Hamilton, with a glance at the picture, went behind Preston;

and putting on a savage expression, thrust his clenched fist

out threateningly towards the dignified figure of Frederica;

while Theresa, stealing up into the group, put her hands upon

a chair-back to steady herself and bent towards the queen a

look of mournful sympathy and reverence, that in the veritable

scene and time represented would undoubtedly have cost the

young lady her life. The performers were good; the picture was

admirable. There was hardly anybody left to look when George

Linwood and Alexander had taken post as the queen's guards;

and to say truth they did not in their present state of

undisguised individuality add much to the effect; but Mrs.

Sandford declared the tableau was very fine, and could be made

perfect.

The question of Cinderella came up then; and there was a good

deal of talk. Finally it was decided that little Ella should

be Cinderella, and Eloise the fairy godmother, and Jane

Linwood and Nora the wicked sisters. A little practising was

tried, to get them in order. Then Esther was called for. Daisy

submitted.

Hamilton Rush was made magnificent and kingly by a superb

velvet mantle and turbaned crown — the latter not perfect, but

improvised for the occasion. For a sceptre he held out a long

wooden ruler this time; but Preston promised a better one

should be provided. The wooden ruler was certainly not quite

in keeping with the king's state, or the queen's. Daisy was

robed in a white satin dress of her mother's; much too long,

of course, but that added to the rich effect; it lay in folds

upon the floor. Her head was covered with a rose-coloured

silken scarf wound artistically round it, and the ends

floating away; and upon this drapery diamonds were bound, that

sparkled very regally over Daisy's forehead. But this was only

the beginning. A zone of brilliants at her waist made the

white satin dazzling, and gathered its folds together;

bracelets of every colour and of great beauty loaded Daisy's

little arms; till she was, what Mrs. Sandford had said Esther

must be, a spot of brilliancy. Her two maids, Nora and Jane

Linwood, at this time were not robed in any other than their

ordinary attire; perhaps that was one reason why their

maintenance of their characters was not quite so perfect as

that of the principal two. Hamilton stretched forward his

wooden sceptre to the queen with benignant haste and dignity.

Daisy, only too glad to shrink away, closed her eyes and lay

back in the arms of her attendants in a manner that was really

very satisfactory. But the attendants themselves were not in

order.

"Jane, you must not laugh —" said her brother.

"I ain't laughing!"

"Yes, but you were."

"The queen is fainting, you know," said Mrs. Sandford. "You

are one of her maids, and you are very much distressed about

it."

"I am not distressed a bit. I don't care."

"Nora, do not forget that you are another attendant. Your

business is with your mistress. You must be looking into her

face, to see if she is really faint, or if you can perceive

signs of mending. You must look very anxious."

But Nora looked very cross; and as Jane persisted in giggling,

the success of that picture was not quite excellent this time.

"Nora is the most like a Jewess —" Theresa remarked.

"Oh, Nora will make a very good maid of honour by and by,"

Mrs. Sandford replied.

But Nora had her own thoughts.

"Daisy, how shall I be dressed?" she inquired, when Daisy was

disrobed of her magnificence and at leisure to talk.

"I don't know. Oh, in some nice way," said Daisy, getting into

her corner of the couch again.

"Yes, but shall I — shall Jane and I have bracelets, and a

girdle, and something on our heads too?"

"No, I suppose not. The queen, of course, is most dressed,

Nora; you know she must be."

"I should like to have _one_ dress," said Nora. "I am not

anything at all. All the fun is in the dress. You are to have

four dresses."

"Well, so are you to have four."

"No, I am not. What four?"

"This one, you know; and Red Riding-hood — and the Princes in

the Tower — and Cinderella."

"I am to be only one of the ugly sisters in Cinderella — I

don't believe aunt Frances will give her much of a dress; and

I hate Red Riding-hood; and the Princes in the Tower are not

to be dressed at all. They are covered up with the bed-

clothes."

"Nora," said Daisy, softly, — "would you like to be dressed as

John Alden?"

"As _what?_" said Nora, in no very accommodating tone of voice.

"John Alden — that Puritan picture, you know, with the

spinning-wheel. I am to be Priscilla."

"A boy! Do you think I would be dressed like a boy?" cried

Nora, in dudgeon. And Daisy thought _she_ would not, if the

question were asked her; and had nothing more to answer.

So the practising went on, with good success on the whole. The

little company met every other day; and dresses were making,

and postures were studied, and costumes were considered and

re-considered. Portia and Bassanio got to be perfect. So did

Alfred in the neatherd's cottage — very nearly. Nora, however

she grumbled, blew her cakes energetically; Preston and Eloise

made a capital old man and woman, she with a mutch cap and he

with a bundle of sticks on his head; while Alexander Fish,

with his long hair and rather handsome face, sat very well at

the table hearing his rebuke for letting the cakes burn.

Alexander was to have a six-foot bow in hand, which he and

Hamilton were getting ready; and meanwhile practised with an

umbrella. But the tableau was very good. Most of the others

went very well. Still Daisy was greatly tried by John Alden's

behaviour, and continued to look so severe in the picture as

to draw out shouts of approving laughter from the company, who

did not know that; Alexander Fish was to be thanked for it.

And Nora was difficult to train in Queen Esther. She wore

obstinately a look of displeased concern for herself, and no

concern at all for her fainting mistress. Which, on the whole,

rather impaired the unity of the action, and the harmony of

the general effect.

"How is your task proceeding?" Mrs. Randolph asked one

evening, when Mrs. Sandford was staying to tea.

"Excellently well. We shall make a good thing, I confidently

expect."

"Hamilton is a good actor," said Preston.

"And Master Gary also," said Mrs. Sandford. "Your old French

wife is perfect, Preston."

"Much obliged, ma'am."

"Not to me. My dressing has nothing to do with that. But

Preston, what shall we do with Frederica's handkerchief? She

can _not_ hold it — right."

"Like a queen —" said Preston. "I do not know — unless we

could scare her out of her propriety. A good fright would do

it, I think. But then the expression would not suit. How is

the Game, Mrs. Sandford?"

"Perfect! admirable! You and Hamilton do it excellently — and

Daisy is a veritable angel."

"How does _she_ like it all?" Mrs. Randolph inquired.

"Aunt Felicia, she is as much engaged as anybody."

"And plays as well," added Mrs. Sandford.

"She has found out to-day, aunt Felicia," Preston went on,

speaking rather low, "that she ought to have a string of red

stones round her head instead of white ones."

Mrs. Randolph smiled.

"She was quite right," said Mrs. Sandford. "It was a matter of

colour, and she was quite right. She was dressed for Queen

Esther, and I made her look at herself to take the effect; and

she suggested, very modestly, that stones of some colour would

do better than diamonds round her head. So I substituted some

very magnificent rubies of yours, Mrs. Randolph; quite to

Daisy's justification."

"Doesn't she make a magnificent little 'Fortitude,' though!"

said Eloise.

"The angel will be the best," said Mrs. Sandford. "She looks

so naturally troubled. But we have got a good band of workers.

Theresa Stanfield is very clever."

"It will do Daisy a world of good," said Mrs. Gary.

CHAPTER XXXXV.

QUEEN ESTHER.

All this while Daisy's days were divided. Silks and jewels and

pictures and practising, in one part; in the other part, the

old cripple Molly Skelton, and her basket of bread and fruit,

and her reading in the Bible. For Daisy attended as regularly

to the one as to the other set of interests, and more

frequently; for the practising party met only three times a

week, but Daisy went to Molly every day.

Molly was not sick now. Daisy's good offices in the material

line were confined to supplying her with nice bread and butter

and fruit and milk, with many varieties beside. But in that

day or two of rheumatic pains, when Molly had been waited upon

by the dainty little handmaiden who came in spotless frocks

and trim little black shoes to make her fire and prepare her

tea, Daisy's tenderness and care had completely won Molly's

heart. She was a real angel in that poor house; no vision of

one. Molly welcomed her so, looked at her so, and would

perhaps have obeyed her as readily. But Daisy offered no words

that required obedience, except those she read out of the

Book; and Molly listened to them as if it had been the voice

of an angel. She was learning to read herself; really

learning: making advances every day that showed diligent

interest; and the interest was fed by those words she daily

listened to out of the same book. Daisy had got a large-print

Testament for her at Crum Elbow; and a new life had begun for

the cripple. The rose-bush and the geranium flourished

brilliantly, for the frosts had not come yet; and they were a

good setting forth of how things were going in the house.

One lovely October afternoon, when air and sky were a breath

and vision of delight, after a morning spent in dressing and

practising, Daisy went to Molly. She went directly after

luncheon. She had given Molly her lesson; and then Daisy sat

with a sober little face, her finger between the leaves of the

Bible, before beginning her accustomed reading. Molly eyed her

wistfully.

"About the crowns and the white dresses," she suggested.

"Shall I read about those?" said Daisy. And Molly nodded. And

with her little face exceedingly grave and humble, Daisy read

the seventh chapter of the Revelation, and then the twenty-

first chapter, and the twenty second; and then she sat with

her finger between the leaves as before, looking out of the

window.

"Will they all be sealed?" said Molly, breaking the silence.

"Yes."

"What is that?"

"I don't know exactly. It will be a mark of all the people

that love Jesus."

"A mark in their foreheads?"

"Yes, it says so."

"What mark?"

"I don't know, Molly; it says, 'His name shall be in their

foreheads.' " And Daisy's eyes became full of tears.

"How will that be?"

"I don't know, Molly; it don't tell. I suppose that everybody

that looks at them will know in a minute that they belong to

Jesus."

Daisy's hand went up and brushed across her eyes; and then did

it again.

"Do they belong to Him?" asked Molly.

"Oh, yes! Here it is — don't you remember? — 'they have washed

their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.' "

"So they are white, then?" said Molly.

"Yes. And His mark is on them."

"I wish," said the cripple, slowly and thoughtfully, — "I wish

'twas on me. I do!"

I do not think Daisy could speak at this. She shut her book

and got up and looked at Molly, who had put her head down on

her folded arms; and then she opened Molly's Testament and

pressed her arm to make her look. Still Daisy did not speak;

she had laid her finger under some of the words she had been

reading; but when Molly raised her head she remembered the

sense of them could not be taken by the poor woman's eyes. So

Daisy read them, looking with great tenderness in the

cripple's face.

" 'I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the

water of life freely.' That is what it says, Molly."

"Who says?"

"Why, Jesus says it. He came and died to buy the life for us —

and now He will give it to us, He says, if we want it."

"What life?" said Molly, vaguely.

"Why, _that_, Molly; that which you were wishing for. He will

forgive us, and make us good, and set His mark upon us; and

then we shall wear those robes that are made white in His

blood, and be with Him in heaven. And that is life."

"You and me?" said Molly.

"Oh, yes! Molly — anybody. It says 'whosoever is athirst.' "

"Where's the words?" said Molly.

Daisy showed her; and Molly made a deep mark in the paper

under them with her nail; so deep as to signify that she meant

to have them for present study or future reference or both.

Then, as Molly seemed to have said her say, Daisy said no more

and went away.

It was still not late in the afternoon; and Daisy drove on,

past the Melbourne gates, and turned the corner into the road

which led to Crum Elbow. The air was as clear as October could

have it; and soft, neither warm nor cold; and the roads were

perfect; and here and there a few yellow and red maple leaves,

and in many places a brown stubble field, told that autumn was

come. It was as pleasant a day for a drive as could possibly

be; and yet Daisy's face was more intent upon her pony's ears

than upon any other visible thing. She drove on towards Crum

Elbow, but before she reached it she turned another corner,

and drew up before Juanita's house.

It was not the first visit she had made here since going home;

though Daisy had in truth not come often nor stayed long. All

the more glad were Juanita and she to see each other now.

Daisy took off her flat and sat down on the old chintz couch,

with a face of content. Yet it was grave content; not joyous

at all. So Juanita's keen eyes saw, through all the talking

which went on. Daisy and she had a great deal to say to each

other; and among other things the story of Molly came in, and

was enlarged upon; though Daisy left most of her own doings to

be guessed at. She did not tell them more than she could well

help. However, talk went on a good while, and still when it

paused Daisy's face looked thoughtful and careful. So Juanita

saw.

"Is my love quite well?"

"Oh, yes, Juanita. I am quite well. I think I am getting

strong, a little."

Juanita's thanksgiving was earnest. Daisy looked very sober.

"Juanita, I have been wanting to talk to you."

Now they had been talking a good deal; but this, the black

woman saw, was not what Daisy meant.

"What is it, my love?"

"I don't know, Juanita. I think I am puzzled."

The fine face of Mrs. Benoit looked gravely attentive, and a

little anxiously watchful of Daisy's.

"The best way will be to tell you. Juanita, they are — I mean,

we are — playing pictures at home."

"What is that, Miss Daisy?"

"Why, they take pictures — pictures in books, you know — and

dress up people like the people in the pictures, and make them

stand so, or sit so, and look so, as the people in the

pictures do; and so they make a picture of living people."

"Yes, Miss Daisy."

"They are playing pictures at home. I mean, we are. Mamma is

going to give a great party next week; and the pictures are to

be all made and shown at the party. There are twelve pictures;

and they will be part of the entertainment. There is to be a

gauze stretched over the door of the library, and the pictures

are to be seen behind the gauze."

"And does Miss Daisy like the play?" the black woman inquired,

not lightly.

"Yes, Juanita — I like some things about it. It is very

amusing. There are some things I do not like."

"Did Miss Daisy wish to talk to me about those things she not

like?"

"I don't know, Juanita — no, I think not. Not about those

things. But I do not exactly know about myself."

"What Miss Daisy not know about herself?"

"I do not know exactly — whether it is right."

"Whether what be right, my love?"

Daisy was silent at first, and looked puzzled.

"Juanita — I mean — I don't know whether I am right."

"Will my love tell what she mean?"

"It is hard, Juanita. But — I don't think I am quite right. I

want you to tell me what to do."

Daisy's little face looked perplexed and wise. — And sorry.

"What troubles my love?"

"I do not know how it was, Juanita — I did not care at all

about it at first; and then I began to care about it a little

— and now —"

"What does my love care about?"

"About being dressed, Juanita; and wearing mamma's jewels, and

looking like a picture."

"Will Miss Daisy tell Juanita better what she mean?"

"Why, you know, Juanita," said the child, wistfully, "they

dress up the people to look like the pictures; and they have

put me in some very pretty pictures; and in one I am to be

beautifully dressed to look like Queen Esther — with mamma's

jewels all over me. And there is another little girl who would

like to have that part, — and I do not want to give it to

her."

Juanita sat silent, looking grave and anxious. Her lips moved,

but she said nothing that could be heard.

"And, Juanita," the child went on — "I think, somehow, I like

to look better than other people, — and to have handsomer

dresses than other people, — in the pictures, you know."

Still Juanita was silent.

"Is it right, Juanita?"

"Miss Daisy pardon me. Who Miss Daisy think be so pleased to

see her in the beautiful dress in the picture?"

"Juanita — it was not that I meant. I was not thinking so much

of that. Mamma would like it, I suppose, and papa; — but I

like it myself."

Juanita was silent again.

"Is it right, Juanita?"

"Why do Miss Daisy think it not right?"

Daisy looked undecided and perplexed.

"Juanita — I wasn't quite sure."

"Miss Daisy like to play in these pictures r"

"Yes, Juanita — and I like — Juanita, I like it!"

"And another little girl, Miss Daisy say, like it too?"

"Yes, I think they all do. But there is a little girl that

wants to take my part."

"And who Miss Daisy want to please?"

Daisy hesitated, and her eyes reddened; she sat a minute

still; then looked up very wistfully.

"Juanita, I think I want to please myself."

"Jesus please not Himself," — said the black woman.

Daisy made no answer to that. She bent over and hid her little

head in Mrs. Benoit's lap. And tears undoubtedly came, though

they were quiet tears. The black woman's hand went tenderly

over the little round head.

"And He say to His lambs — 'Follow me.' "

"Juanita" — Daisy spoke without raising her head — "I want to

please him most."

"How Miss Daisy think she do that?"

Daisy's tears now, for some reason, came evidently, and

abundantly. She wept more freely in Juanita's lap than she

would have done before father or mother. The black woman let

her alone, and there was silent counsel-taking between Daisy

and her tears for some time.

"Speak to me, Juanita" — she said at last.

"What my love want me to say?"

"It has been all wrong, hasn't it, Juanita? Oh, have I,

Juanita?"

"What, my love?"

"I know I have," said Daisy. "I knew it was not right before."

There was yet again a silence; a tearful silence on one part.

Then Daisy raised her head, looking very meek.

"Juanita, what ought I to do?"

"What my love said," the black woman replied very tenderly.

"Please the Lord."

"Yes; but I mean, how shall I do that?"

"Jesus please not Himself; and He say, 'Follow me.' "

"Juanita, I believe I began to want to please myself very soon

after all this picture work and dressing began."

"Then it not please the Lord," said Juanita, decidedly.

"I know," said Daisy; "and it has been growing worse and

worse. But Juanita, I shall have to finish the play now — I

cannot help it. How shall I keep good? Can I?"

"My love knows the Good Shepherd carry His lamb in His bosom,

if she let Him. He is called Jesus, for He save His people

from their sins."

Daisy's face was very lowly; and very touching was the way she

bent her little head and passed her hand across her eyes. It

was the gesture of penitent gentleness.

"Tell me some more, Juanita."

"Let the Lord speak," said the black woman, turning ever her

well-used Bible. "See, Miss Daisy — 'Charity suffereth long,

and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself,

is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not

her own —' "

"I was puffed up," said Daisy, "because I was to wear those

beautiful things. I will let Nora wear them. I was seeking my

own, all the time, Juanita. I didn't know it."

See, Miss Daisy — 'That women adorn themselves in modest

apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broidered

hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.' "

"Is there any _harm_ in those pretty things, Juanita? They are

so pretty!"

"I don't know, Miss Daisy; the Lord say He not pleased with

them; and the Lord knows."

"I suppose," said Daisy — but what Daisy supposed was never

told. It was lost in thought.

"My love see here what please the Lord — 'the ornament of a

meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great

price.' "

Daisy lifted her little face and kissed the fine olive cheek

of her friend.

"I know now, Juanita," she said with her accustomed

placidness. "I didn't know what was the matter with me. I

shall have to play in the pictures — I cannot help it now —

but I will let Nora be Queen Esther."

It was quite late by this time, and Daisy after a little more

talk went home; a talk which filled the child's heart with

comfort. Daisy went home quite herself again, and looked as

happy and busy as a bee when she got there.

"Daisy! what late doings!" exclaimed her father. "Out all the

afternoon and practising all the morning — Where have you

been?"

"I have been visiting, papa."

"Pray whom?"

"Molly, papa — and Juanita," Daisy said, not very willingly,

for Mrs. Randolph was within hearing.

"A happy selection!" said she. "Go and get ready for dinner,

Daisy."

"Have you been all the afternoon at those two places, Daisy."

asked her father, within whose arms she stood.

"Yes, papa."

He let her go; and a significant look passed between him and

his wife.

"A little too much of a good thing," said Mr. Randolph.

"It will be too much, soon," the lady answered.

Nevertheless Daisy for the present was safe, thanks to her

friend Dr. Sandford; and she passed on upstairs with a spirit

as light as a bird. And after she was dressed, till it was

time for her to go in to the dinner-table, all that while a

little figure was kneeling at the open window, and a little

round head was bowed upon the sill. And after that, there was

no cloud upon Daisy's face at all.

In the drawing-room, when they were taking tea, Daisy carried

her cup of milk and cake to a chair close by Preston.

"Well, Daisy, what now?"

"I want to talk to you about the pictures, Preston."

"We did finely to-day, Daisy! If only I could get the cramp

out of Frederica's fingers."

"Cramp!" said Daisy.

"Yes. She picks up that handkerchief of hers as if her hand

was a bird's claw. I can't get a blue jay or a canary out of

my head when I see her. Did you ever see a bird scratch its

eye with its claw, Daisy?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is what she puts me in mind of. That handkerchief

kills Marie Antoinette, dead. And she won't take advice — or

she can't. It is a pity you hadn't it to do; you would hold it

right queenly. You do Esther capitally. I don't believe a

Northern girl can manage that sort of thing."

Daisy sipped her milk and eat crumbs of cake for a minute

without making any answer.

"Preston, I am going to let Nora be Queen Esther."

"What!" said Preston.

"I am going to let Nora be Queen Esther."

"Nora! Not if I know it," said Preston.

"Yes, but I am. I would like it better. And Nora would like to

be Queen Esther, I know."

"I dare say she would! Like it! Of course. No, Daisy; Queen

Esther is yours and nobody's else. What has put that into your

head?"

"Preston, I think Nora would like it; and you know, they said

she was most like a Jewess of all of us; I think it would be

proper to give it to her."

"I shall not do it. We will be improper for once."

"But I am going to do it, Preston."

"Daisy, you have not liberty. I am the manager. What has come

over you? You played Esther beautifully only this morning.

What is the matter?"

"I have been thinking about it," said Daisy; "and I have

concluded I would rather give it to Nora."

Preston was abundantly vexed, for he knew by the signs that

Daisy had made up her mind; and he was beginning to know that

his little cousin was exceedingly hard to move when once she

was fully set on a thing. He debated within himself an appeal

to authority; but on the whole dismissed that thought. It was

best not to disgust Daisy with the whole affair; and he hoped

coaxing might yet do the work. But Daisy was too quick for

him.

"Nora," she said at the next meeting, "if you like, I will

change with you in the fainting picture. You shall be the

queen, and I will be one of the women."

"Shall I be the queen?" said Nora.

"Yes, if you like."

"But why don't you want to do it?"

"I would rather you would, if you like it."

"Well, I'll do it," said Nora; "but Daisy, shall I have all

the dress you were going to wear?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Because, if I don't, I won't. I must have just exactly what

you were going to wear."

"Why — you will of course, I suppose," said Daisy, a good deal

astonished.

"Every bit," said Nora. "Shall I have that same white satin

gown?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Of course you will. It is only you and I

that change; not the dress."

"And shall I have the ornaments too?"

"Just the same, I suppose; unless Mrs. Sandford thinks that

something else will look better."

"I won't have anything else. I want that same splendid

necklace for my girdle — shall I?"

"I suppose so, Nora."

"You say 'I suppose so' to everything. I want to know. Shall I

have that same pink silk thing over my hair?"

"That scarf? yes."

"And the red necklace on it? and the bracelets? and the gold

and diamonds round my neck? I won't be Esther if I don't have

the dress."

"I suppose you will have the dress," said Daisy; "of course

you will. But if you say you do not want to be Esther, they

will make me do it."

A hint that closed Nora's mouth. She did not say she did not

want to be Esther. Mrs. Sandford was astonished at the change

of performers; but Daisy's resignation was so simply made and

naturally, and Nora's acceptance was so manifestly glad, that

nobody could very well offer any hindrance. The change was

made; but Preston would not suffer Daisy to be one of the

attendants. He left her out of the picture altogether, and put

Jane Linwood in Nora's vacated place. Daisy was content; and

now the practising and the arrangements went on prospering.

There was a good deal of preparation to be made, besides what

the mantua-maker could do. Mr. Stilton was called into the

library for a great consultation; and then he went to work.

The library was the place chosen for the tableaux; the

spectators to be gathered into the drawing-room, and the

pictures displayed just within the wide door of communication

between the two rooms. On the library side of this door Mr.

Stilton laid down a platform, slightly raised and covered with

green baize cloth, and behind the platform a frame-work was

raised and hung with green baize to serve as a proper

background for the pictures. A flower-stand was brought in

from the greenhouse and placed at one side, out of sight from

the drawing-room; for the purpose, as Preston informed Daisy,

of holding the lights. All these details were under his

management, and he managed, Daisy thought, very ably indeed.

Meantime the dresses were got ready. Fortitude's helmet was

constructed of pasteboard and gilt paper; and Nora said it

looked just as if it were solid gold. The crown of Ahasuerus,

and Alfred's six-foot bow were also made; and a beautiful old

brown spinning-wheel was brought from Mrs. Sandford's house

for Priscilla. Priscilla's brown dress was put together, and

her white vandyke starched. And the various mantles and robes

of velvet and silk which were to be used, were in some way

accommodated to the needs of the young wearers. All was done

well, and Preston was satisfied; except with Daisy.

Not that Daisy did not enter into the amusement of what was

going forward; for perhaps nobody took so much real share in

it. Even Mr. Stilton's operations interested her. But she was

not engrossed at all. She was not different from her usual

self. All the glory of the tableaux had not dazzled her, so

far as Preston could see. And daily, every morning, she

stepped into that little pony-chaise with a basket and drove

off — Preston was at the pains to find out — to spend a couple

of hours with Molly Skelton. Preston sighed with impatience.

And then, in the very act of dressing and practising for the

pictures, Daisy was provokingly cool and disengaged. She did

her part very well, but seemed just as much interested in

other people's parts, and as much pleased with other people's

adornment. Queen Esther in particular was Daisy's care, since

she had given up the character; and without putting herself

forward, she had once or twice made a suggestion to Mrs.

Sandford, of something that she either thought would please

Nora or that she felt called for by her own tastes; and in

each case Mrs. Sandford declared the suggestion had been an

improvement.

But with a pleasure much greater and keener, Daisy had seen

the pot containing the 'Jewess' geranium taken up out of the

ground, and set, with all the glory of its purple-red

blossoms, in Molly's poor little room. There it stood, on a

deal table, a spot of beauty and refinement, all alone to

witness for the existence of such things on the earth. And

heeded by Molly as well as by Daisy. Daisy knew that. And all

the pleasure of all the tableaux put together could give

nothing to Daisy equal to her joy when Molly first began to

read. That day, when letters began really to be put together

into words to Molly's comprehension, Daisy came home a proud

child. Or rather, for pride is a bad word, she came home with

a heart swelling with hope and exultation; hope and exultation

that looked forward confidently to the glory to be revealed.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TABLEAUX VIVANTS.

The great day came, and the evening of the day; and June

dressed Daisy for the party. This was a simple dressing,

however, of a white cambrick frock; no finery, seeing that

Daisy was to put on and off various things in the course of

the evening. But Daisy felt a little afraid of herself. The

perfected arrangements and preparations of the last few days

had, she feared, got into her head a little; and when June had

done and was sent away, Daisy kneeled down by her bedside and

prayed a good while that God would help her not to please

herself, and keep her from caring about dress and appearance

and people's flatteries. And then she got up and looked very

wistfully at some words of the Lord Jesus which Juanita had

showed her first and which she found marked by Mr. Dinwiddie's

pencil. "The Father hath not left me alone; _for I do always

those things that please Him_."

Daisy was beginning to learn that to please God is not always

to seek one's own gratification or that of the world. She

looked steadily at the words of that Friend in heaven whom she

loved and wished to obey; and then it seemed to Daisy that she

cared nothing at all about anything but pleasing Him.

"Miss Daisy —" said June, — "Miss Nora is come."

Away went Daisy, with a bound, to the dressing-room; and

carried Nora off, as soon as she was unwrapped from her

mufflings, to see the preparations in the library.

"What is all that for?" said Nora.

"Oh, that is to show the pictures nicely. They will look a

great deal better than if all the room and the books could be

seen behind them."

"Why?"

"I suppose they will look more like pictures. By and by all

those lights on the stand will be lighted. And we shall dress

in the library, you know, — nobody will be in it, — and in the

room on the other side of the hall. All the things are brought

down there."

"Daisy," said Nora? looking at the imposing green baize

screen, "aren't you afraid?"

"Are you?" said Daisy.

"Yes — I am afraid I shall not do something right, or laugh,

or something."

"Oh, but you must not laugh. That would spoil the picture. And

Mrs. Sandford and Preston will make everything else right.

Come and see the crown for Ahasuerus!"

So they ran across the hall to the room of fancy dresses. Here

Ella presently joined them with her sister, and indeed so many

others of the performers that Preston ordered them all out. He

was afraid of mischief, he said. They trooped back to the

library.

"When are they going to begin?" said Nora.

"I don't know. Oh, by and by. I suppose we shall have tea and

coffee first. People at a party must get through that."

To await this proceeding, and indeed to share in it, the

little company adjourned to the drawing-room. It was filling

fast. All the neighbourhood had been asked, and all the

neighbourhood were very glad to come, and here they were,

pouring in. Now the neighbourhood meant all the nice people

within ten miles south and within ten miles north; and all

that could be found short of some seven or eight miles east.

There was one family that had even come from the other side of

the river. And all these people made Melbourne House pretty

full. Happily it was a very fine night.

Daisy was standing by the table, for the little folks had tea

at a table, looking with a face of innocent pleasure at the

scene and the gathering groups of people, when a hand laid

gentle hold of her, and she found herself drawn within the

doctor's arm and brought up to his side. Her face brightened.

"What is going on, Daisy?"

"Preston has been getting up some tableaux, Dr. Sandford, to

be done by the young people."

"Are you one of the young people?"

"They have got me in," said Daisy.

"Misled by your appearance? What are you going to play,

Daisy?"

Daisy ran off to a table and brought him a little bill of the

performances. The doctor ran his eye over it.

"I shall know what it means, I suppose, when I see the

pictures. What is this 'Game of Life?"

"It is Retsch's engraving," Daisy answered, as sedately as if

she had been forty years old.

"Retsch! yes, I know him — but what does the thing mean?"

"It is supposed to be the devil playing with a young man — for

his soul," Daisy said, very gravely.

"Who plays the devil?"

"Preston does."

"And who is to be the angel?"

"I am to be the angel," said Daisy.

"Very judicious. How do you like this new play, Daisy?"

"It is very amusing. I like to see the pictures."

"Not to be in them?"

"I think not, Dr. Sandford."

"Daisy, what else are you doing, besides playing tableaux, all

these days?"

"I drive about a good deal," said Daisy. Then looking up at

her friend with an entirely new expression, a light shining in

her eye and a subdued sweetness coming into her smile, she

added — "Molly is learning to read, Dr. Sandford."

"Molly!" said the doctor.

"Yes. You advised me to ask leave to go to see her, and I did,

and I got it."

Daisy's words were a little undertone; the look that went with

them the doctor never forgot as long as he lived. His

questions about the festivities she had answered with a

placid, pleased face; pleased that he should ask her; but a

soft irradiation of joy had beamed upon the fact that the poor

cripple was making a great step upwards in the scale of human

life. The doctor had not forgotten his share in the permission

Daisy had received, which he thought he saw she suspected.

Unconsciously his arm closed upon the little figure it held

and brought her nearer to him; but his questions were somehow

stopped. And Daisy offered no more; she stood quite still,

till a movement at the table seemed to call for her. She put

her hand upon the doctor's arm, as a sign that it must hold

her no longer, and sprang away.

And soon now all the young people went back again to the

library. Mrs. Sandford came with them to serve in her arduous

capacity of dresser. June attended to give her help.

"Now what are we going to do?" whispered Nora, in breathless

excitement. "What is to be the first picture? Oh, Daisy, I

wish you would get them to have my picture last of all."

"Why, Nora?"

"Oh, because. I think it ought to come last. Aren't you

afraid? Whew! I am."

"No, I don't think I am."

"But won't you want to laugh?"

"Why?" said Daisy. "No, I do not think I shall want to laugh."

"I shall be too frightened to laugh," said Jane Linwood.

"I don't see, Daisy, how you will manage those queer wings of

yours," Nora resumed.

"I have not got to manage them at all. I have only to keep

still."

"I can't think how they will look," said Nora. "They don't

seem to me much like wings. I think they will look very

funny."

"Hush, children — run away; you are not wanted here. Go into

the drawing-room — and I will ring this hand-bell when I want

you."

"What comes first, aunt Sandford?"

"Run away! you will see."

So the younger ones repaired to the drawing-room, for what

seemed a weary time of waiting. Nora expressed her entire

disapprobation of being shut out from all the fun of the

dressing; she wanted to see that. She then declared that it

would be impossible to show all the twelve pictures that

evening, if it took so long to get ready for one. However, the

time was past at length; the signal was given; the lights in

the drawing-room were put down, till the room was very shadowy

indeed; and then, amid the breathless hush of expectation, the

curtain that hung over the doorway of the library was drawn

back.

The children thought it was fairy-land.

Frederica Fish sat there facing the company, quaintly dressed

in antique costume; and before her knelt, on one knee, two

grand-looking personages, very richly attired, presenting a

gilt crown upon a satin cushion. — Lady Jane Grey and the

lords who came to offer her the kingdom. The draperies were

exceedingly well executed and did Mrs. Sandford great credit.

They were the picture.

"Isn't she _beau_-tiful!" Nora exclaimed under her breath.

"Isn't it like a picture!" said Daisy.

"How funnily those boys kneel and twist themselves round!"

said Jane. "Who are they?"

"Daisy, wouldn't you like to be dressed every day like that?"

said Nora.

"I don't think it would be convenient," said Daisy. "I think a

white frock is nicer."

"Oh, but it makes people look so handsome! Frederica looks

like — she is a real beauty! I should like to be dressed so.

Daisy, don't you suppose queens and ladies, like those in the

pictures, _are_ always dressed so?"

"I suppose they put on nightgowns when they go to bed," said

Ella Stanfield, soberly. "They can't _always_ be dressed so."

"Oh, but, I mean when they are up. And I dare say they wear

beautiful nightgowns — Daisy, don't you think they do? I dare

say they have splendid lace and ribbands; and you call make a

white dress very handsome, if you put plenty of lace and

ribbands."

"Oh, it's gone!" exclaimed Jane and Ella. The curtain had

fallen. The company clapped their hands and cheered.

"What's that for?" said Nora.

"That means that they like it, I suppose," said Daisy.

"You will have to go now, Nora, I know. Little Red Riding-Hood

comes next. Come — we'll all go."

"Horrid Little Red Riding-Hood!" said Nora. "I hate that

picture!"

"Why do you hate it?"

"Because! — It is nothing but a red hood."

Mrs. Sandford's bell sounded.

"Oh, Daisy!" said Nora, as they went, "won't you get them to

leave Esther to the last? They will do whatever you ask them.

Do!"

"Why, Nora?"

"Oh, because! —"

What Nora's "because" meant, Daisy did not know; that it had

reference to some supposed advantage of place, was pretty

certain. Daisy stood thinking about it while she saw Nora

dressed, and then ran into the drawing-room to take the effect

of the tableau. The curtain was withdrawn; Daisy was

astonished; she had no idea that Nora could be so changed by a

little arrangement of lights and dress. The picture was

exceeding pretty. Nora's black hair and bright cheeks peeped

out from under the shadowing red cardinal, which draped her

arms also — Mrs. Sandford had mysteriously managed it. She had

got over her hatred of the part, for she looked pleased and

pleasant; and the little basket in her hand and the short

petticoat and neat little feet completed a tidy Red Riding-

Hood. The applause was loud. "Lovely!" the ladies said. "What

a sweet little thing! how beautiful she looks!" Nora did not

smile, for that would have hurt her picture; but she stood

with swelling complacency and unchanging red cheeks as long as

the company were pleased to look at her.

"Who is that, Daisy?" asked her father, near whom Daisy had

stationed herself.

"It is Nora Dinwiddie, papa."

"She is a pretty little girl. When does your turn come?"

"I do not know, papa."

"Not know! Why, I thought all this was your affair."

"Oh, no, papa; it is Preston's affair."

Off ran Daisy, however, when the curtain fell, or rather when

it was drawn, to see the getting ready of the next tableau.

There was something of a tableau on hand already. June stood

holding up a small feather-bed, and two little figures in

white nightgowns were flying round, looking and laughing at

two exceedingly fierce, bearded, moustached, black-browed

individuals, on whose heads Mrs. Sandford was setting some

odd-looking hats.

"Who are those, Nora?" said Daisy to Little Red Riding-Hood.

"Daisy, did you like it? Did I stand well?"

"Yes, I liked it very much; it was nice. Nora, who are those

two?"

"Why, one of 'em is Preston — I don't know who the other is.

Daisy, did you ask about Esther?"

Could it be possible that Preston had so transformed himself?

Daisy could hardly see that it was he. His fellow she did not

recognise at all. It was big George Linwood.

"Now are the little princes ready?" said Preston. "Because we

will finish up this business."

"Oh, you won't let the feather-bed come down on us?" cried

Jane Linwood.

"If you don't be quiet and keep still, I will," said Preston.

"Let only your eye wink or your mouth move to smile —and you

are an unlucky prince! I am a man without mercy."

"And I am another," said George. "I say, old fellow, I suppose

I'm all right for that French pikeman now, hey? After this

smothering business is attended to."

"You think the trade is the thing, and the costume a matter of

indifference?" said Preston. "In the matter of morals I dare

say you are right; — in tableaux before spectators it's not

exactly so. Here, June — hand on your big pillow there."

Mrs. Sandford was laughing at him, and in fact there was a

good deal of hilarity and some romping before the actors in

the tableau could be settled in their places.

"Don't keep us long," said Preston. "I never knew before what

an uninteresting thing a featherbed is — when you are obliged

to hold it in your arms. Everything in its place, I find. I

used to have a good opinion of them."

Daisy ran back to the drawing-room, and was utterly struck

with wonder at the picture over which all this fun had been

held. It was beautiful, she thought. The two children lay so

naturally asleep, one little bare foot peeping out from under

the coverings; and the grim faces that scowled at them over

the feather-bed with those strange hats overshadowing, made

such a contrast; and they were all so breathlessly still, and

the lights and shadows were so good; Daisy was disposed to

give her verdict that there never was a play like this play.

The "Princes in the Tower " was greatly applauded.

"Have you asked about my picture?" said Nora, who stood beside

Daisy.

"No, I have not had a chance."

"Do, Daisy! I want that to be the last."

Daisy thought she was unreasonable. Why should Nora have the

best place, if it was the best? She was not pleased with her.

The next picture was Marie Antoinette; and that drew down the

house. Frederica Fish had nothing to do but to stand as she

was put, and Mrs. Sandford had seen to it that she stood

right; another person might have done more in the picture, but

that was all that could be got from Frederica. Her face was

coldly impassive; she could come no nearer to the expression

of the indignant queen. But Preston's old woman, and Theresa's

pretty young French girl; one looking as he had said, with

eyes of coarse fury, the other all melting with tenderness and

reverent sympathy; they were so excellent that the company

were delighted. Frederica's handkerchief, it is true, hung

daintily in her fingers, showing all the four embroidered

corners; Mrs. Sandford had not seen it till it was just too

late; and Preston declared afterwards the "fury" in his face

was real and not feigned as he glared at her. But the company

overlooked the handkerchief in favour of the other parts of

the picture; and its success was perfect.

"Alfred in the neat-herd's cottage" followed next, and would

have been as good; only that Nora, whose business it was to

blow her cheeks into a full moon condition over the burnt

cakes, would not keep her gravity; but the full cheeks gave

way every now and then in a broad grin which quite destroyed

the effect. Preston could not see this, but Daisy took her

friend to task after it was over. Nora declared she could not

help it.

"You don't know how it felt, Daisy, to keep my cheeks puffed

out in that way. I couldn't do it; and whenever I let them go,

then I couldn't help laughing. Oh, Daisy! is my picture to be

the last?"

"I will see, as soon as I can, Nora," Daisy said, gravely. It

was her own turn now, and while Mrs. Sandford was dressing her

she had no very good chance to speak of Esther. How

wonderfully Mrs. Sandford arranged the folds of one or two

long scarfs, to imitate Sir Joshua Reynolds' draperies.

Preston declared it was beautiful, and so did Hamilton Rush;

and when the little helmet with its plumes was set on Daisy's

head, Mrs. Sandford smiled and Preston clapped his hands. They

had still a little trouble to get Dolce into position. Dolce

was to enact the lion, emblem of courage and strength, lying

at Fortitude's feet. He was a sensible dog, but knowing

nothing about playing pictures, naturally, did not immediately

understand why it should be required of him to lie down there,

on that platform of green baize, with his nose on his paws.

However, more sensible than some animals of higher order are

apt to be, he submitted patiently to the duty of obedience

where he did not understand; and laid down accordingly his

shaggy length at Daisy's feet.

The curtain was drawn aside, and the company shouted with

delight. No picture had been so good yet as this one. The

little grave figure, the helmet with its nodding plumes in

mock stateliness; the attitude, one finger just resting on the

pedestal of the broken column (an ottoman did duty for it), as

if to show that Fortitude stood alone, and the shaggy St.

Bernard at her feet, all made in truth an extremely pretty

spectacle. You could see the faintest tinge of a smile of

pleasure on the lips of both Mr. and Mrs. Randolph; they were

silent, but all the rest of the people cheered and openly

declared their delight. Daisy stood like a rock. _Her_ mouth

never gave way; not even when Dolce, conceiving that all this

cheering called upon him to do something, rose up and, looking

right into Daisy's face, wagged his tail in the blandest

manner of congratulation. Daisy did not wince; and an

energetic "Down, Dolce, down!" brought the St. Bernard to his

position again, in the very meekness of strength; and then the

people clapped for Daisy and the dog together. At last the

curtain fell.

"Well, that will do," said Mrs. Sandford.

"Dolce — you rascal!" said Preston, as the great creature was

now wagging his tail in honour of his master, "how came you to

forget your business in that style, sir?"

"I do not think it really hindered the effect at all,

Preston," said Mrs. Sandford. "Daisy kept her countenance so

well."

"Yes, — if Fortitude had smiled! —" said Theresa. "Mrs.

Sandford, is it out of character for Fortitude to smile?"

"It would be out of character for Portia, just at this crisis

— so take care of her."

"What made them make such a great noise, Daisy?" said Nora,

while Daisy was getting undressed.

"I suppose they liked the picture," said Daisy.

"But they made a great deal more noise than they did for

anybody else," said Nora.

"I suppose they liked the picture better than they liked any

of the others," said Ella Stanfield. "I know they did, for I

was in the other room. Come, let's go see this picture!"

"Not you, Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford, as the children were

running off — "I want you. Priscilla comes next."

So Daisy had to stay and be dressed for Priscilla. She missed

Portia and Bassanio. It was not much missed, for her little

heart began to be beating with excitement; and she wished very

much that Priscilla might be as much liked as Fortitude. The

dressing was an easy matter, for the costume had been prepared

for her and a gown and vandyke made on purpose. Would

Alexander dare to wink this time, she wondered? And then she

remembered, to her great joy, that he could not; because his

face would be in full view of the people behind the scenes in

the library. The little brown spinning-wheel was brought on

the platform; a heap of flax, at which Priscilla is supposed

to have been working, was piled together in front of it; and

she and Alexander took their places. The curtain was drawn

aside, and a cry of pleasure from the company testified to the

picturesque prettiness of the representation. It was according

to the fact, that Priscilla should be looking in John Alden's

face; it was just at the moment when she is supposed to be

rebuking him for bringing to her his friend's suit and

petition. Thinking herself safe, and wishing to have the

picture as good as possible, Daisy had ventured to direct her

eyes upon the face of Alexander Fish, who personified the

Puritan suitor. To her horror, Alexander, wholly untouched by

the poetry of the occasion, and unawed by its hazards, dared

to execute a succession of most barefaced and disagreeable

winks right at Priscilla's eyes. Poor Daisy could not stand

this. Forgetting her character and the picture and everything,

her eyes went down; her eyelids drooped over them; and the

expression of grave displeasure would have done for a yet more

dissatisfied mood of mind than Priscilla is supposed to have

known at the time. The company could not stand this, either;

and there burst out a hearty chorus of laughter and cheers

together, which greatly mortified Daisy. The curtain was

drawn, and she had to face the laughing comments of the people

in the library. They were unmerciful, she thought. Daisy grew

very pink in the face.

Cinderella was the next picture, in which she had also to

play. Dresses were changed in haste; but meanwhile Daisy began

to think about herself. Was she all right? Mortified at the

breaking of her picture; angry at Alexander; eager to get back

praise enough to make amends for this loss; — whom was little

Daisy trying to please? Where was the ornament of a meek and

quiet spirit now? was it on?

They had after all given her place in the Cinderella tableau;

she was one of the two wicked sisters; and she looked

dissatisfied enough for the character. She wanted to get away

to be alone for two minutes; but she had this part to fill

first. It is very hard to play when one's heart is heavy.

Daisy could not go on so. She could not bear it. Without

waiting till June could undress her, she slipped away, the

moment the curtain was drawn, and ran across the hall to the

dressing-room. People were coming and going everywhere; and

Daisy went out upon the piazza. There, in a dark spot, she

kneeled down and prayed; that this terrible spirit of pleasing

herself might be put away from her. She had but a minute; she

knew she must be back again immediately; but she knew too it

takes but a minute for ever so little a prayer to go all the

way to heaven; and the answer does not take any longer to

come, if it pleases God. Daisy was very much in earnest, and

quite well knew all that. She went back to the library feeling

humbled and ashamed, but quiet. The library was all in

commotion.

Nora was begging that Esther might be put off till the last.

Mrs. Sandford and Preston objected. They chose that it should

come next.

"Here is Priscilla," said Hamilton Rush, — "I beg pardon! it

is Cinderella's wicked sister — I don't know what _her_ name

was. Let us have your vote, my angel; I will address you in

your prospective character; will you put on your wings at

once? Or shall we get done with the terrestrial first? What do

you say? — I hope you are going to make Miss Stanfield the

queen, Mrs. Sandford; she has done one part so well that I

should like to see her in another."

"Why, you are going to be Ahasuerus yourself!" said the lady.

"Am I?" said Hamilton; who it must be noticed had not met for

the practisings as often as the other people, being held not

to need them. "Then I must respectfully be allowed to choose

my own queen. I vote for Miss Theresa."

"It is a capital idea," said Preston.

"I think so too," said Mrs. Sandford. "Theresa, my dear, I

wonder we did not think before of something so much to our

advantage; but these children seemed to have got the picture

into their own hands. You will do it far better. Come! let me

robe you."

"I would rather be Vashti," murmured Theresa. "I don't like

submissive characters. Mrs. Sandford, Vashti is far more in my

line. Go off, boys, and get ready! What a pity we didn't think

of having Vashti, Mrs. Sandford."

However, Theresa made no objection to be dressed for Esther.

"Who will be your supporters? Ella is too short. Jane and

Nora? — Where is Nora?"

Nora was in the furthest corner of the room, seated in gloom.

"Nora! —"

"I am not going to play any more —" said Nora.

"You must come and be one of the queen's women — I want you

for that."

"I am not going to play —" repeated Nora; but nobody heard

except Daisy. "I am Esther myself! nobody else has any right

to be it. I have practised it, and I know how to do it; and I

am Esther myself. Nobody else has any right to be Esther!"

Daisy stood by in dismay. She did not know what comfort to

bring to this distress.

"I won't play at all!" said Nora. "If I can't be Esther I

won't be anything. You have all the good things, Daisy! you

have all the prettiest pictures; and I might have had just

this one. Just Esther. I just wanted to be Esther! It's mean."

"Why, you've been plenty of things I think," said Jane

Linwood, coming near this corner of gloom.

"I haven't! I have been that hateful prince in the tower and

Cinderella's ugly sister — only hateful things."

"But you were Little Red Riding-Hood."

"Red Riding-Hood!" exclaimed Nora, in unspeakable disdain.

"Red Riding-Hood was nothing at all but a red cloak! and Daisy

wore feathers, and had the dog —"

And the vision of Queen Esther's jewels and satin gown and

mantle here overcame Nora's dignity if not her wrath; she

began to cry.

"But won't you come and be one of the queen's maids? _They_ will

be very nicely dressed too," Daisy ventured, gently.

"No! — I won't be anybody's maid, I tell you," sobbed the

disconsolate child.

"Bring her along, Daisy," Mrs. Sandford called from the other

side of the room. — "I am almost ready for her."

Daisy made another vain effort to bring Nora to reason, and

then went sorrowfully to Mrs. Sandford. She thought tableaux

were on the whole a somewhat troublesome amusement.

"Will I do, Mrs. Sandford?" she said. "Nora does not want to

play."

"In dudgeon, hey?" said the lady. "I expected as much. Well,

Daisy — I will take you. I might perch you up on a foot-

cushion to give you a little more altitude. However — I don't

know but it will do. Theresa will be letting down her own

height."

"I think I am letting myself down altogether, Mrs. Sandford,

in allowing Ahasuerus to pick me out in that lordly style. But

never mind — I shan't touch his sceptre any way. Boys, boys! —

are you ready?"

"Splendid, Theresa!" said Preston, as he came in. "Splendid!

You are the very thing."

"I am diamonds and satin, you mean. I thank you. I know that

is what I am at present."

"You look the character," said Hamilton.

Theresa made him a mock little courtesy. It was admirably

done. It was the slightest gesture of supercilious disdain —

excellent pantomime. The boys laughed and shouted, for

Theresa's satin and diamonds gave effect to her acting, and

she was a good actor.

This picture had been delayed so long, that at last, hearing

the shout of applause behind the scenes, the audience began to

call for their share. In haste, but not the less effectively,

Theresa and the rest threw themselves into attitude, and the

curtain was pulled aside.

Daisy wished she could have been in the drawing-room to see

the picture; she knew it must be beautiful; but she was

supporting one jewelled arm of Queen Esther, and obliged by

her duty to look only at the Queen's face. Daisy thought even

that was a good deal to look at, it was so magnificently

surrounded with decoration: but at the same time she was

troubled about Nora and sorry for her own foolishness, so that

her own face was abundantly in character for the grave concern

that sat upon it. This picture met with great favour. The

people in the library were in much glee after it was over; all

but Daisy and Nora.

"It is all spoiled!" said the latter. "The evening has been

hateful. I wish I hadn't come."

"Oh, Nora! don't say that," Daisy urged. "The pictures are

almost over now; and then we shall have supper."

"I don't want supper! I only wanted to be Queen Esther; and

you said I might. It was the prettiest picture of the whole

lot."

"But I couldn't help it, Nora."

"I could have done it just as well as Theresa! She didn't look

handsome a bit."

"Oh, Nora, I think she did — for a picture."

"She didn't a bit; the things she had on looked handsome."

Daisy was called away. Her last dressing was to be done now,

and the one of which Daisy was most doubtful. She was to stand

for the angel in the "Game of Life." Other people had no doubt

about it. Mrs. Sandford was sure that the angel's wings would

make a good representation, which Daisy was slow to believe;

near by, they looked so very like gauze and pasteboard! They

were arranged, at any rate, to appear as if they grew out of

her shoulders; she was arrayed in flowing white draperies over

her own little cambrick frock; and then she was ready.

Hamilton came in. He was to be the young man in the picture.

Daisy liked his appearance well. But when Preston followed

him, she felt unspeakably shocked. Preston was well got up, in

one respect; he looked frightful. He wore a black mask, ugly

but not grotesque; and his whole figure was more like the

devil in the picture than Daisy had imagined it could be. She

did not like the whole business at all. There was no getting

out of it now; the picture must be given; so the performers

were placed.

Hamilton and Preston sat on two sides of a chess-board, and

behind them the little angel stood watching the game. Mrs.

Sandford was right. By a skilful placing and shielding of the

lamps, the lights were thrown broadly where they ought to be,

on faces and draperies, leaving the gauze wings of the angel

in such obscurity that they just showed as it was desired they

should. The effect was extremely good, and even artistic. The

little angel herself was not in full light; it was through a

shade of gloom that her grave face of concern looked down upon

the game on the chess-board. Truly Daisy looked concerned and

grave. She thought she did not like to play such things as

this, One of the figures below her was so very wicked and

devilish in its look; and Hamilton leaned over the pieces on

the board with so well-given an expression of doubt and

perplexity, — his adversary's watch was so intent, — and the

meaning of the whole was so sorrowfully deep; that Daisy gazed

unconsciously most like a guardian angel who might see with

sorrow the evil one getting the better over a soul of his

care. For it was real to Daisy. She knew that the devil does

in truth try to bewitch and wile people out of doing right

into doing wrong. She knew that he tries to get the mastery of

them; that he rejoices every time he sees them make a "false

move;" that he is a great cunning enemy, all the worse because

we cannot see him, striving to draw people to their ruin; and

she thought that it was far too serious and dreadful a thing

to be made a _play_ of. She wondered if guardian angels did

really watch over poor tempted souls and try to help them. And

all this brought upon Daisy's face a shade of awe, and sorrow,

and fear, which was strangely in keeping with her character as

an angel, and very singular in its effect on the picture. The

expressions of pleasure and admiration which had burst from

the company in the drawing-room at the first sight of it,

gradually stilled and ceased; and it was amid a profound and

curious silence and hush that the curtain was at length drawn

upon the picture. There were some people among the spectators

not altogether satisfied in their minds.

"How remarkable!" was the first word that came from anybody's

lips in the darkened drawing-room.

"Very remarkable!" somebody else said. "Did you ever see such

acting?"

"It has all been good," said a gentleman, Mr. Sandford; "but

this was remarkable."

"Thanks, I suppose you know to whose management," said the

soft voice of the lady of the house.

"Management is a good thing," said the gentleman; "but there

was more than management here, Mrs. Randolph. It was uncommon,

upon my word! I suppose my wife came in for the wings, but

where did the _face_ come from?"

"Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, as he found his little daughter by

his side again, — "are you here?"

"Yes, papa."

Her father put his arm round her, as if to assure himself

there were no wings in the case.

"How do you like playing pictures?"

"I think I do not like them very much —" Daisy said, sedately,

nestling up to her father's side.

"Not? How is that? Your performance has been much approved."

Daisy said nothing. Mr. Randolph thought he felt a slight

tremor in the little frame.

"Do you understand the allegory of this last tableau, Daisy?"

Dr. Sandford asked.

"I do not know what an allegory is, Dr. Sandford."

"What is the meaning of the representation, then, as you think

of it?"

"This last picture?"

"Yes."

"It is a trial of skill, Dr. Sandford."

The room was still darkened, and the glance of intelligence

and amusement that passed between her friend and her father,

their own eyes could scarcely catch. Daisy did not see it. But

she had spoken diplomatically. She did not want to come any

nearer the subject of the picture in talking with Dr.

Sandford. His mind was different, and he went on.

"What is the trial of skill about, Daisy?"

The child hesitated, and then said, speaking low and most un-

child-like — "It is about a human soul."

"And what do you understand are the powers at work — or at

play?"

"It is not play," said Daisy.

"Answer Dr. Sandford, Daisy," said her father.

"Papa," said the child, "it isn't play. The devil tries to

make people do wrong — and if they try to do right, then there

is a —"

"A what?"

"I don't know — a fight, papa."

Mr. Randolph again felt a tremor, a nervous trembling, pass

over Daisy.

"You do not suppose, my darling," he said, softly, "that such

a fight goes on with anything like this horrible figure that

your cousin Preston has made himself?"

"I do not suppose he looks like that, papa."

"I do not think there is such a personage at all, Daisy. I am

sure you need not trouble your little head with thinking about

it."

Daisy made no answer.

"There is a struggle always going on, no doubt, between good

and evil; but we cannot paint good and evil without imagining

shapes for them."

"But papa, —" said Daisy, and stopped. It was no place or time

for talking about the matter, though her father spoke low. She

did not want even Dr. Sandford to hear.

"What is it, Daisy?"

"Yes," said the doctor, "I should like to know what the

argument is."

"Papa," said Daisy, awesomely, — "there is a _place_ prepared

for the devil and his angels."

Mr. Randolph was silent now. But he felt again that Daisy was

nervously excited, by the quiver that passed over her little

frame.

"So you think, Daisy," said the doctor leaning towards her, —

"that the white and the black spirits have a fight over the

people of this world?"

Daisy hesitated, struggled, quivered with the feeling and the

excitement which were upon her, tried for self-command and

words to answer. Mr. Randolph saw it all and did not hurry

her, though she hesitated a good deal.

"You think they have a quarrel for us?" repeated the doctor.

"I don't know, Dr. Sandford —" Daisy answered, in a strangely

tender and sober voice. It was strange to her two hearers.

"But you believe in the white spirits, I suppose, as well as

in the other branch of the connexion?"

"Papa," said Daisy, her feeling breaking a little through her

composure so much as to bring a sort of cry into her voice —

"there is joy among the angels of heaven whenever anybody

grows good! —"

She had turned to her father as she spoke and threw her arms

round his neck, hiding her face, with a clinging action that

told somewhat of that which was at work in her mind. Mr.

Randolph perhaps guessed at it. He said nothing; he held her

close to his breast; and the curtain drew at that moment for

the last tableau. Daisy did not see it, and Mr. Randolph did

not think of it; though people said it was very good. It was

only the head and shoulders of Theresa Stanfield as an old

country schoolmistress, seen behind a picture frame, with her

uplifted finger and a bundle of rods. Theresa was so

transformed that nobody would have known her; and while the

company laughed and applauded, Daisy came back to her usual

self; and slid out of her father's arms when the show was

over, all ready for supper and Nora Dinwiddie.

There was a grand supper, and everybody was full of pleasure

and complimentary speeches and discussion and praise of the

tableaux. That was among the elder portion of the company. The

four or five children were not disposed to such absolute

harmony. Grapes and ices and numberless other good things were

well enjoyed, no doubt; but amidst them all a spirit of

criticism was rife.

"Daisy, your wings didn't look a bit like real wings —" said

Jane Linwood.

"No," echoed Nora, "I guess they didn't. They were like — let

me see what they were like! They were like the wings of a

windmill."

"No, they weren't!" said Ella. "I was in the drawing-room —

and they didn't look like a windmill a bit. They looked queer,

but pretty."

"Queer, but pretty!" repeated Nora.

"Yes, they did," said Ella. "And you laughed when you were Red

Riding-hood, Nora Dinwiddie."

"I didn't laugh a bit!"

"It is no matter if you did laugh, Nora," said Daisy; — "you

got grave again, and the picture was very nice."

"I didn't laugh!" said Nora; "and if I did, everybody else

did. I don't think the pictures I saw were at all like

pictures — they were just like a parcel of people dressed-up."

Some gay paper mottoes made a diversion and stopped the little

mouths for a time; and then the people went away.

"Well, Daisy," said Mrs. Gary, — "how do you like this new

entertainment?"

"The pictures? I think they were very pretty, aunt Gary."

"How happened it that somebody else wore my diamonds?" said

her mother, — "and not you. I thought you were to be dressed

for Queen Esther?"

"Yes, mamma, so I was at first; and then it was thought best —

"

"Not by me," said Preston. "It was no doing of mine. Daisy was

to have been Esther, and she herself declared off — backed out

of it, and left me to do as best I could."

"What was that for, Daisy?" said Mrs. Gary. "You would have

made an excellent Esther."

"What was that for, Daisy?" said Mrs. Randolph. "Did you not

like to be Esther?"

"Yes, mamma — I liked it at one time."

"And why not at another time?"

"I found out that somebody else would like it too, mamma; and

I thought —"

Mrs. Randolph broke out with a contemptuous expression of

displeasure.

"You thought you would put yourself in a corner! You were not

manager, Daisy; and you must remember something is due to the

one that is. You have no right to please yourself."

"Come here, Daisy," said her father, "and bid me good-night. I

dare say you were trying to please somebody else. Tell mamma

she must remember the old fable, and excuse you."

"What fable, Mr. Randolph?" the lady inquired, as Daisy left

the room.

"The one in which the old Grecian told the difficulty of

pleasing more people than one or two at once."

"Daisy is ruined!" said Mrs. Randolph.

"I do not see how it appears."

"She has not entered into this thing at all as we hoped she

would — not at all as a child should."

"She looked a hundred years old, in the Game of Life," said

Mrs. Gary. "I never saw such a representation in my life. You

would have said she was a real guardian angel of somebody, who

was playing his game not to please her."

"I am glad it is over!" said Mrs. Randolph. "I am tired of it

all." And she walked off.

So did Mr. Randolph, but as he went he was thinking of Daisy's

voice and her words — "There is joy among the angels of heaven

whenever anybody grows good."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

AN ACCIDENT.

It was growing late in the fall now. Mrs. Randolph began to

talk of moving to the city for the winter. Mr. Randolph more

than half hinted that he would like as well to stay where he

was. But his wife said that for Daisy's sake they must quit

Melbourne, and try what new scenes, and lessons, and dancing

school would do for her. "Not improve the colour in her

cheeks, I am afraid," said Mr. Randolph; but, however, he did

not oppose, and Mrs. Randolph made her arrangements.

It was yet but a day or two after the tableaux, when something

happened to disturb her plans. Mr. Randolph was out riding

with her, one fine October morning, when his horse became

unruly in consequence of a stone hitting him; a chance stone

thrown from a careless hand. The animal was restive, took the

stone very much in dudgeon, ran, and carrying his rider under

a tree, Mr. Randolph's forehead was struck by a low-lying

limb, and he was thrown off. The blow was severe; he was

stunned; and had not yet recovered his senses when they

brought him back to Melbourne. Mrs. Randolph was in a state

almost as much beyond self-management. Daisy was out of the

house. Mrs. Gary had left Melbourne; and till the doctor

arrived Mrs. Randolph was nearly distracted.

He came; and though his fine face took no gloom upon it, and

his blue eye was as usual impenetrable, the eyes that

anxiously watched him were not satisfied. Dr. Sandford said

nothing; and Mrs. Randolph had self-control sufficient not to

question him, while he made his examinations and applied his

remedies. But the remedies, though severe, were a good while

in bringing back any token of consciousness. It came at last,

faintly. The doctor summoned Mrs. Randolph out of the room

then, and ordered that his patient should be kept in the most

absolute and profound quiet. No disturbance or excitement must

be permitted to come near him.

"How long, doctor?"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Randolph? —"

"How long will it be before he is better?"

"I cannot say that. Any excitement or disturbance would much

delay it. Let him hear nothing and see nothing — except you,

and some attendant that he is accustomed to."

"Oh, doctor, can't you stay till he is better?"

"I will return again very soon, Mrs. Randolph. There is

nothing to be done at present for which I am needed."

"But you will come back as soon as you can?"

"Certainly!"

"And oh, Dr. Sandford, cannot you take Daisy away?"

"Where is she?"

"I don't know — she is not come home. Do take her away!"

The doctor went thoughtfully downstairs, and checking his

first movement to go out of the front door, turned to the

library. Nobody was there; but he heard voices, and passed out

upon the piazza. Daisy's pony chaise stood at the foot of the

steps; she herself had just alighted. Preston was there too,

and it was his voice the doctor had first heard, in anxious

entreaty.

"Come, Daisy! — it's capital down at the river; and I want to

show you something."

"I think I am tired now, Preston. I'll go another time," said

Daisy.

"Daisy, I want you now. Come! come! — I want you to go now,

this minute."

"But I do not feel like a walk, Preston. I can't go till I

have had my dinner."

Preston looked imploringly at the doctor, towards whom Daisy

was now mounting the steps. It is safe to say that the doctor

would willingly have been spared his present task.

"Where have you been now, Daisy?" he said.

Daisy's face brightened into its usual smile at sight of him.

"I have been to Crum Elbow, Dr. Sandford."

"Suppose you go a little further and have luncheon with Mrs.

Sandford and me? It will not take us long to get to it."

"Does mamma say so, Dr. Sandford?"

"Yes."

"Then I will be ready in a moment."

"Where are you going?" said her friend, stopping her.

"Only up stairs for a minute. I will be ready in two minutes,

Dr. Sandford."

"Stop," said the doctor, still detaining her. "I would rather

not have you go upstairs. Your father is not quite well, and I

want him kept quiet."

What a shadow came over Daisy's sunshine.

"Papa not well! What is the matter?"

"He does not feel quite like himself, and I wish him left in

perfect repose."

"What is the matter with him, Dr. Sandford?"

Daisy's words were quiet, but the doctor saw the gathering woe

on her cheek; the roused suspicion. This would not do to go

on.

"He has had a little accident, Daisy; nothing that you need

distress yourself about; but I wish him to be quite quiet for

a little."

Daisy said nothing now, but the speech of her silent face was

so eloquent that the doctor found it expedient to go on.

"He was riding this morning; his horse took him under the low

bough of a tree, and his head got a severe blow. That is all

the matter."

"Was papa _thrown?_" said Daisy, under her breath.

"I believe he was. Any horseman might be unseated by such a

thing."

Daisy again was mute, and again the doctor found himself

obliged to answer the agony of her eyes.

"I do not think he is in much, if any, pain, Daisy; but I want

him to be still for a while. I think that is good for him; and

it would not be good that you should disturb him. Your mother

is there, and that is enough."

Daisy stood quite still for a few minutes. Then making an

effort to withdraw herself from the doctor's arm, she said, "I

will not go into the room — I will not make any noise."

"Stop! Daisy, you must not go upstairs. Not this morning."

She stood still again, grew white and trembled.

"As soon as I think it will do him good to see you, I will let

you into his room. Now, shall we send June up for anything you

want?"

"I think, Dr. Sandford," said Daisy, struggling for

steadiness, "I will not go away from home."

Her words were inexpressibly tender and sorrowful. The doctor

was unrelenting.

"Your mother desired it."

"Did mamma? —"

"Yes; she wished me to carry you home with me. Come, Daisy! It

is hard, but it is less hard after all than it would be for

you to wander about here; and much better."

Daisy in her extremity sunk her head on the doctor's shoulder,

and so remained, motionless, for more minutes than he had to

spare. Yet he was still too, and waited. Then he spoke to her

again.

"I will go," said Daisy.

"You wanted something first?"

"I did not want anything but to change my gloves. It is no

matter."

Very glad to have gained his point, the doctor went off with

his charge; drove her very fast to his own home, and there

left her in Mrs. Sandford's care; while he drove off furiously

again to see another patient before he returned to Melbourne.

It was a long day after that to Daisy; and so it was to Mrs.

Sandford. Nora Dinwiddie was no longer with her; there was

nobody to be a distraction or a pleasure to the grave little

child who went about with such a weird stillness, or sat

motionless with such unchildlike quiet. Mrs. Sandford did not

know what to do; but indeed nothing could be done with Daisy.

She could not be amused or happy; she did not wish Nora were

there; she could only keep patient and wait, and wait, with a

sore, straining heart, while the hours passed, and Dr.

Sandford did not come, and she had no tidings. Was she

patient? It seemed to Daisy that her heart would burst with

impatience; or rather with its eager longing to know how

things were at home, and to get some relief. The hours of the

day went by, and no relief came. Dr. Sandford did not return.

Daisy took it as no good omen.

It was hard to sit at the dinner-table and have Mr. and Mrs.

Sandford showing her kindness, while her heart was breaking.

It was hard to be quiet and still, and answer politely and

make no trouble for her entertainers. It was hard; but Daisy

did it. It was hard to eat too; and that Daisy could not do.

It was impossible.

"Mustn't be cast down," said Mr. Sandford. He was one of the

people who look as if they never could be. Black whiskers and

a round face sometimes have that kind of look. "Mustn't be

cast down! No need. Everybody gets a tumble from horseback

once or twice in his life. I've had it seven times. Not

pleasant; but it don't hurt you much, nine times in ten."

"Hush, Mr. Sandford," said his wife. "Daisy cannot feel about

it just as you do."

"Never been thrown yet herself, eh! Give her one of those

peaches, my dear — she will like that better than meats to-

day. Eat one of my red-cheeked peaches, Daisy; and tell me

whether you have any so good at Melbourne. I don't believe

it."

Daisy peeled her peach. It was all she could bear to do. She

peeled it carefully and slowly; there never was a peach so

long in paring; for it was hardly more than finished when they

rose from table. She had tried to taste it too; that was all;

the taste never reached her consciousness. Mrs. Sandford knew

better than her husband, and let her alone.

Daisy could think of nothing now but to watch for the doctor;

and to do it with the most comfort and the best chance she

placed herself on the steps of the piazza, sitting down on the

uppermost step. It was a fair evening, warm and mild; and Mrs.

Sandford sitting in her drawing-room with the windows open was

but a few feet from Daisy, and could observe her. She did so

very often, with a sorrowful eye. Daisy's attitude bespoke her

intentness; the child's heart was wound up to such a pitch of

expectation that eye and ear were for nothing else. She sat

bending both upon the road by which she looked for the doctor

to come; her little figure did not stir; her head rested

slightly on her hand with a droop that spoke of weariness or

of weakness. So she sat looking down the road, and the sweet

October light was all over her and all around her. Mrs.

Sandford watched her, till the light lost its brightness and

grew fair and faint, and then began to grow dim. Daisy sat

still, and Mrs. Sandford looked at her, till a step within the

room drew her attention on that side.

"Why, there you are!" said the lady — "come the other way.

What news?"

"I have no news."

"Yes, but how is Mr. Randolph?" The lady had dropped her voice

very low.

"He is sensible."

"Sensible!" Mrs. Sandford said with a startled look; but then

drawing the doctor silently to her side, she pointed to the

watching, anxious little figure there on the steps. It did not

need that Dr. Sandford should speak her name. Daisy had

perfectly well heard and understood the words that had passed;

and now she rose up slowly and came towards the doctor, who

stepped out to meet her.

"Well, Daisy — have you been looking for me?" he said. But

something in the little upturned face admonished him that no

light words could be borne. He sat down and took her hand.

"Your father looks better than he did this morning; but he

feels badly yet after his fall."

Daisy looked at him and was silent a moment.

"Will they send for me home?"

"Not to-night, I think. Mrs. Randolph thought better that you

should stay here. Can't you do it contentedly?"

Daisy made no audible answer; her lip quivered a very little;

it did not belie the singular patience which sat upon her

brow. Her hand lay yet in the doctor's; he held it a little

closer, and drew the child affectionately to his side, keeping

her there while he talked with Mrs. Sandford upon other

subjects; for he said no more about Melbourne. Still while he

talked he kept his arm round Daisy, and when tea was brought

he hardly let her go. But tea was not much more to Daisy than

dinner had been; and when Mrs. Sandford offered to show her to

her room if she desired it, Daisy accepted the offer at once.

Mrs. Sandford herself wished to supply the place of June, and

would have done everything for her little guest if she could

have been permitted. Daisy negatived all such proposals. She

could do everything for herself, she said; she wanted no help.

A bag of things had been packed for her by June and brought in

the doctor's gig. Daisy was somehow sorry to see them; they

looked like preparations for staying.

"We will send for June to-morrow, Daisy, if your mamma will

leave you still with me."

"Oh, I shall go home to-morrow — I hope," said Daisy. "I hope

—" she repeated, humbly.

"Yes, I hope so," said Mrs. Sandford. She kissed Daisy and

went away. It was all Daisy wanted, to be alone. The October

night was mild; she went to the window; one of the windows,

which looked out upon the grass and trees of the courtyard,

now lighted by a faint moon. Daisy sunk down on her knees

there; the sky and the stars were more homelike than anything

else; and she felt so strange, so miserable, as her little

heart had never known anything like before. She knew well

enough what it all meant, her mother's sending her away from

home, her father's not being able to bear any disturbance.

Speak as lightly, look as calmly as they would, she knew what

was the meaning underneath people's faces and voices. Her

father had been very much hurt; quite well Daisy was assured

of that. He was too ill to see her, or too ill for her mother

to like her to see him. Daisy knelt down; she remembered she

had a Father in heaven, but it seemed at first as if she was

too broken-hearted to pray. Yet down there, through the still

moonlight, she remembered His eye could see her, and she knew

He had not forgotten His little child. Daisy never heard her

door open; but it did once, and some time after it did again.

"I do not know what to do —" said Mrs. Sandford, downstairs.

There the lamps made a second bright day; and the two

gentlemen were busy over the table with newspapers and books.

Both of them looked up, at the sound of her perplexed voice.

"That child, —" said Mrs. Sandford. "She is not in bed yet."

The lady stood by the table; she had just come from Daisy's

room.

"What is she doing?" her husband asked.

"I don't know. She is kneeling by the open window. She was

there an hour ago, and she is there yet. She has not moved

since."

"She has fallen asleep —" suggested Mr. Sandford. "I should

say, wake her up."

"She is too wide awake now. She is lifting her little face to

the sky, in a way that breaks my heart. And there she has

been, this hour and more."

"Have some supper directly, and call her down, —" was the

second suggestion of the master of the house. "It will be

supper-time soon. Here — it's some time after nine."

"Grant, what is the matter with Mr. Randolph? Is it very

serious?"

"Mrs. Randolph thinks so, I believe. Have you spoken to

Daisy?"

"No, and I cannot. Unless I had good news to carry to her."

"Where is she?" said the doctor, getting up.

"In the room next to yours."

So Mrs. Sandford sat down and the doctor went up stairs. The

next thing, he stood behind Daisy at her window. She was not

gazing into the sky now; the little round head lay on her arms

on the window-sill.

"What is going on here?" said a soft voice behind her.

"Oh! Dr. Sandford —" said the child, jumping up. She turned

and faced her friend, with a face so wistful and searching, so

patient, yet so strained with its self-restraint and fear,

that the doctor felt it was something serious with which he

had to do. He did not attempt a light tone before that little

face; he felt that it would not pass.

"I came up to see _you_," he said. "I have nothing new to tell,

Daisy. What are you about?"

"Dr. Sandford," said the child, "won't you tell me a little?"

The inquiry was piteous. For some reason or other, the doctor

did not answer it with a put-off, nor with flattering words,

as doctors are so apt to do. Perhaps it was not his habit, but

certainly in other respects he was not too good a man to do

it. He sat down and let the moonlight show Daisy his face.

"Daisy," he said, "your father was stunned by his blow, and

needs to be kept in perfect quiet for a time, until he is

quite over it. People after such a fall often do; but I do not

know that any other consequences whatever will follow."

"He was stunned —" repeated Daisy.

"Yes."

The child did not say any more, yet her eyes of searching

eagerness plainly asked for fuller information. They were not

content nor at rest.

"Can't you have patience, and hope for other tidings

tomorrow?"

"May I? —" said Daisy.

"May you? Certainly. It was your mother's wish to send you

here — not mine. It was not needful; though if you could be

content, I think it would be well."

She looked a little relieved; very little.

"Now what are you doing? Am I to have two patients on my hand

in your family?"

"No, sir."

"What are you doing then, up so late? Watching the stars?"

"No, sir."

"I am your physician — you know you must tell me everything,

What were you about, Daisy?"

"Dr. Sandford," said Daisy, in difficulty how to speak, — "I

was seeking comfort."

And with the word, somehow, Daisy's self-restraint failed; her

head went down on the doctor's shoulder; and when she lifted

it up there were two or three tears that needed to be brushed

away. No more; but the doctor felt the slight little frame

tremble.

"Did you find comfort, Daisy?" he said, kindly. "I ask as your

physician; because if you are using wrong measures for that

end I shall forbid them. What were you doing to get comfort?"

"I did not want to go to sleep, sir."

"Daisy, I am going to carry you down to have some supper."

"Oh, I do not want any, Dr. Sandford!"

"Are you ready to go down?"

"No sir — in a minute, — I only want to brush my hair."

"Brush it, then."

Which Daisy did; then coming to her friend with a face as

smoothly in order as the little round head, she repeated

humbly, "I do not want anything, Dr. Sandford."

"Shall I carry you down?"

"Oh, no, sir."

"Come then. One way or the other. And Daisy, when we are down

stairs, and when you come up again, you must obey my orders."

The supper-table was laid. Mrs. Sandford expressed delight at

seeing Daisy come in, but it would maybe have been of little

avail had her kindness been the only force at work. It was

not. The doctor prescribed peaches and bread, and gave Daisy

grapes, and a little bit of cold chicken; and was very kind,

and very imperative too; and Daisy did not dare nor like to

disobey him. She eat the supper, which tasted good when he

made her eat it; and then was dismissed up stairs to bed, with

orders to go straight to sleep. And Daisy did as she was told.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SOMETHING WRONG.

The doctor's horse was before the door, and Daisy was on the

piazza. The doctor came out, ready for his day's work.

"Do you want me to do anything for you at Melbourne, Daisy?"

"Cannot I go home to-day, Dr. Sandford?"

"I do not know. Supposing that you be still kept in banishment

— what then?"

Daisy struggled with herself — succeeded, and spoke calmly. "I

should like to have Loupe sent, Dr. Sandford, if you please."

"Loupe? what is that? What is Loupe, Daisy?"

"My pony, sir. My pony-chaise."

"Oh! — Not to drive to Melbourne?"

Daisy met the doctor's blue eye full, and answered with

guileless submission.

"No, sir."

"I will send Loupe. By the way — Daisy, have you business on

hand?"

"Yes, sir."

"So much that you can do none for me?"

"Oh, no, sir. I have not a great deal of business. What may I

do, Dr. Sandford?"

"Can you go to Crum Elbow?"

"Yes, sir. I have got to go there."

"All right, then. Daisy, there is a poor family down by the

railway that were burnt out a night or two ago; they have lost

everything. The neighbours will have to supply them with a few

things. Will you go to the village and buy clothing for two

little children, six and seven years old? One is a girl, the

other a boy."

The doctor took out his pocket-book and began to look over

bank bills.

"Dresses, do you mean, Dr. Sandford? — and a boy's dress?"

"I mean, everything they need to put on — dresses and

petticoats, and jacket and trousers, and a shirt or two for

the boy. Here is money, Daisy; spend whatever you find

needful."

"But, Dr. Sandford —"

"Well?"

"I don't believe Mr. Lamb keeps those things ready made."

"I am sure he does not. Buy the stuff, Daisy — all the stuff —

we will see about getting it made afterwards. You can consult

my sister, Mrs. Sandford, about quantities and all that; or I

dare say the storekeeper can tell you."

So away went the doctor. Daisy felt in great need of

consulting somebody; but Mrs. Sandford was busy, and so

engaged that there was no chance for several hours. — Not

indeed before the pony chaise came; and Daisy resolved then to

wait no longer, but to do some other business first.

The news that she eagerly asked for from Melbourne was not

much when she got it. Sam knew little; he believed Mr.

Randolph was better, he said; but his tone of voice was not

very encouraging, and Daisy drove off to Juanita's cottage.

There was one person, she knew, who could feel with her; and

she went with a sort of eagerness up the grassy pathway from

the road to the cottage door, to get that sympathy.

Juanita was within, busy at some ironing. The work fell from

her hands, and the iron was set down with an expression of

pleasure as she saw Daisy come in. The next minute her tone

changed and her look.

"What ails my love?"

"Juanita —" said Daisy, standing still and pale by the ironing

table, — "haven't you heard? Papa —"

"What, Miss Daisy?"

"Papa — he was knocked off his horse yesterday — and they

won't let me see _him!_"

So far Daisy's power of composure went, and no further. With

that last word her voice failed. She threw her arms around

Juanita, and hiding her face in her gown, burst into such

tears as Daisy rarely shed at all; very rarely under any one's

observation. Juanita, very much startled, sat down and drew

the child into her arms, so far as she could; for Daisy had

sunk on her knees, and with her face in Juanita's lap was

weeping all her heart out. Mrs. Benoit hardly knew how to ask

questions.

"Why must not Miss Daisy see her papa?"

"I don't know! — I suppose — he's not well enough."

Juanita breathed more freely.

"Let us pray for him, Miss Daisy."

"Oh, yes, Juanita, do! —"

There was an intensity of meaning in these words and in

Daisy's hurried assuming of another place and posture to leave

Juanita free to kneel too, that almost took away the black

woman's power of speech. She read what was breaking the

child's heart; she knew what for was that suppressed cry of

longing. For a moment Juanita was silent. But she had long

known not only trouble but the Refuge from trouble; and to

that Refuge she now went, and carried Daisy. As one goes who

has often been there; who has many a time proved it a sure

Refuge; who knows it sure and safe and unfailing. So she

prayed; while Daisy's sobs at first were excessive, and then

by degrees calmed and quieted and ceased. They were quite

still before Juanita finished; and when they rose up from

their knees Daisy's face was composed again. Then she came and

stood with her hand on Juanita's shoulder, both of them

silent; till Daisy put her lips to the fine olive-dark cheek

of the old woman and kissed it. Juanita drew her into her

arms, and Daisy sat there, nestling and tired.

"Can Miss Daisy trust the Lord?"

"Trust Him, — how, Juanita."

"That He do no harm to His little child."

"Oh, it isn't _me_, Juanita —" Daisy said, with a very tender

and sad accent.

"When Joseph — my love knows the story — when he was sold away

from his father and home, to be servant of strangers far off —

maybe he thought it was hard times. But the Lord meant it for

good, and the father and the child came together again, in a

happy day."

Daisy rose up, or rather raised her head, and looked steadily

in her friend's face as if to see what this might mean.

"The Lord knoweth them that trust in Him," said the black

woman.

Daisy's head went down again; and there was a long silence. It

was broken at last by Juanita's offering her some refreshment;

and then Daisy started up to the business on hand. She

explained to Juanita where she was staying, and what she had

that morning to do. Meanwhile Juanita made her take some bread

and milk.

"So how much must I get, Juanita? can you tell me? how much

for two little frocks, and two little petticoats, and one suit

of boy's clothes?"

"My love knows, it must be accordin' to the stuff. If the

stuff narrow, she want more; if wide, she want less."

"Then you cannot tell me; — and Mrs. Sandford could not

either. And I cannot tell. What shall I do?"

"Mrs. Sandford maybe get the things for Miss Daisy."

"No, she must not. Dr. Sandford wants me to do it. I must get

them, Juanita."

"H'm! Suppose I put up my irons and walk round to the village

— and Miss Daisy go in her shay."

"To the store!" cried Daisy. "Oh, yes, Juanita; get ready, and

I will take you with me. Then you can tell me all about it."

Juanita demurred and objected to this proposal, but Daisy was

greatly pleased and would have it so. Mrs. Benoit put up her

ironing work, and arrayed her head in a new clean bright

handkerchief, wonderfully put on; she was ready then; and Sam

grinned to see the tall fine figure of the old coloured woman

sitting in the pony-chaise by the side of his little mistress.

It was as good to Daisy as anything could have been, that day.

They drove into Crum Elbow, went to the store; and there she

and Juanita had a pretty large morning's business in choosing

the various goods Dr. Sandford had desired Daisy to get. Daisy

got excited over it. Calico for a little frock, and muslin for

the underclothes, and stuff for the boy's jacket and trousers

and shirt; Juanita knew the quantities necessary, and Daisy

had only the trouble of choice and judgment of various kinds.

But that was a great responsibility, seeing she was doing it

for Dr. Sandford. It took a good while. Then Daisy drove

Juanita home again, gave her another kiss, and with her

carriage load of dry goods, and a tired and hungry little

body, went home to Mrs. Sandford's.

It was then pretty late in the day, and the doctor not come

in. Daisy dressed, and went down to the drawing-room to wait

for him. Not long this time. There was a certain air of calm

strength about Dr. Sandford's face and cool blue eye, that

Daisy loved; she felt she loved it now, as she saw him come

in; she trusted him. He spoke first to his brother and sister;

then came where Daisy was standing, sat down on the sofa and

placed her beside him.

"I have no bad news for you, Daisy," he said, kindly, — "and

not the good news neither that you are looking for. Your

father is no worse, though it will require several days to let

him recover from the immediate effects of his accident. The

quieter he is meanwhile the better."

"And mamma — she said? —"

"She said — yes, you have guessed it; she would like to have

you remain here for a few days longer. She thinks you are

better under my care than under hers."

"Under _my_ care, I think it is," said Mrs. Sandford.

"Can you bear it, Daisy?"

She looked up meekly, and answered, "Yes, Dr. Sandford." So

meekly that the doctor's eye took special note of her.

"Have you been to Crum Elbow to-day?"

"Yes, sir. I got all the things."

"All of them?"

"Yes, sir."

"What reward shall I give you?"

She had been speaking with a sad meekness, a sober self-

restraint, unlike her years. If Dr. Sandford meant to break it

up, which I think he did, he had partial success. Daisy looked

up and smiled at him. But yet it was a meek smile, and sad

even in its composed denial of any notion of reward. Not

satisfactory to the doctor.

"I always repay anybody that does me any service," he went on.

"Ought one always to do that?" said Daisy.

"What is your judgment?"

"I think _everybody_ could not."

"Why not?"

"Some people have nothing to pay with, — for things that are

done for them."

"I do not believe that."

"_Some_ people, Dr. Sandford?"

"Whom do you know in that condition — for instance?"

"Why, I — for instance."

"You! What cannot you pay for?"

"A great many things," said Daisy, slowly. "Hardly anything. I

am only a child."

"How is it about Molly Skelton? Does she pay you for the

various attentions she receives from you?"

"Pay me, Dr. Sandford! I do not want pay."

"You are very unlike me, then," said the doctor; "that is all

I have to say."

"Why, Dr. Sandford, what pay could she give me?"

"Don't you get any, then?"

"Why, no, sir," said Daisy, eagerly answering the doctor's

blue eye. "Except — yes, of course, I get a sort of pay; but

Molly does not — yes she does give it to me; but I mean, she

does not mean to pay me."

The doctor smiled, one of those rare pleasant smiles, that

showed his white teeth in a way that Daisy liked; it was only

a glimmer.

"What sort of pay is that? — which she gives, and does not

mean to give, and you take and do not ask for?"

"Oh! — _that_ sort of pay!" said Daisy. "Is it that sort you

mean, Dr. Sandford?"

"That is one sort."

"But I mean, is it the sort that you always give, you say?"

"Always, when people deserve it. And then, do you not think it

is natural to wish to give them, if you can, some other sort

of pay?"

"I think it is," said Daisy, sedately.

"I am glad you do not disapprove of it."

"But I do not think people _want_ that other kind of pay, Dr.

Sandford."

"Perhaps not. I suppose it is a selfish gratification of

oneself to give it."

Daisy looked so earnestly and so curiously at him, as if to

see what all this was about, that the doctor must have had

good command of his lips not to smile again.

They went in to dinner just then and the conversation stopped.

But though not talked to, Daisy was looked after; and when she

had forgotten all about dinner, and was thinking mournfully of

what was going on at home, a slice of roast beef or a nice

peach would come on her plate with a word from the doctor —

"You are to eat that, Daisy" — and though he said no more,

somehow Daisy always chose to obey him. At last they went into

the drawing-room again, and were drinking coffee. Daisy was

somewhat comforted; she thought Dr. Sandford did not act as if

there were anything very dreadful the matter at home.

"Daisy," said the doctor, "you have done work for me to-day —

would you object to be paid?"

Daisy looked up smiling; it dependied on what the pay might

be, she thought; but she said nothing.

"Would it be violently against your principles?"

"I do not want pay, Dr. Sandford."

"Not if I were to offer to give you a sight of those little

baskets on the frond of the Marchantia?"

Daisy's face all changed; but she said in the quietest manner,

"Can you do that, Dr. Sandford?"

"Come with me."

He held out his hand, which Daisy willingly took, and they

went upstairs together. Just short of her room the doctor

stopped, and turned into his own. This was a very plain

apartment; there was no beauty of furniture, though it struck

Daisy there was a great deal of something. There were boxes,

and cabinets, and shelves full of books and boxes, and book-

cases, and one or two tables. Yet it was not a pretty-looking

room, like the others in Mrs. Sandford's house. Daisy was a

little disappointed. The doctor, however, gave her a chair,

and then brought one of the unlikely deal boxes to the table

and opened it. Daisy forgot everything. There appeared a

polished, very odd brass machine, which the doctor took out

and spent some time in adjusting. Daisy patiently looked on.

"Do you know what this is, Daisy?"

"No, sir."

"It is a microscope. And looking through this, you will see

what you could not see with your two eyes alone; there are

some strong magnifying glasses here — and I found to-day some

plants of Marchantia growing in a sheltered place. Here is one

of the baskets for you —"

"Is it on that bit of green leaf?"

"Yes, but you can see nothing there. Try this view."

He stood back and helped Daisy to take a kneeling position in

her chair, so that her eye could reach the eye-piece of the

microscope. Daisy looked, took her eye away to give a

wondering glance of inquiry at her friend's face, and then

applied it to the microscope again; a pink hue of delight

actually spreading over her poor little pale cheeks. It was so

beautiful, so wonderful. Again Daisy took her eye away to

examine out of the glass the coarse little bit of green leaf

that lay upon the stand; and looked back at the show in the

microscope with a bewitched mind. It seemed as if she could

never weary of looking from one to the other. The doctor bade

her take her own time, and Daisy took a good deal.

"What stuffs did you buy this morning?" the doctor asked.

Daisy drew back from the microscope.

"I got all you told me, sir?"

"Exactly. I forget what that was."

"I bought a little piece of red and green linsey-woolsey for a

frock for the little girl — and some brown strong stuff for

the boy's suit; and then white muslin to make things for the

girl, and blue check for the boy's shirt."

"Just right. Did your money hold out?"

"Oh, I had three dollars and two shillings left, Dr. Sandford.

Two shillings and sixpence, I believe."

"You did well." The doctor was arranging something else in the

microscope. He had taken out the bit of liverwort.

"I had Juanita to help me," said Daisy.

"How do you suppose I am going to get all those things made

up?" said the doctor.

"Won't Mrs. Sandford attend to it?"

"Mrs. Sandford has her own contribution to attend to. I do not

wish to give her mine too."

"Cannot the children's mother make the things?"

The doctor's lip curled in funny fashion.

"They have no mother, I think. There is an old aunt, or

grandmother, or something, that does _not_ take care of' the

children. I shall not trust the business certainly to her."

Daisy wondered a little that Mrs. Sandford, who was so good-

natured, could not do what was needful; but she said nothing.

"I think I shall turn over the whole thing in charge to you,

Daisy."

"But, Dr. Sandford, what can _I_ do?"

"Drive down with me to-morrow and see how big the children

are, and then have the things made."

"But I am afraid I do not know enough."

"I dare say you can find out. _I_ do not know enough — that is

very certain; and I have other things to attend to besides

overseeing mantua-makers."

"Our seamstress could do it, — if I could see her."

"Very well, then some other seamstress can. Now, Daisy — you

may look at this."

"What a beautiful thing! But what is it, Dr. Sandford?"

"What does it look like?"

"It does not look like anything that I ever saw."

"It is a scale from a butterfly's wing."

"Why, it is as large as a small butterfly," said Daisy.

The doctor showed her where the little scale lay, so little

that she could hardly see it out of the glass; and Daisy went

back to the contemplation of its magnified beauty with immense

admiration. Then her friend let her see the eye of a bee, and

the tongue of a fly, and divers other wonders, which kept

Daisy busy until an hour which was late for her. Busy and

delightfully amused.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

BREAKING UP.

One day passed after another, and Daisy looked longingly for

her summons home, and still she did not receive it. Her fears

and agonies were somewhat quieted; because Dr. Sandford

assured her that her father was getting better; but he never

said that her father was well, or that he had not been very

ill. Daisy knew that the matter had been very serious that had

prevented her being at Melbourne all these days. Her

imaginings of evil were doubtful and dim; but it seemed to her

that her father himself would have commanded her presence in

all ordinary circumstances; and a doubt like an ice-wind

sometimes swept over her little spirit, whether he could be

too ill to know of her absence! No word that could be said

would entirely comfort Daisy while this state of things

lasted; and it was very well for her that she had a wise and

energetic friend watching over her welfare, in the meanwhile.

If business could keep her from pining and hinder her from too

much imagining, Dr. Sandford took care that she had it. He

contrived that she should indeed oversee the making of the

dresses for the poor children, and it was a very great charge

for Daisy. A great responsibility; it lay on her mind for

days, and gave occasion for a number of drives to Crum Elbow

and to Juanita's cottage. Then at evening, after hearing her

report progress, the doctor would take Daisy up to his room

and show her many a wonder and beauty that little Daisy had

never dreamed of before; and the friendship between the two

grew closer than ever.

"Grant, you are a good fellow!" said Mrs. Sandford one night.

"I do not know what I should do with that child, if it were

not for you."

"You would do nothing. She would not be here if it were not

for me."

"I do not suppose, however, that your care for her is dictated

by a conscientious regard for that fact. It is good of you."

"She is my patient, Mrs. Sandford."

"Yes, yes; _im_patient would be the word with some young men."

"I am glad you do not class me with such young men."

"Well, no child ever gave less cause for impatience, I will

say that. Nor had more. Poor child! How she looks at you every

day when you come home! But I suppose you doctors get hard

hearts."

Dr. Sandford's lips curled a little into one of the smiles

that Daisy liked, but he said nothing.

Daisy did look hard at her friend those days, but it was only

when he came home. So she was not expecting anything the next

morning when he said to her, "Daisy — will you take a ride

with me?"

Daisy looked up. The doctor was sitting by the breakfast-

table, poring over a newspaper. Breakfast was done, and Daisy

herself busy with a book. So she only answered, "If you

please, Dr. Sandford."

"Where shall we go?"

Daisy looked surprised. "I supposed you had business, sir."

"So I have. I am going to visit a patient. Perhaps you would

like to make the visit with me."

"To one of your patients, Dr. Sandford?"

"Yes, one. Not more than one. But I think that one would like

to see you."

A light came into Daisy's face, and colour started upon her

cheeks, almost painfully.

"Dr. Sandford — do you mean—"

"I think so, Daisy," said her friend, quietly. "It will do no

harm, — if you are a good child."

He was so quiet, that it stilled Daisy's feeling, which else

might have been impetuous. There was danger of that, as the

child's eye and cheek bore witness. But she only said, "I'll

get ready, Dr. Sandford —" and went off in orderly style till

she reached the hall, and was out of sight. Then Daisy's feet

made haste up the stairs. In three minutes she was back again,

with her hat and gloves in her hand.

The doctor threw down his newspaper and drew her up to him.

"Daisy, can you be quiet?"

"I think so, Dr. Sandford."

"I think so too; therefore I tell you beforehand that I wish

it. Your father has not fully recovered his strength yet; and

it would not be good for him to be excited. You will be very

glad to see him, and he will be very glad to see you; that is

quite enough; and it would be too much, if you were to show

him how glad you are."

Daisy said nothing, but she thought within herself she could

not do that!

"Can you command yourself, Daisy?"

"I will try, Dr. Sandford."

"You _must_ do it — for my sake," added the doctor.

"Dr. Sandford," said Daisy, "was that what you meant?"

"When?"

"When you said, if I was a good child?"

"It must have been that I meant, I think. I could have said it

in no other connection."

"The pony-chaise, ma'am, for Miss Randolph —" said a servant

at the door.

"The chaise may go away again, Daisy, I suppose," said Mrs.

Sandford. "You will not want it."

"Yes, she will," said the doctor, — "to drive to Melbourne.

Go, Daisy, since you are ready; I will follow you. That little

waddling fellow can be overtaken without any great

difficulty."

"Do you want me to drive slowly, sir?"

"Not at all," said the doctor; "only drive well, for I shall

come and see."

If ever a little pride in her driving accomplishments had

lodged in Daisy's mind, she certainly did not feel it that

afternoon. She drove without knowing very well how she drove;

she did not think of Dr. Sandford's criticism, or admiration;

what she thought of, was the miles of the road to Melbourne.

They were not very many, and unconsciously the eager spirit in

Daisy's fingers made itself known to Loupe's understanding,

through the medium of the reins. He travelled better than

usual, so that they were not more than half way from Melbourne

when the doctor's gig overtook them. And then Loupe went

better yet.

"Remember, Daisy, and keep quiet —" said the doctor, as he

took her out of the chaise. Daisy trembled, but she followed

him steadily through the hall and up the stairs, and into her

father's room. Then she went before him, yet even then she

went with a moderated step, and stood by her father's couch at

last, silent and breathless. Breathless with the very effort

she made to keep silent and quiet. With excitement too; for

Mr. Randolph was looking feeble and pale, more than Daisy had

ever seen him, and it frightened her. He was not in bed, but

on a sofa; and as Daisy came to his side he put out his arm

and drew his little daughter close to him. Without a word at

first and Daisy stooped her lips to his, and then stood hiding

her face on his shoulder; perfectly quiet, though trembling

with contained emotion, and not daring to say anything, lest

she should say too much.

"Daisy," said her father, — "Daisy, — do you know I have been

ill?"

There was a little, little tone of surprise or disappointment

in the voice. Daisy felt it, knew it, but what could she do?

She was afraid to speak, to say anything. She turned her face

a little to Dr. Sandford; he saw an agony struggling in the

eye that appealed to him. This was not what he wanted.

"She knows it almost too well," he said, coming to the rescue;

"I have been her gaoler all these days; — a severe one."

"Are you glad to see me, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph.

Daisy half raised herself, half glanced at his face, and

turning from him threw herself upon Dr. Sandford's arm with a

cry, and gave way to a deep passion of weeping. Deep and

still; her sobs could not but be heard, but they were kept

under as much as the heaving of that little breast could bear.

Mr. Randolph's pale face flushed; and the doctor saw that his

precautions had been too good.

"Why, Daisy!" he said, lightly, "is this your self-command?"

"Let me have her —" said Mr. Randolph. "Self-command is a good

thing, doctor; but people may have too much of it."

And getting hold of Daisy's hand, which the doctor brought

within his reach, he again drew the sobbing child to his

breast and folded her close in both his arms. The sobs were

very soon hushed; but during all the rest of the doctor's

visit, and through all the conversation that took place, Daisy

and her father never changed their position. The conversation

indeed was not much, being confined to a few quiet questions

and answers and remarks; and then Dr. Sandford took his

departure, leaving Daisy very unconscious of his movements. He

only waved his hand to Mr. Randolph, with a smile at Daisy who

did not see him.

"Daisy — my darling —" said Mr. Randolph, when he was gone.

"Papa! —" came in a whisper.

"What is the matter?"

Daisy lifted her face from its resting-place and kissed, with

kisses that were like velvet, first one side of her father's

mouth, and then the other.

"Papa — Dr. Sandford told me I must keep quiet."

"Well, you shall," said Mr. Randolph. "That is right enough.

You shall keep quiet, and I will go to sleep."

So he did. But he did not loose his hold of Daisy; and she

lay, still as happiness could make her, with her head upon his

breast. She knew, she was conscious, that he must be very

feeble yet, to go to sleep in that way; but she was with him

again, and in his arms, and her heart was so full of joy that

it could do nothing but overflow in silent thanksgivings and

prayers. Daisy would not have stirred till he did, no matter

how long it might have been; but there came an interruption. A

door opened, and Mrs. Randolph appeared on the threshold, and

so soon as she saw Daisy, beckoned her to come to another

room. Mr. Randolph's arms had relaxed their hold somewhat, and

Daisy obeyed the signal, and left him.

Her mother wanted then to know all the story of her days at

Mrs. Sandford's; and Daisy had a good deal to tell. That is,

Mrs. Randolph's questionings made it so. Daisy herself would

not have had it a long story. Then she must see June, and

Joanna; and then came dinner. It was not till the afternoon

was well passed that the call came for her to go to her father

again. Daisy had watched and waited for it; her mother had

forbidden her to go in without it. At last she was sent for,

and Daisy sprang away.

Mrs. Randolph was there.

"No noise! — remember," she said, lifting her finger as Daisy

came in. Daisy came near slowly. Her father held out his hand

to her, and folded her in his arms again.

"You are such a noisy child!" he said, — "your mother does

wisely to warn you."

"She is an excitable child," — said Mrs. Randolph; — "and I

think you want warning too."

"We will keep each other quiet," said Mr. Randolph.

The lady looked on, with what seemed a doubtful eye. Nobody

watched it. Her husband's eyes were often closed; Daisy's

little head lay on his breast, quiet enough, unless when she

moved it to give soft noiseless kisses to her father's cheek.

They remained so a good while, with scarce any word spoken;

and Mrs. Randolph was busy at her tetting. The light faded;

the evening drew on.

"It is time for Daisy's tea." It was the first thing that

broke a long silence.

"She and I will have it together," said Mr. Randolph.

"Will that be best for you, Mr. Randolph?"

"I hope so."

"I doubt it."

"Most things in this world are doubtful," said Mr. Randolph;

"but we will try."

"Will you choose to have tea now, then?"

"Now? — no."

"This is Daisy's time."

"Very well. She must wait for my time."

Not a word did Daisy say; only little alternate throbs of joy

and fear, as her father or her mother spoke, passed through

her heart. Mrs. Randolph gave it up; and there was another

hour of quiet, very sweet to Daisy. Then lights were brought,

and again Mrs. Randolph proposed to have the tea served; but

again Mr. Randolph negatived her proposal; and things remained

as they were. At last Mrs. Randolph was summoned to preside at

the tea-table downstairs; for even now there were one or two

guests at Melbourne. Then there was a stir in the room

upstairs. The tray came with Mr. Randolph's supper; and Daisy

had the delight of sharing it, and of being his attendant in

chief. He let her do what she would; and without being

unquiet, Daisy and her father enjoyed themselves over that

entertainment.

"Now I think I could bear a little reading," said Mr.

Randolph, as he laid his head back on his couch.

"What, papa?" said Daisy, a sudden hope starting into some

dark corner of her heart, almost without her knowing it.

"What? — what you please."

"Shall I read what I like, papa?"

"Yes. If I do not like it, I will tell you."

Daisy ran away and flew through the rooms to her own, and

there hastily sought her Bible. She could not wait to get

another; she took her own and ran back softly with it. Her

father's languid eye watched the little white figure coming

towards him, book in hand; the gentle, eager step, the slight

flush on the cheek; till she took her seat beside him.

"What have you got there, Daisy?" he asked.

"Papa — my Bible."

"Well — what are you going to read?"

"I don't know, papa —" said Daisy, doubtfully. What would come

next?

"Do you remember your picture, the 'Game of Life'?"

"Yes, papa."

"Do you remember your talk about good and evil spirits?"

"Yes, sir."

"Find me the grounds of your philosophy."

Daisy thought what that might mean, and guessed at it. She

turned to the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, a favourite

chapter, and read the parable of the sheep and the goats. The

servant had withdrawn; Daisy and her father were alone. There

was a moment's pause when she had done.

"Is that all?" said Mr. Randolph.

"That is all of _this_, papa."

"There is nothing there about the rejoicings of the good

spirits," — said Mr. Randolph.

Daisy's fingers trembled, she hardly knew why, as she turned

over the leaves to find the place. Her father watched her.

"Are you sure it is there, Daisy?"

"Oh, yes, papa — it is in the story of the man with a hundred

sheep — I will find it directly."

So she did, and read the parable in the fifteenth chapter of

Luke. Her father listened with shut eyes, while the child's

voice gave the words in a sort of sweet clear gravity.

" 'Then drew near unto Him all the publicans and sinners for to

hear Him. And the Pharisees and scribes murmured, saying, This

man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them. And he spake this

parable unto them, saying, What man of you, having an hundred

sheep, in he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and

nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until

he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his

shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth

together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice

with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost. I say unto

you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that

repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which

need no repentance. Either what woman having ten pieces of

silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and

sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And

when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her

neighbours together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found

the piece which I had lost. Likewise I say unto you, there is

joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that

repenteth.' "

There Daisy stopped, and there was silence. Presently her

father opened his eyes. He saw that hers were full, but they

were not looking at her book, neither at him; they were gazing

away at the light, with an intent, very serious expression.

"Daisy! —" said her father.

She came back instantly to a sweet happy look at him.

"What were you studying?"

"Papa! — I was thinking —"

"What were you thinking."

"I was thinking, papa," said Daisy, unwillingly, — "how

strange it is that anybody should try to _hide himself from

God_."

She started a little and rose up, for her mother stood on the

other side of the light now. Mrs. Randolph's voice was a note

belonging to another chord.

"Daisy, it is your bedtime."

"Yes, mamma."

Mr. Randolph made no attempt to hinder his wife's arrangements

this time. Daisy exchanged a very tender good-night with him

and then went away. But she went away very happy. She thought

she saw good days coming.

There were good days that followed — that one, for a while.

Daisy's readings and sweet companionship with her father were

constant, and grew sweeter as he grew stronger. But the

strengthening process was not rapid. About a fortnight had

passed, when Mrs. Sandford one day made enquiry about it of

her brother-in-law.

"Slow work —" said the doctor.

"He will get over it, won't he?"

"I hope he will."

"But cannot anything be done for him, Grant?"

"He is going to do the best thing. He is going to Europe."

"To Europe! — This winter?"

"Now, in a few weeks, or less."

"It will be good for your pet Daisy."

"Doubtfully —" said the doctor, with a very complicated

expression of face; but he was taking off his boot at the

moment, and maybe it pinched him. "She will not go."

"Not go! Daisy! Does not her mother go?"

"Yes."

"And not Daisy? Why not Daisy."

"She gives so much trouble —" said the doctor.

"Trouble! — I thought her parents were so fond of her."

"Mr. Randolph is unequal to any agitation; and Mrs. Randolph

regulates everything."

"But wouldn't it be good for Daisy?"

"I think so."

"Poor child! What will they do with her?"

"Send her to a Southern plantation, under care of a governess,

as I understand."

"It will half kill Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford.

"It takes a great deal to kill people," said the doctor.

"I do not know how to believe you," said the lady. "Is it all

fixed and settled, Grant?"

"They leave Melbourne next week."

THE END

BUTLER & TANNER, THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS, FROME, AND

LONDON