when He was in the world."

That was a master-stroke of Daisy's. Molly's answer was again

a grunt of curiosity; and Daisy, crouching opposite to her,

took up her speech, and told her at length and in detail the

whole story of Lazarus. And if Daisy was engaged with her

subject, so certainly was Molly. She did not stir hand or

foot; she sat listening movelessly to the story, which came

with such loving truthfulness from the lips of her childish

teacher. A teacher exactly fitted, however, to the scholar;

Molly's poor closed-up mind could best receive any truth in

the way a child's mind would offer it; but in this truth, the

undoubting utterance of Daisy's love and belief won entrance

for her words where another utterance might not. Faith is

always catching.

So Daisy told the wonderful story, and displayed the power and

love and tenderness of the Lord with the affection of one who

knew Him _her_ Lord, and almost with the zeal of an eye-witness

of his work. It was almost to Daisy so; it seemed to her that

she had beheld and heard the things she was telling over; for

faith is the substance of things not seen; and the grief of

the sisters, and their joy, and the love and tenderness of the

Lord Jesus, were all to her not less real than they were to

the actors in that far distant drama. Molly heard her

throughout, with open mouth and marvelling eyes.

Neither of them had changed her position, and indeed Daisy had

scarce finished talking, when she heard herself hailed from

the road. She started. Preston was there on horseback, calling

to her. Daisy got up and took up her trowel.

"Good-bye," she said, with a little sigh for the lost vision

which Preston's voice had interrupted — "I'll come again, I

hope." And she ran out at the gate.

"It is time for you to go home, Daisy. I thought you did not

know how late it is."

Daisy mounted into her pony-chaise silently.

"Have I interrupted something very agreeable?"

"You would not have thought it so," said Daisy,

diplomatically.

"What were you doing, down there in the dirt?"

"Preston, if you please, I cannot talk to you nicely while you

are so high and I am so low."

Preston was certainly at some height above Daisy, being

mounted up in his saddle on a pretty high horse, while the

pony-chaise was hung very near the ground. He had been beside

her; but at her last words he laughed and set off at a good

pace in advance, leaving the chaise to come along in Loupe's

manner. Daisy drove contentedly home through the afternoon

sunlight, which laid bands of brightness across her road all

the way home. They seemed bands of joy to Daisy.

Preston had galloped ahead, and was at the door ready to meet

her. "What kept you so long at that dismal place?" he asked,

as he handed her out of the chaise.

"You were back very soon from the Fish place, I think," said

Daisy.

"Yes — Alexander was not at home; there was no use in my

staying. But what were you doing all that while, Daisy?"

"It was not so very long," said Daisy. "I did not think it was

a long time. You must have deceived yourself."

"But do you not mean to tell me what you were about? What

_could_ you do, at such a place?"

Daisy stood on the piazza, in all the light of the afternoon

sunbeams, looking and feeling puzzled. How much was it worth

while to try to tell Preston of her thoughts and wishes?

"What was the attraction, Daisy? only tell me that. Dirt and

ignorance and rudeness and disorder — and you contented to be

in the midst of it! Down in the dirt! What was the

attraction?"

"She is very unhappy, Preston."

"I don't believe it. Nonsense! All that is not misery to such

people, unless you make it so by showing them something

different. Marble tables are not the thing for them, Daisy."

"Marble tables!" echoed Daisy.

"Nor fuchsias and geraniums either. That old thing's old

flowers do just as well."

Daisy was silent. She could have answered this. Preston went

on.

"She won't be any better with her garden full of roses and

myrtles, than she is with her sunflowers now. What do you

expect to do, little Daisy?"

"I know what I would like if I were in her place," said Daisy.

"_You_, — but she is not you. She has not your tastes. Do you

mean to carry her a silver cup and fork, Daisy? You would

certainly like that, if you were in her place. Dear little

Daisy, don't you be a mad philosopher."

But Daisy had not been thinking of silver cups and forks, and

she was not misled by this argument.

"Daisy, do you see you have been under a mistake?"

"No, Preston," — she said, looking up at him.

"Daisy, do you think it is _right_ for you to go into houses and

among people where my uncle and aunt do not wish you to go?

You know they do not wish it, though they have given consent,

perhaps because you were so set upon it."

Daisy glanced behind her at the windows of the library; for

they were at the back entrance of the house; and then seizing

Preston's hand, and saying, "Come with me," she drew him down

the steps and over the grass till she reached one of the

garden seats under the trees, out of hearing of any one. There

they sat down; Preston curious, Daisy serious and even

doubtful.

"Preston" — she began with all her seriousness upon her, — "I

wish I had the book here, but I will tell you. When the Lord

Jesus comes again in glory, and all the angels with Him, He

will have all the people before Him, and He will separate them

into two sets. One will be on the right and one on the left.

One set will be the people that belong to Him, and the other

set will be the people that do not belong to Him. Then He will

welcome the first set, and bless them, because they have done

things to the poor and miserable such as they would have liked

to have done to themselves. And He will say — 'Inasmuch as ye

have clone it to one of the least of these, ye have done it

unto Me.' " Daisy's eyes were full of water by this time.

"So you are working to gain heaven, Daisy?" said Preston, who

did not know how to answer her.

"Oh, no!" said the child. "I don't mean that."

"Yes, you do."

"No, — that would be doing it for oneself, not for the Lord

Jesus" — said Daisy, gravely looking at Preston.

"Then I don't see what you mean by your story."

"I mean only, that Jesus likes to have us do to other people

what we would want in their place."

"Suppose you were in my aunt and uncle's place — do you not

think you would like to have a little daughter regard their

wishes?"

Daisy looked distressed.

"I think it is time to go in and get ready for dinner,

Preston," she said.

If she was distressed, Preston was displeased. They went in

without any more words. But Daisy was not perplexed at all.

She had not told Preston her innermost thought and hope — that

Molly Skelton might learn the truth and be one of that blessed

throng on the right hand in the Great Day; but the thought and

hope were glowing at her heart; and she thought she must carry

her Master's message, if not positively forbidden, to all whom

she could carry it to. Preston's meditations were different.

"I have tried my best," he said that evening, when Daisy was

gone to bed, — "and I have failed utterly. I tried my best —

and all I got was a rebuke and a sermon."

"A sermon!" said Mrs. Randolph.

"An excellent one, aunt Felicia. It was orderly, serious, and

pointed."

"And she went to that place?"

"Yes, ma'am. The sermon was afterwards."

"What do you mean, Preston! Speak intelligibly."

"Daisy did, ma'am. I am speaking sober truth, aunt Felicia."

"What is her motive in going to that horrid place? can you

understand?"

"Its disagreeableness, ma'am — so far as I can make out."

"It is very singular," said Mrs. Gary.

"It is very deplorable," said Mrs. Randolph. "So at least it

seems to me. There will be nothing in common soon between

Daisy and her family."

"Only that this kind of thing is apt to wear out, my dear. You

have that comfort."

"No comfort at all. You do not know Daisy. She is a persistent

child. She has taken a dose of fanaticism enough to last her

for years."

"I am sure nevertheless that Dr. Sandford is right in his

advice," said Mr. Randolph; — "both as a physician and as a

philosopher. By far the best way is not to oppose Daisy, and

take as little notice as possible of her new notions. They

will fade out."

"I do not believe it," said the lady "I do not believe it in

the least. If she had not your support, I would have an end of

this folly in a month."

"Indirect ways" — said Mrs. Gary — "indirect ways, my dear;

those are your best chance. Draw off Daisy's attention with

other things. That is what I would do."

And then the ladies put their heads together and concerted a

scheme; Preston joining eagerly in the discussion, and

becoming the manager-in-chief intrusted with its execution.

Mr. Randolph heard, but he gave no help and made no

suggestion. He let the ladies alone.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE PICTURES.

Daisy came down to breakfast the next morning, looking so very

bright and innocent and fresh, that perhaps Mr. Randolph

thought his wife and sister were taking unnecessary trouble

upon themselves. At least Mrs. Randolph so interpreted his

manner, as she saw him put his arm round Daisy and bend down

his head to hers. The gay visitors were still at Melbourne,

but they had not come down yet to breakfast that morning.

"Did you go to see your old woman yesterday?" Mr. Randolph

said.

"Yes, papa."

"Did you enjoy your visit?"

"Very much, papa."

Mrs. Randolph's head made a motion of impatience, which

however those two did not see.

"How was that, Daisy? I do not comprehend in this instance the

sources of pleasure."

"Papa" — said Daisy, hesitating — "I think I gave pleasure."

She could not explain to him much more, but Mr. Randolph at

least understood that. He gave Daisy another kiss, which was

not disapproving, the child felt. So her breakfast was

extremely happy.

She had a new plan in her head now about Molly. She wanted to

get established on the footing of a friend in that poor little

house; and she thought she had better perhaps not confine her

line of advance to the garden. After breakfast she sought the

housekeeper's room, and let Joanna know that she was in want

of a nice little cake of some sort to carry to a poor creature

who could make nor buy none. Daisy was a great favourite with

Miss Underwood, especially ever since the night when she had

been summoned in her night dress to tell the child about the

words of the minister that day. Joanna never said "no" to

Daisy if it was possible to say "yes;" nor considered anything

a trouble that Daisy required. On this occasion she promised

that exactly what Daisy wanted should be in readiness by the

afternoon; and having thus secured her arrangements Daisy went

with a perfectly light heart to see what the morning was to

bring forth.

"Daisy!" shouted Preston, as she was going down the piazza

steps, — "Daisy! where are you bound?"

"Out —" said Daisy, who was vaguely seeking the September

sunshine.

"Well, 'out' is as good as anywhere. Wait till I get my hat.

Come, Daisy! — we have business on hand."

"What business?" said Daisy, as she was led along through the

trees.

"Great business," said Preston, — "only I shall want help,

Daisy — I want a great deal of help. I cannot manage it alone.

Wait till we get to a real good place for a talk. — Here, this

will do. Now sit down."

"How pretty it is to-day!" said Daisy.

For indeed the river opposite them looked a bright sheet of

glass; and the hills were blue in the morning light, and the

sunshine everywhere was delightsome. The beautiful trees of

Melbourne waved overhead; American elms hung their branches

towards the ground; lindens stood in masses of luxuriance;

oaks and chestnuts spotted the rolling ground with their round

heads; and English elms stood up great towers of green. The

September sun on all this and on the well kept greensward; no

wonder Daisy said it was pretty. But Preston was too full of

his business.

"Now, Daisy, we have got a great deal to do!"

"Have we?" said Daisy.

"It is this. Aunt Felicia has determined that she will give a

party in two or three weeks."

"A party! But I never have anything to do with parties —

mamma's parties — Preston."

"No. But with this one I think you have."

"How can I?" said Daisy. She was very pleasantly unconcerned

as yet, and only enjoying the morning and Preston and the

trees and the sunshine.

"Why, little Daisy, I have got to furnish part of the

entertainment; and I can't do it without you."

Daisy looked now.

"Aunt Felicia wants me to get up some tableaux."

"Some what?" said Daisy.

"Tableaux. — Tableaux vivants. Pictures, Daisy; made with

living people."

"What do you mean, Preston?"

"Why, we will choose some pictures, some of the prettiest

pictures we can find; and then we will dress up people to

represent all the figures, and place them just as the figures

are grouped in the engraving; and then they look like a most

beautiful large painted picture."

"But pictures do not move?"

"No more do the people. They hold still and do not stir, any

more than if they were not real."

"I should think they would look like people though, and not

like a picture," said Daisy. "No matter how still you were to

keep, I should never fancy you were painted."

"No," said Preston, laughing; "but you do not understand. The

room where the spectators are is darkened, and the lights for

the picture are all set on one side, just as the light comes

in the picture, and then it all looks just right. And the

picture is seen behind a frame, too, of the folding doors or

something."

Daisy sat looking at Preston, a little curious but not at all

excited.

"So I shall want your help, Daisy."

"About what?"

"First, to choose what pictures we will have. We must look

over all the books of engravings in the house, and see what

would do. Shall we go at it?"

Daisy consented. They repaired to the library and took

position by a large portfolio of engravings.

" 'Fortitude'! Capital!" cried Preston, as he turned over the

first sheet in the portfolio. "Capital; Daisy! That's for you.

You would make an excellent 'Fortitude.' "

"I! —" said Daisy.

"Capital — couldn't be better. This is Sir Joshua Reynolds'

'Fortitude' — and you will do for it wonderfully well. You

have half the look of it now. Only you must be a little more

stern."

"Why must Fortitude look stern?" said Daisy.

"Oh, because she has hard work to do, I suppose."

"What is Fortitude, Preston?"

"Oh, Daisy, Daisy! are you going through life like that? Why

you'll turn all your play into work."

"Why? — But what _is_ it?"

"Fortitude? Why, it is, let me see, — it is the power of

endurance."

"The power of bearing pain, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, who was

walking through the room.

"I do not think Fortitude ought to look stern."

"The old gentleman thought so. I suppose he knew. You must,

anyhow, — like the picture."

"But, Preston, how could I look like that? My dresses are not

made so."

"I hope not!" said Preston, laughing. "But, Daisy, we'll get

some of aunt Felicia's riggings and feathers, and set you out

in style."

"But you can't put feathers on my head like those," said

Daisy. "They wouldn't stay on. And I don't see why Fortitude

should be dressed in feathers."

"Why, it is the crest of her helmet, Daisy! Fortitude must

have something strong about her, somewhere, and I suppose her

head is as good a place as any. We'll make a helmet for you.

And I will make Dolce lie down at your feet for the lion."

"You couldn't, Preston."

"I could make him do anything." Dolce was Preston's dog; a

great shaggy St. Bernard.

"Well! —" said Daisy, with a half-sigh.

"I think you'll make a beautiful Fortitude. Now let us see

what next. That is for one."

"How many pictures do you want?" said Daisy.

"Oh, a good many. Plenty, or it wouldn't be worth taking all

the trouble, and shutting the people up in a dark room.

'Alfred in the neat-herd's cottage' — getting a scolding for

his burnt cakes. How splendid that would be if we could get

Dr. Sandford to be Alfred!"

"Who would be that scolding old woman?"

"No matter, because we can't get Dr. Sandford. We are not to

have grown folks at all. It is a pity Ransom is not here. We

shall have to get Alexander Fish — or Hamilton! Hamilton will

do. He's a good-looking fellow."

"You would do a great deal better," said Daisy. "And Alexander

would not do at all. He has not a bit the look of a king about

him."

"I must be that old man with the bundle of sticks on his

head," said Preston, who was, however, immensely flattered.

"But his beard?" said Daisy.

"Oh, I'll put that on. A false beard is easy. You won't know

me, Daisy. That will be an excellent picture. See that girl

blowing the burnt cakes and making her face into a full moon!"

"Will you have her in the picture?"

"Certainly! Most assuredly."

"But, who will you get to do that, Preston?"

"Nora Dinwiddie, I reckon."

"Will _she_ come?"

"We shall want all we can get. All Mrs. Stanfield's young

ones, and Mrs. Fish's and Linwood's and everybody. Now, Daisy,

here you are! This is the very thing."

"For what?" said Daisy.

"Don't you see? For you. This is Queen Esther before Ahasuerus

— you know the story?"

"Oh, yes! — when he stretched out the golden sceptre to her.

She is fainting, isn't she?"

"Exactly. You can do that glorious, because you have always a

pair of pale cheeks on hand."

"I?" — said Daisy, again. "Do you want me to be two things?"

"A dozen things, perhaps. You must be Queen Esther at any

rate. Nobody but you."

"And who will be Ahasuerus?"

"I don't know. Hamilton Rush, I reckon; he's a nice fellow."

"Oh, Preston, why don't you be Ahasuerus?"

"I am manager, you know, Daisy; it won't do for the manager to

take the best pieces for himself. Ahasuerus is one of the

best. See how handsome the dress is — and the attitude, and

everything."

"I don't see where you will find the dresses," said Daisy.

"All those are robes of silk and velvet and fur; and then the

jewels, Preston!"

"Nonsense, Daisy. Aunt Felicia will let us take all her stores

of satins and velvets and feathers, and jewellery too. It

won't hurt them to be looked at."

"I think," said Daisy, slowly, — "I think I will not be Queen

Esther."

"Why not? don't you like her looks?"

"Oh, yes. _That's_ no matter; but I would rather somebody else

would be it."

"Why, little Daisy? You are the one; nobody can be Esther but

you."

"I think I will not," said Daisy, thoughtfully.

"What's the matter, Daisy? You _must_. I want you for Esther and

nobody else. What is the objection?"

"I would rather not," said Daisy. "I don't know Hamilton Rush

much."

This was said with extreme demureness, and Preston bit his

lips almost till the blood came to prevent the smile which

would have startled Daisy.

"You won't know him at all when he is dressed and with his

crown on. It's all a play. You can imagine he is the real old

Persian king, who looked so fiercely on the beautiful Jewess

when she ventured unsummoned into his presence."

"I could not stand like that," said Daisy.

"Yes, you could. That's easy. You are fainting in the arms of

your attendants."

"Who will the attendants be?"

"I don't know. Who do you think?"

"I think I would rather not be in this picture, —" said Daisy.

"Yes, you will. I want you. It is too good to be given to

somebody else. It is one of the prettiest pictures we shall

have, I reckon."

"Then you must be the king."

"Well — we will see," said Preston. "What comes next? 'Canute

and his courtiers.' That won't do, because we could not have

the sea in."

"Nor the horse," said Daisy.

"Not very well. — What a stupid collection of portraits!

Nothing but portraits."

"There are fortune-tellers."

"That won't do — not interest enough. There! here's one.

'Little Red Riding-hood.' That will be beautiful for you,

Daisy."

"But, Preston, I mustn't be everything."

"Plenty more things coming. You don't like Red Riding-hood?

Then we will give it to Nora or Ella."

"Oh, I like it," said Daisy. "I like it much better than

Esther — unless you will play Ahasuerus."

"Well, I will put you down for both of 'em."

"But who's to be anything else?"

"Lots. Here. — Splendid! 'Marie Antoinette going from the

revolutionary tribunal' — that will be capital."

"Who will take that?" said Daisy.

"Let me see. I think — I think, Daisy, it must be Theresa

Stanfield. She is a clever girl, and it must be a clever girl

to do this."

"But she will not look as old as she ought."

"Yes, she will, when she is dressed. I know who will be our

dresser, too; Mrs. Sandford."

"Will she?" said Daisy.

"Yes. She knows how, I know. You and I must go and give

invitations, Daisy."

"Mamma will send the invitations."

"Yes, of course, to the party; but we have got to beat up

recruits and get contributions for the tableaux. You and I

must do that. I engaged to take all the trouble of the thing

from aunt Felicia."

"Contributions, Preston?"

"Of people, Daisy. People for the tableaux, We must have all

we can muster."

"I can't see how you will make Theresa Stanfield look like

that."

"I cannot," said Preston, laughing, — "but Mrs. Sandford will

do part, and Theresa herself will do the other part. She will

bring her face round, you will see. The thing is, who will be

that ugly old woman who is looking at the queen with such eyes

of coarse fury — I think I shall have to be that old woman."

"You, Preston!" And Daisy went off into a fit of amusement.

"Can you make your eyes look with coarse fury?"

"You shall see. That's a good part. I should not like to trust

it to anybody else. Alexander and Hamilton Rush will have to

be the Queen's guards — how we want Ransom! Charley Linwood is

too small. There's George, though."

"What does that woman look at the queen so for?"

"Wants to see her head come down — which it did soon after."

"Her head come down?"

"It had come down pretty well then, when the proud, beautiful

queen was exposed to the looks and insults of the rabble. But

they wanted to see it come down on the scaffold."

"What had she been doing, to make them hate her?"

"She had been a queen; — and they had made up their minds that

nobody ought to be queen, or anything else but rabble; so her

head must come off. A great many other heads came off; for the

same reason."

"Preston, I don't think the poor would hate that kind of thing

so, if the rich people behaved right."

"How do you think rich people ought to behave." said Preston,

gravely, turning over the engravings.

Daisy's old puzzle came back on her; she was silent.

"Common people always hate the uncommon, Daisy. Now what next?

— Ah! here is what will do. This is beautiful."

"What is it?"

"Portia and Bassanio. He has just got that letter, you know."

"What letter?"

"Why, Antonio's letter. Oh, don't you know the story? Bassanio

was Antonio's friend, and — Oh, dear, it is a long story,

Daisy. You must read it."

"But what is the picture about?"

"This: Bassanio has just this minute been married to Portia,

— the loveliest lady in all the world; that he knew of; and

now comes a letter, just that minute, telling him that his

dear friend Antonio is in great danger of being cut to pieces

through the wickedness of a fellow that he had borrowed money

from. And the money had been borrowed for Bassanio, to set him

up for his courtship — so no wonder he feels rather bad."

"Does she know?"

"No; she is just asking what is the matter. That will be a

capital picture."

"But you couldn't stand and look like that," said Daisy.

"I shall not," said Preston, "but Hamilton Rush will. I shall

give it to him. And — let me see — for Portia — that Fish girl

cannot do it, she is not clever enough. It will have to be

Theresa Stanfield."

"I should like to see anybody look like _that_," said Daisy.

"Well, you will. We shall have to go to another book of

engravings. — Hollo! here you are again, Daisy. This will do

for you exactly. — Exactly!"

"What is it?"

"Why, Daisy, these are two old Puritans; young ones, I mean,

of course; and they are very fond of each other, you know, but

somehow they don't know it. Or one of them don't, and he has

been goose enough to come to ask Priscilla if she will be his

friend's wife. Of course she is astonished at him."

"She does not look astonished."

"No, that is because she is a Puritan. She takes it all

quietly, only she says she has an objection to be this other

man's wife. And then John finds what a fool he is. That's

capital. You shall be Priscilla; you will do it and look it

beautifully."

"I do not think I want to be Priscilla," — said Daisy, slowly.

"Yes, you do. You will. It will make such a beautiful picture.

I reckon Alexander Fish will make a good John Alden — he has

nice curly hair."

"So have you," said Daisy; "and longer than Alexander's, and

more like the picture."

"I am manager, Daisy. That wouldn't do."

"I shall not be in that picture if Alexander is the other

one," said Daisy.

"Well — we will see. But Daisy, it is only playing pictures,

you know. It will not be Daisy and Alexander Fish — not at all

— it will be Priscilla and John Alden."

"_I_ should think it was Alexander Fish," said Daisy.

Preston laughed.

"But Preston, what is that word you said just now? what is a

Puritan?"

"I don't know. I think you are one. I do not know another."

"You said these were Puritans?"

"Yes, so they were. They were very good people, Daisy, that

liked wearing plain dresses. We shall have to have a stuff

dress made for you — I reckon you have not one of anything

like a Puritan cut."

"Then, how am I a Puritan, Preston?"

"Sure enough. I mean that you would be one, if you got a

chance. How many pictures have we chosen out? Six? That is not

half enough."

The search went on, through other books and portfolios. There

was good store of them in Mr. Randolph's library, and Daisy

and Preston were very busy the whole morning till luncheon-

time. After Daisy's dinner, however, her mind took up its

former subject of interest. She went to Joanna, and was

furnished with a nice little sponge-cake and a basket of

sickle pears for Molly Skelton. Daisy forgot all about

tableaux. This was something better. She ordered the pony-

chaise and got ready for driving.

"Hollo, Daisy!" said Preston, as she came out upon the piazza;

— "what now?"

"I am going out."

"With me."

"No, I have business, Preston."

"So have I; a business that cannot wait, either. We must go

and drum up our people for the tableaux, Daisy. We haven't

much time to prepare, and lots of things to do."

"What?"

"First, arrange about the parts everybody is to take; and then

the dresses, and then practising."

"Practising what, Preston?"

"Why, the pictures! We cannot do them at a dash, all right; we

must drill, until every one knows exactly how to stand and how

to look, and can do it well."

"And must the people come here to practise?"

"Of course. Where the pictures and the dresses are, you know.

Aunt Felicia is to give us her sewing woman for as much time

as we want her; and Mrs. Sandford must be here to see about

all that; and we must know immediately whom we can have, and

get them to come. We must go this afternoon, Daisy."

"Must I ?"

"Certainly. You know — or you would know if you were not a

Puritan, little Daisy, that I cannot do the business alone.

You are Miss Randolph."

"Did the Puritans not know much?" inquired Daisy.

"Nothing — about the ways of the world."

Daisy looked at the pony-chaise, at the blue hills, at her

basket of pears; and yielding to what seemed necessity, gave

up Molly for that day. She went with Preston, he on horseback,

she in her pony-chaise, and a very long afternoon's work they

made of it. And they did not get through the work, either. But

by dint of hearing the thing talked over, and seeing the great

interest excited among the young folks, Daisy's mind grew

pretty full of the pictures before the day was ended. It was

so incomprehensible, how Theresa Stanfield could ever bring

her merry, arch face, into the grave proud endurance of the

deposed French queen; it was so puzzling to imagine Hamilton

Rush, a fine, good-humoured fellow, something older than

Preston, transformed into the grand and awful figure of

Ahasuerus; and Nora was so eager to know what part she could

take; and Mrs. Sandford entered into the scheme with such

utter good-nature and evident competence to manage it. Ella

Stanfield's eyes grew very wide open; and Mrs. Fish was full

of curiosity, and the Linwoods were tumultuous.

"We shall have to tame those fellows down," Preston remarked

as he and Daisy rode away from this last place, — "or they

will upset everything. Why cannot people teach people to take

things quietly!"

"How much that little one wanted to be Red Riding-hood," said

Daisy.

"Yes. Little Malapert!"

"You will let her, won't you?"

"I reckon I won't. You are to be Red Riding-hood — unless, — I

don't know; perhaps that would be a good one to give Nora

Dinwiddie. I shall see."

That day was gone. The next day there was a great overhauling,

by Preston and his mother and Daisy, of the stores of finery

which Mrs. Randolph put at their disposal. Mrs. Randolph

herself would have nothing to do with the arrangements; she

held aloof from the bustle attending them; but facilities and

materials she gave with unsparing hand. Daisy was very much

amused. Mrs. Gary and Preston had a good deal of consultation

over the finery, having at the same time the engravings spread

out before them. Such stores of satin and lace robes, and

velvet mantles, and fur wrappings and garnishings, and silken

scarfs, and varieties of adornment, old and new, were gathered

into one room and displayed, that it almost tired Daisy to

look at them. Nevertheless, she was amused. And she was amused

still more, when later in the day, after luncheon, Mrs.

Sandford arrived, and was taken up into the tiring room, as

Preston called it. Here she examined the pictures, and made a

careful survey of the articles with which she must work to

produce the desired effects. Some of the work was easy. There

was an old cardinal, of beautiful red cloth, which doubtless

would make up Red Riding-hood with very little trouble. There

were beautiful plumes for Fortitude's head; and Daisy began to

wonder how she would look with their stately grace waving over

her. Mrs. Sandford tried it. She arranged the plume on Daisy's

head; and with a turn or two of a dark cashmere scarf imitated

beautifully the classic folds of the drapery in the picture.

Then she put Daisy in the attitude of the figure; and by that

time Daisy felt so strange that her face was stern and grave

enough to need no admonishing. Preston clapped his hands.

"If you will only look like that, Daisy, in the tableau!"

"Look how?" said Daisy.

"Mrs. Sandford, did you ever see anything so perfect?"

"It is excellent," said that lady.

"If they will all do as well, we shall be encored. But there

is no dress here for Bassanio, Mrs. Sandford."

"You would hardly expect your mother's or your aunt's wardrobe

to furnish that."

"Hardly. But I am sure uncle Randolph's wardrobe would not do

any better. It will have to be made."

"I think I have something at home that will do — something

that was used once for a kindred purpose. I think I can dress

Bassanio — as far as the slashings are concerned. The cap and

plume we can manage here — and I dare say your uncle has some

of those old-fashioned long silk hose."

"Did papa ever wear such things?" said Daisy.

"Portia will be easy," said Preston, looking round the room.

"Who is to be Portia?"

"Theresa Stanfield, I believe."

"That will do very well, I should think. She is fair — suppose

we dress her in this purple brocade."

"Was Portia married in purple?" said Preston.

Mrs. Sandford laughed a good deal. "Well" — she said — "white

if you like; but Theresa will look most like Portia if she

wears this brocade. I do not believe white is _de rigueur_ in

her case. You know, she went from the casket scene to the

altar. If she was like me, she did not venture to anticipate

good fortune by putting on a bridal dress till she knew she

would want it."

"Perhaps that is correct," said Preston.

"How come you to know so much about the dresses?" said the

lady. "That is commonly supposed to be woman's function."

"I am general manager, Mrs. Sandford, and obliged to act out

of character."

"You seem to understand yourself very well. Priscilla! — we

have no dress for her."

"It will have to be made."

"Yes. Who is there to make it?"

The seamstress was now summoned, and the orders were given for

Priscilla's dress, to be made to fit Daisy. It was very

amusing, the strait-cut brown gown, the plain broad vandyke of

white muslin, and etceteras that Mrs. Sandford insisted on.

"She will look the part extremely well. But are you going to

give her nothing but Fortitude and Prudence, Preston? is Daisy

to do nothing gayer."

"Yes ma'am — she is to be the queen of the Persian king here —

what is his name? Ahasuerus! She is Esther."

Daisy opened her lips to say no, but Preston got her into his

arms, and softly put his hand upon her mouth before

she could speak the word. The action was so coaxing and

affectionate, that Daisy stood still, silent, with his arms

round her.

"Queen Esther!" said Mrs. Sandford. "That will tax the utmost

of our resources. Mrs. Randolph will lend us some jewels, I

hope, or we cannot represent that old Eastern court."

"Mrs. Randolph will lend us anything — and everything," said

Preston.

"Then we can make a beautiful tableau. I think Esther must be

in white."

"Yes ma'am — it will add to the fainting effect."

"And we must make her brilliant with jewels; and dress her

attendants in colours, so as to set her off; but Esther must

be a spot of brilliancy. Ahasuerus rich and heavy. This will

be your finest tableau, if it is done well."

"Alfred will not be bad," said Preston.

"In another line. Your part will be easy, Daisy — you must

have a pair of strong-armed handmaidens. What do you want Nora

for, Preston?"

"Could she be one of them, Mrs. Sandford?"

"Yes, — if she can be impressed with the seriousness of the

occasion; but the maids of the queen ought to be wholly in

distress for their mistress, you know. She could be one of the

princes in the tower, very nicely."

"Yes, capitally," said Preston. "And — Mrs. Sandford —

wouldn't she make a good John Alden?"

"Daisy for Priscilla! Excellent!" said Mrs. Sandford. "If the

two could keep their gravity, which I very much doubt."

"Daisy can keep anything," said Preston. "I will tutor Nora."

"Well, I will help you as much as I can," said the lady. "But,

my boy, this business takes time! I had no notion I had been

here so long. I must run."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE BASKET OF SPONGE-CAKE.

As she made her escape one way, so did Daisy by another. When

Preston came back from attending Mrs. Sandford to her carriage

he could find nothing of his little co-worker. Daisy was gone.

In all haste, and with a little self-reproach for having

forgotten it, she had ordered her pony-chaise; and then

examined into the condition of her stores. The sponge-cake was

somewhat dry; the sickle pears wanted looking over. Part of

them were past ripe. Indeed so many of them, that Daisy found

her basket was no longer properly full, when these were culled

out. She went to Joanna. Miss Underwood soon made that all

right with some nice late peaches; and Daisy thought with

herself that sponge-cake was very good a little dry, and would

probably not find severe criticism at Molly's house. She got

away without encountering her cousin, much to her

satisfaction.

Molly was not in her garden. That had happened before. Daisy

went in, looked at the flowers, and waited. The rose-tree was

flourishing; the geranium was looking splendid; with nothing

around either of them that in the least suited their

neighbourhood. So Daisy thought. If all the other plants — the

ragged balsams and "creeping Charley" and the rest — could

have been rooted up, then the geranium and the rose would have

shown well together. However, Molly did not doubtless feel

this want of suitability; to her the tall sunflower was, no

question, a treasure and a beautiful plant. Would Molly come

out?

It seemed as if she would not. No stir, and the closed house

door looking forbidding and unhopeful. Daisy waited, and

waited, and walked up and down the bit of a path, from the

gate quite to the house door; in hopes that the sound of her

feet upon the walk might be heard within. Daisy's feet did not

make much noise; but however that were, there was no stir of a

sound anywhere else. Daisy was patient; not the less the

afternoon was passing away, and pretty far gone already, and

it was the first of October now. The light did not last as

long as it did a few months ago. Daisy was late. She must go

soon, if she did not see Molly; and to go without seeing her

was no part of Daisy's plan. Perhaps Molly was sick. At any

rate, the child's footsteps paused at the door of the poor

little house, and her fingers knocked. She had never been

inside of it yet, and what she saw of the outside was not in

the least inviting. The little windows, lined with paper

curtains to keep out sunlight and curious eyes, looked dismal;

the weatherboards were unpainted; the little porch broken.

Daisy did not like such things. But she knocked without a bit

of fear or hesitation, notwithstanding all this. She was

charged with work to do; so she felt; it was no matter what

she might meet in the discharge of it. She had her message to

carry, and she was full of compassionate love to the creature

whose lot in life was so unlike her own. Daisy went straight

on in her business.

Her knock got no answer, and still got none though it was

repeated and made more noticeable. Not a sign of an answer.

Daisy softly tried the door then to see if it would open.

There was no difficulty in that; she pushed it gently, and

gently stepped in.

It looked just like what she expected, though Daisy had not

got accustomed yet to the conditions of such rooms. Just now,

she hardly saw anything but Molly. Her eyes wandering over the

strange place, were presently caught by the cripple, sitting

crouching in a corner of the room. It was all miserably

desolate. The paper shields kept out the light of the

sunbeams; and though the place was tolerably clean, it had a

close, musty, disagreeable, shut-up smell. But all Daisy

thought of at first was the cripple. She went a little towards

her.

"How do you do, Molly?" her little soft voice said. Molly

looked glum, and spoke never a word.

"I have been waiting to see you," Daisy said, advancing a step

nearer — "and you did not come out. I was afraid you were

sick."

One of Molly's grunts came here. Daisy could not tell what it

meant.

"_Are_ you sick, Molly?"

"It's me and not you" — said the cripple, morosely.

"Oh, I am sorry!" said Daisy, tenderly. "I want to bring in

something for you —"

She ran away for her basket. Coming back, she left the door

open to let in the sweet air and sun.

"What is the matter with you, Molly?"

The cripple made no answer, not even a grunt; her eyes were

fastened on the basket. Daisy lifted the cover and brought out

her cake, wrapped in paper. As she unwrapped it and came up to

Molly, she saw what she had never seen before that minute, — a

smile on the cripple's grum face. It was not grum now; it was

lighted up with a smile, as her eyes dilated over the cake.

"I'll have some tea!" she said.

Daisy put the cake on the table and delivered a peach into

Molly's hand. But she lifted her hand to the table and laid

the peach there.

"I'll have some tea."

"Are you sick, Molly?" said Daisy again; for in spite of this

declaration, and in spite of her evident pleasure, Molly did

not move.

"I'm aching all through."

"What is the matter?"

"Aching's the matter — rheumatiz. I'll have some tea."

"It's nice and warm out in the sun," Daisy suggested.

"Can't get there," said Molly. "Can't stir. I'm all aches all

over."

"How can you get tea, then, Molly? Your fire is quite out."

"Ache and get it —" said the cripple, grumly.

Daisy could not stand that. She at first thought of calling

her groom to make a fire; but reflected that would be a

hazardous proceeding. Molly perhaps, and most probably, would

not allow it. If she would allow her, it would be a great step

gained. Daisy's heart was so full of compassion she could not

but try. There was a little bit of an iron stove in the room,

and a tea-kettle, small to match, stood upon it; both cold of

course.

"Where is there some wood, Molly?" said Daisy, over the stove;

— "some wood and kindling? I'll try if I can make the fire for

you, if you will let me, please."

"In there —" said the cripple, pointing.

Daisy looked, and saw nothing but an inner door. Not liking to

multiply questions, for fear of Molly's patience, she ventured

to open the door. There was a sort of shed-room, where Daisy

found stores of everything she wanted. Evidently the

neighbours provided so far for the poor creature, who could

not provide for herself. Kindling was there in plenty, and

small wood stacked. Daisy got her arms full and came back to

the stove. By using her eyes carefully she found the matches

without asking anything, and made the fire, slowly but nicely;

Molly meanwhile having reached up for her despised peach was

making her teeth meet in it with no evidence of

disapprobation. The fire snapped and kindled and began

immediately to warm up the little stove. Daisy took the kettle

and went into the same lumber shed to look for water. But

though an empty tin pail stood there, the water in it was no

more than a spoonful. Nothing else held any. Daisy looked out.

A worn path in the grass showed the way to the place where

Molly filled her water-pail — a little basin of a spring at

some distance from the house. Daisy followed the path to the

spring, filled her pail and then her kettle, wondering much

how Molly ever could crawl to the place in rainy weather; and

then she came in triumphant and set the tea-kettle on the

stove.

"I am very sorry you are sick, Molly," said Daisy, anew.

Molly only grunted; but she had finished her peach, and sat

there licking her finger.

"Would you like to see Dr. Sandford? I could tell him."

"No!" — said the poor thing, decidedly.

"I'll pray to the Lord Jesus to make you well."

"Humph?" — said Molly, questioning.

"You know, He can do everything. He can make you well; and I

hope He will."

"He won't make me well —" said Molly.

"He will make you happy, if you will pray to Him."

"Happy!" said Molly; as if it were a yet more impossible

thing.

"Oh, yes. Jesus makes everybody happy that loves Him. He makes

them good too, Molly; He forgives all their sins that they

have done; and in heaven He will give them white robes to

wear, and they will not do wrong things nor have any pain any

more."

One of Molly's grunts came now; she did not understand this,

or could not believe. Daisy looked on, pitiful and very much

perplexed.

"Molly, you have a great Friend in heaven," said the child;

"don't you know it? Jesus loves you."

"H—n?" —said Molly again.

"Don't you know what He did, for you and me and everybody!"

Molly's head gave sign of ignorance. So Daisy sat down and

told her. She told her the story at length; she painted the

love of the few disciples, the enmity of the world, the things

that infinite tenderness had done and borne for those who

hated goodness and would not obey God. Molly listened, and

Daisy talked; how, she did not know, nor Molly neither; but

the good news was told in that poor little house; the

unspeakable gift was made known. Seeing Molly's fixed eyes and

rapt attention, Daisy went on at length and told all. The

cripple's gaze never stirred all the while, nor stirred when

the story came to an end. She still stared at Daisy. Well she

might!

"Now, Molly," said the child, "I have got a message for you."

"H—n?" said Molly, more softly.

"It is from the Lord Jesus. It is in His book. It is a

message. The message is, that if you will believe in Him and

be His child, He will forgive you and love you; and then you

will go to be with Him in heaven."

"Me?" said Molly.

"Yes," said Daisy, nodding her little head with her eyes full

of tears. "Yes, you will. Jesus will take you there, and you

will wear a white robe and a crown of gold, and be with Him."

Daisy paused, and Molly looked at her. How much of the truth

got fair entrance into her mind, Daisy could not tell. But

after a few minutes of pause, seeing that Daisy's lips did not

open, Molly opened hers, and bade her "Go on."

"I am afraid I haven't time to-day," said Daisy. "I'll bring

my book next time and read you the words. Can you read,

Molly?"

"Read? no!"

Whether Molly knew what reading was, may be questioned.

"Molly," said Daisy, lowering her tone in her eagerness,

"would you like to learn to read yourself? — Then, when I am

not here, you could see it all in the book. Wouldn't you like

it?"

"Where's books?" said the cripple.

"I will bring the book. And now I must go."

For Daisy knew that a good while had passed; she did not know

how long it was. Before going, however, she went to see about

the fire in the stove. It was burnt down to a few coals; and

the kettle was boiling. Daisy could not leave it so. She

fetched more wood and put in, with a little more kindling; and

then, leaving it all right, she was going to bid Molly good-

bye, when she saw that the poor cripple's head had sunk down

on her arms. She looked in that position so forlorn, so lonely

and miserable, that Daisy's heart misgave her. She drew near.

"Molly —" said her sweet little voice, "would you like your

tea now? the water is boiling."

Molly signified that she would.

"Would you like to have me make it?" said Daisy, doubtfully,

quite afraid of venturing too far or too fast. But she need

not have been afraid. Molly only pointed with her finger to a

wall cupboard, and said as before, — "In there."

The way was clear for Daisy, time or no time. She went to the

cupboard. It was not hard to find the few things which Molly

had in constant use. The tea-pot was there, and a paper of

tea. Daisy made the tea, with a good deal of pleasure and

wonder; set it to draw, and brought out Molly's cup and saucer

and plate and knife and spoon. A little sugar she found too;

not much. She put these things on the low table which was made

to fit Molly's condition. She could have it before her as she

sat on the floor.

"I don't see any milk for your tea, Molly."

"Milk? no. It's all gone," said Molly.

"I am sorry. You'll have to take your tea without milk then.

Here it is. I hope it is good."

Daisy poured out a cup, set the sugar beside it, and cut

slices of sponge-cake. She was greatly pleased at being

allowed to do it. Molly took it as a very natural thing, and

Daisy sat down to enjoy the occasion a few minutes longer, and

also to give such attentions as she could.

"Won't you have some?" said Molly.

"No, I thank you. Mamma does not let me drink tea, except when

I am sick."

Molly had discharged her conscience, and gave herself now to

her own enjoyment. One cup of tea was a mere circumstance;

Daisy filled and refilled it; Molly swallowed the tea as if

cupfuls had been mouthfuls. It was a subject of question to

Daisy whether the poor creature had had any other meal that

day; so eager she was, and so difficult to satisfy with the

sponge-cake. Slice after slice; and Daisy cut more, and put a

tiny fresh pinch of tea into the teapot, and waited upon her

with inexpressible tenderness and zeal. Molly exhausted the

tea-pot and left but a small remnant of the cake. Daisy was

struck with a sudden fear that she might have been neglected

and really want things to eat. How could she find out?

"Where shall I put this, Molly?" she said, taking the plate

with the morsel of cake. "Where does it go?"

"In there —" said Molly.

"Here? — or here?" touching the two doors of the cupboard.

" 'Tother one."

So Daisy opened the other door of the cupboard, just what she

wanted to do. And there she saw indeed some remnants of food,

but nothing more than remnants; a piece of dry bread and a

cold muffin, with a small bit of boiled pork. Daisy took but a

glance, and came away. The plate and cup and saucer she set in

their place; bid good-bye to Molly, and ran out.

Time indeed! The sun was sending long slant bright beams

against the cottage windows and over the pony-chaise, and the

groom had got the pony's head turned for home, evidently under

the impression that Daisy was staying a long time. A little

fearful of consequences if she got home after sundown, Daisy

gathered up her reins and signified to Loupe that he was

expected to move with some spirit.

But Daisy was very happy. She was thoroughly at home now with

Molly; she was fairly admitted within the house and welcome

there; and already she had given comfort. She had almost done

as Nora said; as near as possible she had taken tea with

Molly. Besides, Daisy had found out what more to do for her.

She thought of that poor cupboard with mixed feelings; not

pity only; for next day she would bring supplies that were

really needed. Some nice bread and butter — Daisy had seen no

sign of butter, — and some meat. Molly needed a friend to look

after her wants, and Daisy now had the freedom of the house

and could do it; and joyfully she resolved that she would do

it, so long as her own stay at Melbourne should be prolonged.

What if her getting home late should bring on a command that

would put a stop to all this!

But nobody was on the piazza or in the library when she got

home. Daisy went safely to her own room. There was June all

ready to dress her; and making good speed, that business was

finished and Daisy ready to go down to the dinner-table at the

usual time.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

SATIN AND FEATHERS.

She was a little afraid of questions at the dinner-table; but

it happened that the older people were interested about some

matter of their own and she was not noticed at all. Except in

a quiet way by Mr. Randolph, who picked out nuts for her; and

Daisy took them and thought joyfully of carrying a Testament

to Molly's cottage and teaching her to read it. If she could

do but that — Daisy thought she would be happy.

The evening was spent by her and Preston over engravings

again. Some new ones were added to the stock already chosen

for tableaux; and Preston debated with her very eagerly the

various questions of characters and dresses. Daisy did not

care how he arranged them, provided she only was not called

upon to be Priscilla to Alexander Fish, or Esther to Hamilton

Rush. "I will not, Preston —" she insisted quietly; and

Preston was in difficulty; for as he truly said, it would not

do to give himself all the best pieces.

The next day, after luncheon, a general conclave assembled, of

all the young people, to determine the respective parts and

hold a little rehearsal by way of beginning. Mrs. Sandford was

there too, but no other grown person was admitted. Preston had

certainly a troublesome and delicate office in his capacity of

manager.

"What are you going to give me, Preston?" said Mrs.

Stanfield's lively daughter, Theresa.

"You must be Portia."

"Portia? let me see — Oh, that's lovely! How will you dress

me, Mrs. Sandford? I must be very splendid — I have just been

married, and I am worth any amount of splendour. Who's to be

Bassanio? —"

"George Linwood, I think. He must have dark hair, you know."

"What are wigs good for?" said Theresa. "But he has nothing to

do but to hold the letter and throw himself backward — he's

surprised, you know, and people don't stand straight when they

are surprised. Only that, and to look at Portia. I guess he

can do it. Once fix him and he'll stay — that's one thing. How

will you dress Portia, Mrs. Sandford? Ah, let me dress her!"

"Not at all; you must be amenable to authority, Miss

Stanfield, like everybody else."

"But what will you put on her, Mrs. Sandford? The dress is

Portia."

"No, by no means; you must look with a very delicate

expression, Miss Theresa. Your face will be the picture."

"My face will depend on my dress, I know. What will it be,

Mrs. Sandford?"

"I will give you a very heavy and rich purple brocade."

"Jewels?"

"Of course. Mrs. Randolph lets us have whatever we want."

"That will do!" said Theresa, clapping her hands softly. "I am

made up. What are you going to do with Frederica?"

"She has a great part. She must be Marie Antoinette going

from the revolutionary tribunal."

"De la Roche's picture!" said Theresa.

"She's not dressed at all," — remarked Frederica, coldly

looking at the engraving.

"Marie Antoinette needed no dress, you know," Theresa

answered.

"But she isn't handsome there."

"You will be standing for her," said Mrs. Sandford. "The

attitude is very striking, in its proud, indignant

impassiveness. You will do that well. I must dress your hair

carefully, but you have just the right hair and plenty of it."

"Don't she flatter her!" whispered Theresa to Preston; — then

aloud, "How will you make up the rest of the tableau,

Preston?"

"I am going to be that old cross-eyed woman — Alexander will

be one of the guards — George Linwood another, I think.

Hamilton Rush must shake his fist at the queen over my head;

and Theresa, you must be this nice little French girl, looking

at her unfortunate sovereign with weeping eyes. Can you get a

tear on your cheek?"

"Might take an uncommon strong spoonful of mustard —" said

Theresa — "I suppose that would do it. But you are not going

to let the spectators come so near as to see drops of tears, I

hope?"

"No matter — your eyes and whole expression would be affected

by the mustard; it would tell, even at a distance."

When they got through laughing, some one asked, "What is Daisy

to be?"

"Oh, she is to be Priscilla here — I thought nobody but Daisy

would care about being a Puritan; but it is her chosen

character."

"It'll be a pretty tableau," said Theresa.

"And what am I to be, Preston?" said Nora.

"You are to be several things. You and Ella must be the two

young princes in the tower."

"What tower ?" said Nora.

There was another general laugh, and then Daisy, who was well

at home in English history, pulled her little friend aside to

whisper to her the story and show her the picture.

"What are those men going to do?" said Nora.

"They are going to kill the little princes. They have got a

feather-bed or something there, and they are going to smother

them while they are asleep."

"But I don't want the feather-bed on top of me!" said Nora.

"No, no, — it is not to come down on you; but that is the

picture; they will hold it just so; it will not come down."

"But suppose they should let it fall?"

"They will not let it fall. The picture is to have it held

just so, as if they were going to smother the poor little

princes the next minute."

"I think it is a horrid picture!" said Nora.

"But it will only last a little while. All you will have to do

will be to make believe you are asleep."

"I don't want to make believe I am asleep. I would rather have

my eyes open. What else am I going to be, Daisy?"

"Preston will tell. I believe — you are to be one of Queen

Esther's women, to hold her up when she fainted, you know."

"Let me see. Where is it?"

Daisy obtained the picture. Nora examined it critically.

"I would like to be the king, he is so handsome. Who will be

the queen?"

"I don't know yet," said Daisy.

"Are you going to have any part where you will be dressed up?"

"We shall have to be dressed for them all. We cannot wear our

own dresses, you know; it would not be a picture."

"But, I mean, are you going to be dressed up with nice

things? — not like this."

"This will be dressed up," said Daisy; "she will be very

nicely dressed — to be one of the queen's ladies, you know."

"Daisy! Daisy! —" was now called from the larger group of

counsel-takers, Daisy and Nora having separated themselves for

their private discourse. "Daisy! look here — come here! see

what you are to be. You are to be an angel."

"You are to be an angel, Daisy," Theresa repeated, "with

wonderful wings made of gauze on a light frame of whalebone."

Daisy came near, looking very attentive; if she felt any more

she did not show it in her face.

"Daisy, you will do it delightfully," said Mrs. Sandford.

"Come and look. It is this beautiful picture of the Game of

Life."

"What is it, ma'am?" said Daisy.

"These two figures, you see, are playing a game of chess. The

stake they are playing for, is this young man's soul; he is

one of the players, and this other player is the evil one. The

arch-fiend thinks he has got a good move; the young man is

very serious but perplexed; and there stands his guardian

angel watching how the game will go."

Daisy looked at the picture in silence of astonishment. It

seemed to her impossible that anybody could play at such a

subject as that.

"Whom will you have for the fiend, Preston?" the lady went on.

"I will do it myself, ma'am, I think."

Daisy's "Oh, no, Preston!" — brought down such a shower of

laughter on all sides, that she retreated into herself a

little further than ever. They pursued the subject for a

while, discussing the parts and the making of the angels

wings; deciding that Daisy would do excellently well for the

angel and would look the part remarkably.

"She has a good deal that sort of expression in ordinary

times," said Mrs. Sandford — "without the sadness; and that

she can assume, I day say."

"I would rather not do it —" Daisy was heard to say, very

gently but very soberly. There was another laugh.

"Do what, Daisy? assume a look of sadness?" said Preston.

"I would rather not be the angel."

"Nobody else could do it so well," said Mrs. Sandford. "You

are the very one to do it. It will he admirable."

"_I_ should like to be the angel —" murmured Nora, low enough to

have no one's attention but Daisy's. The rest were agreeing

that the picture would be excellent and had just the right

performers assigned to it. Daisy was puzzled. It seemed to her

that Nora had a general desire for everything.

"Ella will be one of the princes in the tower," Preston went

on. "Nora will be Red Riding-Hood."

"I won't be Red Riding-Hood —" said Nora.

"Why not? Hoity, toity!"

"It isn't pretty. And it has no pretty dress."

"Why, it is beautiful," said Mrs. Sandford; "and the dress is

to be made with an exquisite red cashmere cardinal of Mrs.

Randolph's. You will make the best Red Riding-Hood here.

Though Daisy would be more like the lamb the wolf was after,"

— continued the lady, appealing to the manager; "and you might

change. Who is to be queen Esther? Nora would do that well —

with her black eyes and hair — she is more of a Jewess than

any other of them."

"Esther is fainting," said Preston. "Daisy's paleness will

suit that best. Nora could not look faint."

"Yes, I could," said that damsel, promptly.

"You shall blow the cakes that Alfred has let burn," said

Preston. "Capital! Look here, Nora. You shall be that girl

taking up the burnt cakes and blowing to cool them; and you

may look as fierce as you like. You will get great applause if

you do that part well. Eloise is going to be the scolding old

woman. She and I divide the old women between us."

"Too bad, Preston!" said Mrs. Sandford, laughing. "What else

are you going to be?"

"I am going to be one of those fellows coming to murder the

little princes."

"Who is Bassanio?"

"Hamilton says he will undertake that. George declines."

"Suppose we do some work, instead of so much talking," said

the former person; who had hitherto been a very quiet

spectator and listener. "Let us have a little practice. We

shall want a good deal before we get through."

All agreed; agreed also that something in the shape of

artistic draperies was needed for the practice. "It helps," —

as Hamilton Rush remarked. So Daisy went to desire the

attendance of June with all the scarfs, mantles and shawls

which could be gathered together. As Daisy went, she thought

that she did not wish Nora to be queen Esther; she was glad

Preston was firm about that.

The practising of Bassanio and Portia was so very amusing that

she fairly forgot herself in laughter. So did everybody else;

except Mrs. Sandford, who was intent upon draperies, and

Preston whose hands held a burden of responsibility. Hamilton

was a quiet fellow enough in ordinary; but now nobody was more

ready for all the life of the play. He threw himself back into

an attitude of irresolution and perplexity, with the letter in

his hand which had brought the fatal news; that is, it was the

make-believe letter, though it was in reality only the New

York _Evening Post_. And Daisy thought his attitude was very

absurd; but they all declared it was admirable and exactly

copied from the engraving. He threw himself into all this in a

moment, and was Bassanio at once; but Theresa was much too

well disposed to laugh to imitate his example. And then they

all laughed at Theresa, who instead of looking grave and

inquiring, as Portia should, at her lord's unusual action and

appearance, flung herself into position and out of position

with a mirthfulness of behaviour wholly inconsistent with the

character she was to personify. How they all laughed!

"What is it, Daisy?" whispered Nora.

"Why, he has got a letter," — said Daisy.

"Is that newspaper the letter?"

"Make believe it is," said Daisy.

"But what are they doing?"

"Why, this man, Bassanio, has just got a letter that says his

dearest friend is going to be killed, because he owes money

that he cannot pay; and as the money was borrowed for his own

sake, of course he feels very badly about it."

"But people are not killed because they cannot pay money,"

said Nora. "I have seen people come to papa for money, and

they didn't do anything to him because he hadn't it."

"No, but those were different times," said Daisy, "and

Bassanio lived in a different country. His friend owed money

to a dreadful man, who was going to cut out two pounds of his

flesh to pay for it. So of course that would kill him."

"Oh, look at Theresa now!" said Nora.

The young lady had brought her muscles into order; and being

clever enough in her merry way, she had taken the look of the

character and was giving it admirably. It was hardly Theresa;

her moveable face was composed to such an expression of simple

inquiry and interest and affectionate concern. The spectators

applauded eagerly; but Nora whispered, "What does she _look_

like that, for?"

"Why, it's the picture," said Daisy.

"But what does she _look_ so for?"

"She is Bassanio's wife — they have just got married; and she

looks so because he looks so, I suppose. She does not know

what is in the letter."

"Is he going to tell her?"

"Not in the picture —" said Daisy, feeling a little amused at

Nora's simplicity. "He did tell her in the story."

"But why don't we have all the story?" insisted Nora.

"Oh, these are only pictures, you know; that is all; people

dressed up to look like pictures."

"They don't look like pictures a bit, _I_ think," said Nora;

"they look just like people."

Daisy thought so too, but had some faith in Preston's and Mrs.

Sandford's powers of transforming and mystifying the present

very natural appearance of the performers. ]However, she was

beginning to be of the opinion that it was good fun even now.

"Now, Daisy, — come, we must practise putting _you_ in

position," said Mrs. Sandford. "We will take something easy

first — what shall it be? — Come! we will try Priscilla's

courtship. Where is your John Alden, Preston?"

Preston quietly moved forward Alexander Fish and seated him.

Daisy began to grow warm with trepidation.

"You must let your hair grow, Sandie — and comb out your long

curls into your neck; so, — do you see? And you will have to

have a dress as much as Priscilla. This tableau will be all in

the dress, Mrs. Sandford."

"We will have it. That is easy."

"Now, Alexander, look here, at the picture. Take that attitude

as nearly as you can, and I will stroke you into order. — That

is pretty well, — lean over a little more with that elbow on

your knee, — you must be very much in earnest."

"What am I doing?" said Alexander, breaking from his

prescribed attitude to turn round and face the company.

"You are making love to Priscilla; but the joke is, you have

been persuaded to do it for somebody else, when all the time

you would like to do it for yourself."

"I wouldn't be such a gumph as that!" muttered Alexander, as

he fell back into position. "Who am I, to begin with?"

"A highly respectable old Puritan. The lady was surprised at

him and he came to his senses, but that is not in the picture.

Now Daisy — take that chair — a little nearer — you are to

have your hand on your spinning wheel, you know; I have got a

dear little old spinning wheel at home for you, that was used

by my grandmother. You must look at Alexander a little

severely, for he is doing what you did not expect of him, and

you think he ought to know better. That attitude is very good.

But you must look at him, Daisy! Don't let your eyes go down."

There was a decided disposition to laugh among the company

looking on, which might have been fatal to the Puritan picture

had not Preston and Mrs. Sandford energetically crushed it.

Happily Daisy was too much occupied with the difficulty of her

own immediate situation to discover how the bystanders were

affected; she did not know what was the effect of her pink

little cheeks and very demure downcast eyes. In fact Daisy had

gone to take her place in the picture with something scarcely

less than horror; only induced to do it, by her greater horror

of making a fuss and so showing the feeling which she knew

would be laughed at if shown. She showed it now, poor child;

how could she help it? she showed it by her unusually tinged

cheeks and by her persistent down-looking eyes. It was very

difficult indeed to help it; for if she ventured to look at

Alexander she caught impertinent little winks, — most unlike

John Alden or any Puritan, — which he could execute with

impunity because his face was mostly turned from the audience;

but which Daisy took in full.

"Lift your eyes, Daisy! your eyes! Priscilla was too much

astonished not to look at her lover. You may be even a little

indignant, if you choose. I am certain she was."

Poor Daisy —it was a piece of the fortitude that belonged to

her — thus urged, did raise her eyes and bent upon her winking

coadjutor a look so severe in its childish distaste and

disapproval that there was a unanimous shout of applause.

"Capital, Daisy! — capital!" cried Preston. "If you only look

it like that, we shall do admirably. It will be a tableau

indeed. There, get up — you shall not practise any more just

now."

"It will be very fine," said Mrs. Sandford.

"Daisy, I did not think you were such an actress," said

Theresa. "It would have overset _me_, if I had been John Alden —

" remarked Hamilton Rush.

Daisy withdrew into the background as fast as possible, and as

far as possible from Alexander.

"Do you like to do it, Daisy?" whispered Nora.

"No."

"Are you going to have a handsome dress for that?"

"No."

"What sort, then?"

"Like the picture."

"Well — what is that?"

"Brown, with a white vandyke."

"Vandyke? what is a vandyke?"

"Hush," said Daisy; "let us look."

Frederica Fish was to personify Lady Jane Grey, at the moment

when the nobles of her family and party knelt before her to

offer her the crown. As Frederica was a, fair, handsome girl,

without much animation, this part suited her; she had only to

be dressed and sit still. Mrs. Sandford threw some rich

draperies round her figure, and twisted a silk scarf about the

back of her head; and the children exclaimed at the effect

produced. That was to be a rich picture, for of course the

kneeling nobles were to be in costly and picturesque attire;

and a crown was to be borne on a cushion before them. A book

did duty for it just now, on a couch pillow.

"That is what I should like —" said Nora. "I want to be

dressed and look so."

"You will be dressed to be one of the queen's women in Esther

and Ahasuerus, you know."

"But the queen will be dressed more — won't she?"

"Yes, I suppose she will."

"I should like to be the queen; that is what I should like to

be."

Daisy made no answer. She thought she would rather Nora should

not be the queen.

"Doesn't she look beautiful?" Nora went on, referring again to

Frederica.

Which Frederica did. The tableau was quite pretty, even

partially dressed and in this off-hand way as it was.

Next Mrs. Sandford insisted on dressing Daisy as Fortitude.

She had seen, perhaps, a little of the child's discomposure,

and wished to make her forget it. In this tableau Daisy would

be quite alone; so she was not displeased to let the lady do

what she chose with her. She stood patiently, while Mrs.

Sandford wound a long shawl skilfully around her, bringing it

into beautiful folds like those in Sir Joshua Reynolds'

painting; then she put a boy's cap, turned the wrong way, on

her head, to do duty for a helmet, and fixed a nodding plume

of feathers in it. Daisy then was placed in the attitude of

the picture, and the whole little assembly shouted with

delight.

"It will do, Mrs. Sandford," said Preston.

"Isn't it pretty?" said the lady.

"And Daisy does it admirably," said Theresa. "You are a fairy

at dressing, Mrs. Sandford; your fingers are better than a

fairy's wand. I wish you were my godmother; I shouldn't

despair to ride yet in a coach and six. There are plenty of

pumpkins in a field near our house, and plenty of rats in the

house itself. Oh, Mrs. Sandford! let us have Cinderella!"

"What, for a tableau?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You must ask the manager. I do not know anything about that."

Preston and Theresa and Hamilton and Alexander now went into

an eager discussion of this question, and before it was

settled the party discovered that it was time to break up.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHARITY AND VANITY.

"Well, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph that evening, "how do you

like your new play that you are all so busy about?"

"I like it pretty well, papa."

"Only pretty well! Is that the most you can say of it? I

understood that it was supposed to be an amusement of a much

more positive character."

"Papa, it is amusing — but it has its disagreeablenesses."

"Has it? What can they be? Or has everything pleasant its dark

side?"

"I don't know, papa."

"What makes the shadows in this instance?"

It seemed not just easy for Daisy to tell, for her father saw

that she looked puzzled how to answer.

"Papa, I think it is because people do not behave perfectly

well."

It was quite impossible for Mr. Randolph to help bursting into

a laugh at this; but he put his arms round Daisy and kissed

her very affectionately at the same time.

"How does their ill behaviour affect your pleasure, Daisy?"

"Papa — you know I have to play with them."

"Yes, I understand that. What do they do?"

"It isn't _they_, papa. It is only Alexander Fish — or at least

it is he most."

"What does _he_ do?"

"Papa — we are in a tableau together."

"Yes. You and he?"

"Yes, papa. And it is very disagreeable."

"Pray how, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, commanding his features

with some difficulty. "What is the tableau?"

"Papa, you know the story of Priscilla?"

"I do not think I do. What Priscilla?"

"Priscilla and John Alden. It is in a book of engravings."

"Oh! — the courtship of Miles Standish?"

"Miles Standish was his friend, papa."

"Yes, I know now. And are you Priscilla?"

"Yes, papa."

"And who is Miles Standish?"

"Oh, nobody; he is not in the picture; it is John Alden."

"I think I remember. Who is John Alden, then?"

"Papa, they have put Alexander Fish in, because he has long

curling hair; but I think Preston's hair would do a great deal

better."

"Preston is under some obligation to the others, I suppose,

because he is manager. But how does Alexander Fish abuse his

privileges?"

"Papa," said Daisy, unwillingly, — "his face is turned away

from the other people, so that nobody can see it but me; — and

he winks."

Daisy brought out the last word with an accession of gravity

impossible fully to describe. Mr. Randolph's mouth twitched;

he bent his head down upon Daisy's, that she might not see it.

"That is very rude of him, Daisy," he said.

"Papa," said Daisy, who did not relish the subject, and chose

a departure, — "what is a _Puritan?_"

"A Puritan!"

"Yes, papa. What is it? Priscilla was a Puritan."

"That was a name given to a class of people in England a long

time ago."

"What did it mean?"

"They were a stiff set of people, Daisy; good enough people in

their way, no doubt, but very absurd in it also."

"What did they do, papa?"

"Concluded to do without whatever is graceful and beautiful

and pleasant, in dress or arts or manners. The more

disagreeable they made life, they thought it was the better."

"Why were they called that name? Were they purer than other

people?"

"I believe they thought themselves so."

"I think they look nice in the picture," said Daisy,

meditatively. "Are there any Puritans now, papa?"

"There are people that are called Puritans. It is a term apt

to be applied to people that are stiff in their religion."

"Papa," said Daisy when an interval of five minutes had

passed, — "I do not see how people can be stiff in their

religion."

"Don't you. Why not?"

"Papa, I do not see how it can be _stiff_, to love God and do

what He says."

"No —" said Mr. Randolph; "but people can be stiff in ways of

their own devising."

"Ways that are not in the Bible, papa?"

"Well — yes."

"But papa, it cannot be _stiff_ to do what God says we must do?"

"No, — of course not," said Mr. Randolph, getting up.

He left her, and Daisy sat meditating; then with a glad heart

ran off and ordered her pony-chaise. If tableaux were to be

the order of the day every afternoon, she must go to see Molly

in the morning. This time she had a good deal to carry and to

get ready. Molly was in want of bread. A nice little loaf,

fresh baked, was supplied by Joanna, along with some cold

rolls.

"She will like those, I dare say," said Daisy. "I dare say she

never saw rolls in her life before. Now she wants some meat,

Joanna. There was nothing but a little end of cold pork on the

dish in her cupboard."

"Why, I wonder who cooks for the poor wretch?" said Joanna.

"I think she cooks for herself, because she has a stove, and I

saw iron things and pots to cook with. But she can't do much,

Joanna, and I don't believe she knows how."

"Sick, is she too?" said Joanna.

"Sick with rheumatism, so that she did not like to stir."

"I guess I must go take a look at her; but maybe she mightn't

let me. Well, Miss Daisy, the way will be for you to tell me

what she wants, if you can find out. She must have neighbours,

though, that take care of her."

"We are her neighbours," said Daisy.

Joanna looked, a look of great complacency and some wonder, at

the child; and packed forthwith into Daisy's basket the half

of a cold chicken and a broken peach-pie. A bottle of milk

Daisy particularly desired, and a little butter; and she set

off at last, happier than a queen — Esther or any other — to

go to Molly with her supplies.

She found not much improvement in the state of affairs. Molly

was gathered up on her hearth near the stove, in which she had

made a fire; but it did not appear, for all that Daisy could

see, that anything else had been done, or any breakfast eaten

that morning. The cripple seemed to be in a down-hearted and

hopeless state of mind; and no great wonder.

"Molly, would you like another cup of tea?" said her little

friend.

"Yes, it's in there. You fix it," — said the poor woman,

pointing as before to the cupboard, and evidently comforted by

Daisy's presence and proposal. Daisy could hear it in the tone

of her voice. So, greatly pleased herself, Daisy went to work

in Molly's house just as if she was at home. She fetched water

in the kettle again and made up the fire. While that was

getting ready, she set the table for breakfast. The only table

that Molly could use was a piece of board nailed on a chair.

On this Daisy put her plate and cup and saucer, and with

secret glee arranged the cold chicken and loaf of bread. For

the cupboard, as she saw, was as empty as she had found it two

days before. What Molly had lived on in the mean time was

simply a mystery to Daisy. To be sure, the end of cold pork

was gone, the remains of the cake had disappeared, and nothing

was left of the peaches but the stones. The tea-kettle did not

boil for a time; and Daisy looked uneasily at Molly's cup and

saucer and plate meanwhile. They had not been washed, Daisy

could not guess for how long; certainly no water had touched

them since the tea of two nights ago, for the cake crumbs and

peach stones told the tale. Daisy looked at them with a great

feeling of discomfort. She could not bear to see them so; they

ought to be washed; but Daisy disliked the idea of touching

them for that purpose more than I can make you understand. In

all matters of nicety and cleanliness Daisy was notional;

nothing suited her but the most fastidious particularity. It

had been a trial to her to bring those unwashed things from

the cupboard. Now she sat and looked at them; uneasily

debating what she should do. It was not comfortable, that

Molly should take her breakfast off them as they were; and

Molly was miserable herself, and would do nothing to mend

matters. And then — "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to

you," — As soon as that came fairly into Daisy's head, she

knew what she ought to be about. Not without an inward sigh,

she gathered up the pieces again.

"What you going to do?" said Molly.

"I'll bring them back," said Daisy. "I will be ready directly.

The water is not boiling yet."

For she saw that Molly was jealously eager for the hoped-for

cup of tea. She carried the things out into the shed, and

there looked in vain for any dish or vessel to wash them in.

How could it be that Molly managed? Daisy was fain to fetch a

little bowl of water and wash the crockery with her fingers,

and then fetch another bowl of water to rinse it. There was no

napkin to be seen. She left the things to drain as they could,

and went to the spring to wash her own fingers; rejoicing in

the purifying properties of the sweet element. All this took

some time, but Daisy carried in her clean dishes with a

satisfied heart.

"It's bi'lin', —" said Molly, as soon as she entered.

So the little kettle was. Daisy made tea, and prepared Molly's

table with a little piece of butter and the bottle of milk.

And no little girl making an entertainment for herself with

tiny china cups and tea-set, ever had such satisfaction in it.

Twenty dinners at home could not have given Daisy so much

pleasure, as she had now to see the poor cripple look at her

unwonted luxuries, and then to see her taste them. Yet Molly

said almost nothing; but the grunt of new expression with

which she set down the bottle of milk the first time, went all

through and through Daisy's heart with delight. Molly drank

tea and spread her bread with butter, and Daisy noticed her

turning over her slice of bread to examine the texture of it;

and a quieter, soothed, less miserable look, spread itself

over her wrinkled features. They were not wrinkled with age;

yet it was a lined and seamed face generally, from the working

of unhappy and morose feelings.

"Ain't it good! —" was Molly's single word of comment as she

finished her meal. Then she sat back and watched Daisy putting

all the things nicely away. She looked hard at her.

"What you fetch them things here for?" she broke out suddenly.

"H — n?"

The grunt with which her question concluded was so earnest in

its demand of an answer, that Daisy stopped.

"Why, I like to do it, Molly," she said. Then seeing the

intent eyes with which the poor creature was examining her,

Daisy added, — "I like to do it; because Jesus loves you."

"H — n?" — said Molly, very much at a loss what this might

mean, and very eager to know. Daisy stood still, with the

bread in her hands.

"Don't you know, Molly?" she said. "He does. It is. Jesus,

that I told you about. He loves you, and He came and died for

you, that He might make you good and save you from your sins;

and He loves you now, up in heaven."

"What's that?" said Molly.

"Heaven? that is where God lives, and the angels, and good

people."

"There ain't none," said Molly.

"What?"

"There ain't no good people."

"Oh, yes, there are. When they are washed in Jesus' blood,

then they are good. He will take away all their sins."

Molly was silent for a moment, and Daisy resumed her work of

putting things away; but as she took the peach pie in her

hands, Molly burst out again.

"What you bring them things here for?"

Daisy stopped again.

"I think it is because Jesus is my King," she said, "and I

love Him. And I love what He loves, and so I love you, Molly."

Daisy looked very childish and very wise, as she said this;

but over Molly's face there came a great softening change. The

wrinkles seemed to disappear; she gazed at Daisy steadily, as

if trying to find out what it all meant: and when the eyes

presently were cast down, Daisy almost thought there was a

little moisture about them. She had no further interruption in

her work. The dishes were all put away, and then she brought

her book. Daisy had her Bible with her this time, that she

might give Molly more than her own words. And Molly she found

as ready to listen as could be desired. And she was persistent

in desiring to hear only of that incredible Friend of whom

Daisy had told her. That name she wanted; wherever that name

came in, Molly sat silent and attentive; if the narrative lost

it, she immediately quickened Daisy's memory to the knowledge

of the fact that nothing else would do. At last Daisy proposed

that Molly herself should learn to read. Molly stared very

hopelessly at first; but after getting more accustomed to the

idea, and hearing from Daisy that it was by no means an

impossible thing, and further that, if she could learn to

read, the Bible would be forthcoming for her own use, she took

up the notion with an eagerness far exceeding all that Daisy

had hoped for. She said very little about it; nevertheless it

was plain that a root of hope had struck down into the

creature's heart. Daisy taught her two letters, A and B, and

then was obliged to go home.

It was quite time, for little Daisy was tired. She was not

accustomed to making fires and boiling kettles, neither to

setting tables and washing dishes. Yet it was not merely, nor

so much, the bodily exertion she had made, as the mind work. —

The excitement both of pleasure and responsibility and eager

desire. Altogether, Daisy was tired; and sat back in her

chaise, letting the reins hangs languidly in her hands and

Loupe go how he would. But Loupe judged it was best to get

home and have some refreshment, so he bestirred himself. Daisy

had time to lie down a little while before her dinner;

nevertheless she was languid and pale, and disposed to take

all the rest of the day very quietly.

The rest of the day was of course devoted to the tableaux. The

little company had got warmed to the subject pretty well at

the first meeting; they all came together this fine afternoon

with spirits in tone for business. And Daisy, though she was

tired, presently found her own interest drawn in. She was not

called upon immediately to take any active part; she perched

herself in the corner of a couch, and looked on and listened.

Thither came Nora Dinwiddie, too much excited to sit down, and

stood by Daisy's elbow. They had been practising "Alfred in

the neatherd's cottage;" Nora had been called upon to be the

girl blowing the burnt cakes; she had done it, and everybody

had laughed, but the little lady was not pleased.

"I know I look horrid!" she said to Daisy, — "puffing out my

cheeks till they are like a pair of soapbubbles!"

"But soapbubbles are not that colour," said Daisy. "Your

cheeks didn't look like soapbubbles."

"Yes, they did. They looked horrid, I know."

"But the picture is so," urged Daisy, quietly. "You want to be

like the picture."

"No, I don't. Not that picture. I would like to be something

handsome. I don't like that picture."

Daisy was silent, and Nora pouted.

"What are you going to be, Daisy?" said Ella Stanfield.

"I am going to be Priscilla. No, I don't know whether I am or

not; but I am going to be Fortitude, I believe."

"That's pretty," said Ella. "What else? Oh, you are going to

be the angel, aren't you? I wonder if that will be pretty. It

will be queer. Nora, shall you like to be one of the little

princes in the Tower? with that feather-bed coming over us?

But we shall not see it, I suppose, because our eyes have got

to be shut; but I shall be afraid every minute they will let

it fall on us."

"My eyes won't be shut," said Nora.

"Oh, they must. You know, the little princes were asleep, when

the men came to kill them. Your eyes must be shut and you must

be asleep. Oh, what are they doing to Theresa?"

"Dressing her —" said Daisy.

"What is she going to be?"

"Portia —" said Daisy.

"Isn't that beautiful! —" said Nora, with a deep breath. "Oh,

what a splendid dress! How rich-looking it is. What a lovely

purple. Oh, how beautiful Theresa is in it. Oh! Isn't that

splen — did?"

A very prolonged, though low, breath of admiring wonder

testified to the impressive power, upon the children at least,

of Theresa's new habiliments. The purple brocade was upon her;

its full draperies swept the ground in gorgeous colouring; a

necklace of cameos was bound with great effect upon her hair;

and on the arms, which were half bare, Mrs. Sandford was

clasping gold and glittering jewels. Theresa threw herself

slightly back in her prescribed attitude, laid her arms

lightly across each other, and turned her head with a very

saucy air towards the companion figure, supposed to be

Bassanio. All the others laughed and clapped her.

"Not that, Theresa, not that; you have got the wrong picture.

You are going with the Prince of Arragon now, to the caskets;

and you ought to be anxiously asking Bassanio about his

letter."

Theresa changed attitude and expression on the instant; bent

slightly forward, lost her sauciness, and laid her hand upon

Bassanio's arm with a grave, tender look of inquiry. They all

shouted again.

"Bravo, Theresa! capital!" said Preston.

"Hamilton, can you act up to that?" said Mrs. Sandford.

"Wait till I get my robes on, ma'am. I can make believe a

great deal easier when I am under the persuasion that it is

not me — Hamilton Rush."

"I'd like to see Frederica do as well as that," said Alexander

Fish, in a fit of brotherly concern.

"Let us try her —" said good-natured Mrs. Sandford. Mrs.

Sandford certainly was good-natured, for she had all the

dressing to do. She did it well, and very patiently.

"There," said Nora, when Ella had left the couch to go to her

sister, — "that is what I like. Didn't she look beautiful,

Daisy?"

"Her dress looked beautiful —" said Daisy.

"Well, of course; and that made _her_ look beautiful. Daisy, I

wish I could have a nice part. I would like to be the queen in

that fainting picture."

"You are going to be in that picture."

"But, I mean, I would like to be the queen. She will have the

best dress, won't she?"

"I suppose she will be the most dressed," said Daisy.

"I don't want to be one of the women — I want to be the queen.

Hamilton Rush said I would be the best one for it, because she

was a Jewess; and I am the only one that has got black eyes

and hair."

"But her eyes will not be seen," said Daisy. "She is fainting.

When people faint, they keep their eyes shut."

"Yes, but I am the only one that has got black hair. That will

show. Her hair ought to be black."

"Why, will not other hair do just as well?" said Daisy.

"Why, because she was a Jewess."

"Do Jewesses always have black hair?"

"Of course they _ought_ to have black hair," said Nora; "or

Hamilton Rush would not have said that. And my hair is black."

Daisy was silent. She said nothing to this proposition. The

children were both silenced for a little while the practising

for "Marie Antoinette" was going on. The principal part in

this was taken by Frederica, who was the beauty of the

company. A few touches of Mrs. Sandford's skilful hands

transformed her appearance wonderfully. She put on an old-

fashioned straight gown, which hung in limp folds around her;

and Mrs. Sandford arranged a white handkerchief over her

breast, tying it in the very same careless loose knot

represented in the picture; but her management of Frederica's

hair was the best thing. Its soft fair luxuriance was, no one

could tell how, made to assume the half-dressed, half-

undressed air of the head in Delaroche's picture; and

Frederica looked the part well.

"She should throw her head a little more back," — whispered

Hamilton Rush to the manager; — "her head or her shoulders.

She is not quite indignant enough."

"That handkerchief in her hand is not right —" said Preston,

in a responding whisper. "You see to it — while I get into

disguise.

"That handkerchief, Mrs. Sandford —" Hamilton said, softly.

"Yes. — Frederica, your hand with the pocket-handkerchief, —

it is not quite the thing."

"Why not?"

"You hold it like a New York lady."

"How _should_ I hold it?"

"Like a French queen, whose Austrian fingers may hold anything

any way." This was Hamilton's dictum.

"But how _do_ I hold it?"

"You have picked it up in the middle, and show all the flower

work in the corners."

"You hold it too daintily, Frederica," said Theresa. "You must

grasp it — grasp it loosely — but as the distinguished critic

who has last spoken has observed."

Frederica dropped her handkerchief, and picked it up again

exactly as she had it before.

"Try again —" said Mrs. Sandford. "Grasp it, as Theresa says.

Never mind how you are taking it up."

"Must I throw it down again?"

"If you please."

"Take it up any way but in the middle," said Hamilton.

Down went the handkerchief on a chair, and then Frederica's

fingers took it up, delicately, and with a little shake

displayed as before what Hamilton called the flowers in the

corners. It was the same thing. They all smiled.

"She can't hold a handkerchief any but the one way — I don't

believe," said her brother Alexander.

"Isn't it right?" said Frederica.

"Perfect, I presume, for Madison Square or Fifth Avenue — but

not exactly for a revolutionary tribunal," said Hamilton.

"What is the difference?"

"Ah, that is exactly what it is so hard to get at. Hollo!

Preston — is it Preston? Can't be better, Preston. Admirable!

admirable!"

"Well, Preston, I do not know you!" said Mrs. Sandford.

Was it Preston? Daisy could hardly believe her ears. Her eyes

certainly told her another story. Was it Preston? in the guise

and with the face of an extremely ugly old woman — vicious and

malignant, — who? taking post near the deposed queen, peered

into her face with spiteful curiosity and exultation. Not a

trace of likeness to Preston could Daisy see. She half rose up

to look at him in her astonishment. But the voice soon

declared that it was no other than her cousin.

"Come," — said he, while they were all shouting, — "fall in.

You, Hamilton, —and Theresa, — come and take your positions."