Daisy pondered over the doctor's counsel. It was friendly; but she
hardly thought well advised. He did not know her father and mother so
well as she did. Yet she went to find out Logan that afternoon on her
return from the drive, and saw the rose-bush laid by the heels; with
perhaps just a shadow of hope in her heart that her friend the doctor
might mean to put in a plea for her somewhere. The hope faded when she
got back to the house, and the doctor was gone, and Mrs. Randolph's
handsome face looked its usual calm impassiveness. What use to ask her
such a thing as leave to go to the cripple's cottage? No use at all,
Daisy knew. The request alone would probably move displeasure. Every
look at her mother's face settled this conviction more and more deeply
in Daisy's mind; and she ended by giving up the subject. There was no
hope. She could do nothing for any poor person, she was sure, under her
mother's permission, beyond carrying soup and jelly in her pony chaise
and maybe going in to give it. And that was not much; and there were
very few poor people around Melbourne that wanted just that sort of
attention.
So Daisy gave up her scheme. Nevertheless next morning it gave her a
twinge of heart to see her rose-bush laid by the heels, exactly like her
hopes. Daisy stood and looked at it. The sweet half-blown rose at the
top of the little tree hung ingloriously over the soil, and yet looked
so lovely and smelt so sweet; and Daisy had hoped it might win poor
Molly Skelton's favour, or at least begin to open a way for it to come
in due time.
"So ye didn't get your bush planted--" said Logan coming up.
"No."
"Your hands were not strong enough to make the hole deep for it, Miss
Daisy?"
"Yes, I think they could; but I met with an interruption yesterday,
Logan."
"Weel--it'll just bide here till ye want it."
Daisy wished it was back in its old place again; but she did not like to
say so, and she went slowly back to the house. As she mounted the piazza
steps she heard her father's voice. He was there before the library
windows.
"Come here, Daisy. What are you about?" he said drawing her up in his
arms.
"Nothing, papa."
"How do you like doing nothing?"
"Papa, I think it is not at all agreeable."
"You do! So I supposed. What were you about yesterday afternoon?"
"I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Did that occupy the whole afternoon?"
"O no, papa."
"Were you doing nothing the rest of the time?"
"No sir, not _nothing_."
"Daisy, I wish you would be a little more frank. Have you any objection
to tell me what you were doing?"
"No, papa;--but I did not think it would give you any pleasure. I was
only trying to do something."
"It would give me pleasure to have you tell about it."
"I must tell you more then, papa." And standing with her arm on her
father's shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains on the other side
of the river, Daisy went on.
"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw
one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is a cripple. Papa,
her legs and feet are all bent up under her, so that she cannot walk at
all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on
her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt."
"That is your idea of extreme misery, is it not, Daisy?"
"Papa, do you not think it is--it must be--very uncomfortable?"
"Very, I should think."
"But that is not her worst misery. Papa, she is all alone; the
neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with her. She is
all alone by night and by day; and she is disagreeable in her temper, I
believe, and she has nobody to love her and she loves nobody."
"Which of those two things is the worst, Daisy?"
"What two things, papa?"
"To love nobody, or to have nobody to love her?"
"Papa--I do not know." Then remembering Juanita, Daisy suddenly
added,--"Papa, I should think it must be the worst to love nobody."
"Do you? Pray why?"
"It would not make her happy, I think, to have people love her if she
did not love them."
"And you think loving others would be better, without anybody to give
love back?"
"I should think it would be very hard!"--said Daisy with a most profound
expression of thoughtfulness.
"Well--this poor cripple, I understand, lacks both those conditions of
happiness?"
"Yes, papa."
"What then? You were going to tell me something about her."
"Not much about _her_" said Daisy, "but only about myself."
"A much more interesting subject to me, Daisy."
You could only see the faintest expression of pleasure in the line of
Daisy's lips; she was looking very sober and a trifle anxious.
"I only thought, papa, I would try if I could not do something to make
that poor woman happier."
"What did you try?"
"The first thing was to get her to know me and like me, you know, papa;
because she is rather cross and does not like people generally, I
believe."
"So you went to see her?"
"I have never spoken much to her, papa. But I went inside of her gate
one day, and saw her trying to take care of some poor flowers; so then I
thought, maybe, if I took her a nice little rose-bush, she might like
it."
"And then like you? Well--you tried the experiment?"
"No, papa. I did get a rose-bush from Logan and he told me how to plant
it; and I was on my way to the cottage and had almost got there; and
then I recollected mamma had said I must not speak to anybody without
her leave."
"So you came home?"
"Yes, papa. No, papa, I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Have you asked leave of your mother?"
"No, papa,"--said Daisy, in a tone of voice which sufficiently expressed
that she did not intend it.
"So my dear little Daisy," said her father drawing his arm round her a
little more closely--"you think a rose-bush would serve instead of
friends to make this poor creature happy?"
"O no, papa!"
"What was the purpose of it, then?"
"Only--to get her to like me, papa."
"What were _you_ going to do to make her happy?"
"Papa, if you lived in such a place, in such a way, wouldn't you like to
have a friend come and see you sometimes?"
"Certainly!--if you were the friend."
"I thought--by and by--she might learn to like it," Daisy said in the
most sedately meek way possible. Her father could not forbear a smile.
"But Daisy, from what you tell me, I am at a loss to understand the part
that all this could have had in _your_ happiness."
"O papa--she is so miserable!" was Daisy's answer. Mr. Randolph drew her
close and kissed her.
"_You_ are not miserable?"
"No, papa--but--"
"But what?"
"I would like to give her a little bit of comfort."
There was much earnestness, and a little sorrow, in Daisy's eyes.
"I am not sure that it is right for you to go to such places."
"Papa, may I shew you something?" said the child with sudden life.
"Anything, Daisy."
She rushed away; was gone a full five minutes; then came softly to Mr.
Randolph's shoulder with an open book in her hand. It was Joanna's
Bible, for Daisy did not dare bring her own; and it was open at these
words--
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."
"What does this mean, Daisy? It seems very plain; but what do I want
with it?"
"Only, papa, that is what makes me think it is right."
"What is right?"
"To do this, papa."
"Well but, are you in want of somebody to come and make you happy?"
"O no, papa--but if I were in her place, then I should be."
"Do you suppose this commands us to do in every case what we would like
ourselves in the circumstances?"
"Papa--I suppose so--if it wouldn't be something wrong."
"At that rate, I should have to let you go with your rose-bush," said
Mr. Randolph.
"O papa!" said Daisy, "do you think, if you asked her, mamma would
perhaps say I might?"
"Can't tell, Daisy--I think I shall try my powers of persuasion."
For answer to which, Daisy clasped her arms round his neck and gave him
some very earnest caresses, comprised in one great kiss and a clinging
of her little head in his neck for the space of half a minute. It meant
a great deal; so much that Mr. Randolph was unable for the rest of the
day to get rid of a sort of lingering echo of Daisy's Bible words; they
haunted him, and haunted him with a strange sense of the house being at
cross purposes, and Daisy's line of life lying quite athwart and
contrary to all the rest. "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto
you;"--who else at Melbourne considered that for one moment?
However, Mr. Randolph had a fresh talk with his wife; the end of which
was that he gave Daisy leave to do what she liked in the matter of Molly
Skelton; and was rewarded on the spot by seeing the pink tinge which
instantly started into the pale cheeks.
No lack of energy had Daisy for the rest of that day. She went off first
to see what was the condition of her rose-bush; pretty fair; lying by
the heels seemed to agree with it quite well. Then the pony chaise was
ordered and a watering pot of water again; much to the boy's disgust who
was to carry it; and Daisy took her dinner with quiet satisfaction. So
soon as the afternoon had become pleasantly cool, Daisy's driving gloves
and hat went on, the chaise was summoned, and rose-bush and all she set
forth on her expedition. Mr. Randolph watched her off, acknowledging
that certainly for the present the doctor was right; whether in the
future Mrs. Randolph would prove to have been right also, he was
disagreeably uncertain. Still, he was not quite sure that he wished
Daisy anything other than she was.
Troubled by no fears or prognostications, meanwhile, the pony chaise and
its mistress went on their way. No, Daisy had no fears. She did doubt
what Molly's immediate reception of her advances might be; her first
experience bade her doubt; but the spirit of love in her little heart
was overcoming; it poured over Molly a flood of sunny affections and
purposes, in the warmth and glow of which the poor cripple's crabbedness
and sourness of manner and temper were quite swallowed up and lost.
Daisy drove on, very happy and thankful, till the little hill was
gained, and slowly walking up it Loupe stopped, nothing loth, before the
gate of Molly Skelton's courtyard.
A little bit of hesitation came over Daisy now, not about what was to be
done, but how to do it. The cripple was in her flowery bit of ground,
grubbing around her balsams as usual. The clear afternoon sunbeams shone
all over what seemed to Daisy all distressing together. The ragged
balsams--the coarse bloom of prince's feather and cockscomb--some
straggling tufts of ribband grass and four-o'clocks and marigolds--and
the great sunflower nodding its head on high over all; while weeds were
only kept away from the very growth of the flowers and started up
everywhere else, and grass grew irregularly where grass should not; and
in the midst of it all the poor cripple on her hands and knees in the
dirt, more uncared-for, more unseemly and unlovely than her little plot
of weeds and flowers. Daisy looked at her, with a new tide of tenderness
flowing up in her heart, along with the doubt how her mission should be
executed or how it would be received; then she gave up her reins, took
the rose-tree in her hands, and softly opened the little wicket gate.
She went up the path and stood beside the cripple, who hearing the gate
shut had risen from her grubbing in the earth and sat back looking at
who was coming. Daisy went on without hesitation now. She had prayed out
all her prayer about it before setting out from home.
"I have brought you a rose-bush," she said simply. "Do you like roses?
this is very sweet. I thought maybe you would like a rose. Where would
you like to have it go?"
The answer was a very strange sort of questioning
grunt--inarticulate--nevertheless expressive of rude wonder and
incredulity, as far as it expressed anything. And Molly stared.
"Where shall I put this rose-tree?" said Daisy. "Where would it look
prettiest? May I put it here, by these balsams?"
No answer in words; but instead of a sign of assent, the cripple after
looking a moment longer at Daisy and the rose-tree, put her hand beyond
the balsams and grubbed up a tuft of what the country people call
"creepin' Charley;" and then sitting back as before, signified to Daisy
by a movement of her hand that the rose-bush might go in that place.
That was all Daisy wanted. She fell to work with her trowel, glad enough
to be permitted, and dug a hole, with great pains and some trouble; for
the soil was hard as soon as she got a little below the surface. But
with great diligence Daisy worked and scooped, till by repeated trials
she found she had the hole deep enough and large enough; and then she
tenderly set the roots of the rose-tree in the prepared place and shook
fine soil over them, as Logan had told her; pressing it down from time
to time, until the job was finished and the little tree stood securely
planted. A great feat accomplished. Daisy stayed not, but ran off to the
road for the watering pot, and bringing it with some difficulty to the
spot without soiling herself, she gave the rose-bush a thorough
watering; watered it till she was sure the refreshment had penetrated
down to the very roots. All the while the cripple sat back gazing at
her; gazing alternately at the rose-bush and the planting, and at the
white delicate frock the child wore and the daintily neat shoes and
stockings, and the handsome flat hat with its costly riband. I think
the view of these latter things must in some degree have neutralized the
effect of the sweet rose looking at her from the top of the little bush;
because Molly on the whole was not gracious. Daisy had finished her work
and set down her empty watering pot, and was looking with great
satisfaction at the little rose-bush; which was somewhat closely
neighboured by a ragged bunch of four-o'clocks on one side and the
overgrown balsams on the other; when Molly said suddenly and gruffly,
"Now go 'long!"------
Daisy was startled, and turned to the creature who had spoken to see if
she had heard and understood aright. No doubt of it. Molly was not
looking at her, but her face was ungenial; and as Daisy hesitated she
made a little gesture of dismissal with her hands. Daisy moved a step or
two off, afraid of another shower of gravel upon her feet.
"I will come to-morrow and see how it looks"--she said gently.
Molly did not reply yes or no, but she repeated her gesture of
dismissal, and Daisy thought it best and wisest to obey. She bid her a
sweet "good bye," to which she got no answer, and mounted into her
chaise again. There was a little disappointment in her heart; yet when
she had time to think it all over she was encouraged too. The rose-tree
was fairly planted; that would keep on speaking to Molly without the
fear of a rebuff; and somehow Daisy's heart was warm towards the gruff
old creature. How forlorn she had looked, sitting in the dirt, with her
grum face!
"But perhaps she will wear a white robe in heaven!"--thought Daisy.
Seeing that the rose-tree had evidently won favour, Daisy judged she
could not do better than attack Molly again on her weak side, which
seemed to be the love of the beautiful!--in one line at least. But Daisy
was not an impatient child; and she thought it good to see first what
sort of treatment the rose-bush got, and not to press Molly too hard. So
the next day she carried nothing with her; only went to pay a visit to
the garden. Nothing was to be seen but the garden; Molly did not shew
herself; and Daisy went in and looked at the rose. Much to her
satisfaction, she saw that Molly had quite discarded the great bunch of
four-o'clocks which had given the little rose tree no room on one side;
they were actually pulled up and gone; and the rose looked out in fair
space and sunshine where its coarse-growing neighbour had threatened to
be very much in its way. An excellent sign. Molly clearly approved of
the rose. Daisy saw with great pleasure that another bud was getting
ready to open and already shewing red between the leaves of its green
calyx; and she went home happy.
Next morning she went among the flower beds, and took a very careful
survey of all the beauties there to see what best she might take for her
next attack upon Molly. The beauties in flower were so very many and so
very various and so delicious all to Daisy's eye, that she was a good
deal puzzled. Red and purple and blue and white and yellow, the beds
were gay and glorious. But Daisy reflected that anything which wanted
skill in its culture or shelter from severities of season would
disappoint Molly, because it would not get from her what would be
necessary to its thriving. Some of the flowers in bloom, too, would not
bear transplanting. Daisy did not know what to do. She took Logan into
her confidence, so far as she could without mentioning names or
circumstances.
"Weel, Miss Daisy," said the gardener, "if ye're bent on being a Lady
Flora to the poor creature, I'll tell ye what ye'll do--ye'll just take
her a scarlet geranium."
"A geranium?" said Daisy.
"Ay. Just that."
"But it would want to be in the greenhouse when winter comes."
"Any place where it wouldn't freeze," said Logan. "You see, it'll be in
a pot e'en now, Miss Daisy--and you'll keep it in the pot; and the pot
you'll sink in the ground till frost comes; and when the frost comes,
it'll just come up as it is and go intil the poor body's house, and make
a spot of summer for her in her house till summer comes again."
"O Logan, that is an excellent thought!"
"Ay, Miss Daisy--I'm glad ye approve it."
"And than she would have the flowers all winter."
"Ay--if she served it justly."
The only thing now was to choose the geranium. Daisy was some time about
it, there were so many to choose from. At last she suited herself with a
very splendid new kind called the "Jewess"--a compact little plant with
a store of rich purple-red blossoms. Logan murmured as he took up the
pot in which it was planted--"Less than the best will never serve ye,
Miss Daisy"--but he did not grumble about it after all, and Daisy was
content.
She was very content when she had got it in her pony chaise and was
driving off, with the magnificent purple-red blossoms at her feet. How
exquisitely those delicate petals were painted, and marked with dashes
of red and purple deeper than the general colour. What rich clusters of
blossoms. Daisy gave only half an eye to her driving; and it was not
till she had almost reached Melbourne gate that she discovered her
trowel had been forgotten. She sent her attendant back for it and
waited.
Loupe was always willing to stand, lazy little fat fellow that he was;
and Daisy was giving her undivided attention to the purple "Jewess,"
with a sort of soft prayer going on all the while in her heart that her
errand might be blessed; when she was suddenly interrupted.
"Why where are you going, Daisy?"
"Where have you been, Preston?" said Daisy as suddenly drawing up.
"Little Yankee!" said Preston. "Answer one question by another in that
fashion? You mustn't do it, Daisy. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. I am waiting."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"I am going to drive."
"Do you usually carry a pot of geraniums for company?"
"No, not usually," said Daisy smiling at him.
"Well set out the pot of geraniums, and we will have a glorious ride,
Daisy. I am going to the Fish's, to see some of Alexander's traps; and
you shall go with me."
"O Preston--I am sorry; I cannot."
"Why?"
"I cannot this afternoon."
"Yes, you can, my dear little Daisy. In fact you _must_. Consider--I
shall be going away before very long, and then we cannot take rides
together. Won't you come?"
"Not now--I cannot, Preston! I have got something to do first."
"What?"
"Something which will take me an hour or two. After that I could go."
"Scarcely, this afternoon. Daisy, it is a long drive to the Fish's. And
they have beautiful things there, which you would like to see, I know
you would. Come! go with me--that's my own little Daisy."
Preston was on horseback, and looked very much in earnest. He looked
very gay and handsome too, for he was well mounted and knew how to
manage himself and his horse. He wanted to manage Daisy too; and that
was difficult. Daisy would have been tempted, and would have gone with
him at the first asking; but the thought of Molly and her forlornness,
and the words warm at her heart--"Whatsoever ye would that men should do
to you"--and a further sense that her visitations of Molly were an
extraordinary thing and very likely to be hindered on short notice, kept
her firm as a rock. She had an opportunity now in hand; she would not
throw it away; not for any self-gratification. And to tell the truth, no
sort of self-gratification could balance for a moment in Daisy's mind
the thought of Molly's wearing a crown of gold in heaven. That crown of
gold was before Daisy's eyes; nothing else was worth a thought in
comparison.
"Are you going to see that wretched old being?" said Preston at last.
"Yes."
"Daisy--dear Daisy--I do not know what to do with you. Do you like, is
it possible that you can like, dirt and vulgarity?"
"I don't think I do," Daisy said gently; "but Preston, I like the poor
_people_."
"You do!" said Preston. "Then it is manifest that you cannot like me."
And he dashed spurs into his horse and sprung away, with a grace and
life that kept Daisy looking after him in admiration, and a plain mood
of displeasure which cast its shadow all over her spirit.
"Here is the trowel, Miss Daisy."
Her messenger had come back, and Daisy recalled to the business in hand
took up her reins again and drove on; but she felt deeply grieved. Now
and then her gauntleted hand even went up to her face to brush away a
tear that had gathered. It was not exactly a new thing, nor was Daisy
entirely surprised at the attempt to divert her from her purpose. She
was wise enough to guess that Preston's object had been more than the
pleasure of her company; and she knew that all at home, unless possibly
her father might be excepted, neither liked nor favoured her kindness to
Molly and would rejoice to interrupt the tokens of it. All were against
her; and Daisy's hand, went up again and again. "It is good I am weak
and not very well," she thought; "as soon as I grow strong mamma will
not let me do this any more. I must do all I can now."
So she came to the cripple's gate; and by that time the tears were all
gone.
Nobody was in the little courtyard; Daisy went in first to see how the
rose looked. It was all safe and doing well. While she stood there
before it, the cottage door opened and the poor inmate came out. She
crawled down the walk on hands and knees till she got near Daisy, and
then sat back to look at her.
"What do you want?" she said, in a most uninviting and ungracious tone
of voice.
"I came to see you," said Daisy, venturing to let her eyes rest for the
first time on those poor, restless, unloving eyes opposite her--"and I
wanted to see the rose, and I have brought you another flower--if you
will let me bring it in."
Her words were sweet as honey. The woman looked at her, and answered
again with the unintelligible grunt, of unbelieving wonder, which Daisy
had heard once before. Daisy thought on the whole the safest way was not
to talk but to fetch her beautiful "Jewess" flowers to speak for
themselves. So she ran off and brought the pot and set it on the ground
before Molly. It was a great attraction; Daisy could see that at once.
The cripple sat back gazing at it. Daisy prudently waited till her eyes
came round again from the flowers and rested on her little visiter's
face.
"Where shall I put it?" said Daisy. "Where would you like to have it
go?"
Molly's eyes presently followed hers, roaming over the little flower
plot in search of room for the geranium, which did not appear; prince's
feather and marigolds so choked up the ground where balsams did not
straggle over it. Molly looked as Daisy did at the possibilities of the
case, looked again at the strange sweet little face which was so busy in
her garden; and then made a sudden movement. With two or three motions
of hands and knees she drew herself a few steps back to one of the
exclusive bunches of balsams, and began with her two hands to root it
up. Actually she was grubbing, might and main, at the ungainly stalks of
the balsams, pulling them up as fast as she could and flinging them
aside, careless where. Daisy came to help with her trowel, and together
they worked, amicably enough but without a word, till the task was done.
A great space was left clear, and Molly threw herself back in her wonted
position for taking observations. Daisy wasted no time. In hopeful
delight she went on to make a hole in the ground in which to sink the
pot of geraniums. It was more of a job than she thought, and she dug
away stoutly with her trowel for a good while before she had an
excavation sufficient to hold the pot. Daisy got it in at last; smoothed
the surface nicely all round it; disposed of the loose soil till the bed
was trim and neat, as far as that was concerned; and then stood up and
spoke. Warm,--how warm she was! her face was all one pink flush, but she
did not feel it, she was so eager.
"There," she said, "that will stand there nicely; and when the cold
weather comes, you can take the pot up and take it into the house, just
as it is; and if you do not let it freeze, it will have flowers for you
in the winter."
"Cold?" said Molly.
"Yes--by and by, when the cold weather comes, this must be taken up. The
cold would kill it, if it was cold enough to freeze. It would have to go
in the house. The rose can stay out all winter if you like; but this
must be kept warm. This is a geranium. And it will give you flowers in
the winter."
"J'anium?" said Molly.
"Yes. This is called the 'Jewess'--there are so many kinds that they
have to be named. This is the 'Jewess' geranium."
"Water?"--said Molly.
"Water? No, this does not need water, because the roots are in a pot,
you know, and have not been disturbed. It will want water if rain don't
come, by and by."
"What's you?" was Molly's next question, given with more directness.
"Me? I am Daisy Randolph. And I love flowers; and you love flowers. May
I come and see you sometimes? Will you let me?"
Molly's grunt this time was not unintelligible. It was queer, but there
was certainly a tone of assent in it. She sat looking now at the
"Jewess" blossoms and now at Daisy.
"And I love Jesus," the child went on. "Do you love him?"
The grunt was of pure question, in answer to this speech. Molly did not
understand. Daisy stooped down to face her on more equal terms.
"There is a great King up in heaven, who loves you, Molly. He loves you
so well that he died for you. And if you love him, he will take you
there when you die and give you a white robe and a crown of gold, and
make you blessed."
It is impossible to describe the simple earnestness of this speech.
Daisy said it, not as a philosopher nor as even a preacher would have
done; she said it as a child. As she had received, she gave. The utter
certainty and sweetness of her faith and love went right from one pair
of eyes to the other. Nevertheless, Molly's answer was only a most
ignorant and blank, "What?"--but it told of interest.
"Yes," said Daisy. "Jesus loved us so well that he came and died for
us--he shed his blood that we might be forgiven our sins. And now he is
a Great King up in heaven; and he knows all we do and all we think; and
if we love him he will make us good and take us to be with him, and give
us white robes and crowns of gold up there. He can do anything, for he
raised up dead people to life, when he was in the world."
That was a master-stroke of Daisy's. Molly's answer was again a grunt of
curiosity; and Daisy, crouching opposite to her, took up her speech and
told her at length and in detail the whole story of Lazarus. And if
Daisy was engaged with her subject, so certainly was Molly. She did not
stir hand or foot; she sat listening movelessly to the story, which came
with such loving truthfulness from the lips of her childish teacher. A
teacher exactly fitted, however, to the scholar; Molly's poor closed-up
mind could best receive any truth in the way a child's mind would offer
it; but in this truth, the undoubting utterance of Daisy's love and
belief won entrance for her words where another utterance might not.
Faith is always catching.
So Daisy told the wonderful story, and displayed the power and love and
tenderness of the Lord with the affection of one who knew him _her_
Lord, and almost with the zeal of an eye-witness of his work. It was
almost to Daisy so; it seemed to her that she had beheld and heard the
things she was telling over; for faith is the substance of things not
seen; and the grief of the sisters, and their joy, and the love and
tenderness of the Lord Jesus, were all to her not less real than they
were to the actors in that far distant drama. Molly heard her
throughout, with open mouth and marvelling eyes.
Neither of them had changed her position, and indeed Daisy had scarce
finished talking, when she heard herself hailed from the road. She
started. Preston was there on horseback, calling to her. Daisy got up
and took up her trowel.
"Good bye," she said, with a little sigh for the lost vision which
Preston's voice had interrupted--"I'll come again, I hope." And she ran
out at the gate.
"It is time for you to go home, Daisy. I thought you did not know how
late it is."
Daisy mounted into her pony chaise silently.
"Have I interrupted something very agreeable?"
"You would not have thought it so," said Daisy diplomatically.
"What were you doing, down there in the dirt?"
"Preston, if you please, I cannot talk to you nicely while you are so
high and I am so low."
Preston was certainly at some height above Daisy, being mounted up in
his saddle on a pretty high horse, while the pony chaise was hung very
near the ground. He had been beside her; but at her last words he
laughed and set off at a good pace in advance, leaving the chaise to
come along in Loupe's manner. Daisy drove contentedly home through the
afternoon sunlight, which laid bands of brightness across her road all
the way home. They seemed bands of joy to Daisy.
Preston had gallopped ahead and was at the door ready to meet her. "What
kept you so long at that dismal place?" he asked as he handed her out of
the chaise.
"You were back very soon from the Fish place, I think," said Daisy.
"Yes--Alexander was not at home; there was no use in my staying. But
what were you doing all that while, Daisy?"
"It was not so very long," said Daisy. "I did not think it was a long
time. You must have deceived yourself."
"But do you not mean to tell me what you were about? What _could_ you
do, at such a place?"
Daisy stood on the piazza, in all the light of the afternoon sunbeams,
looking and feeling puzzled. How much was it worth while to try to tell
Preston of her thoughts and wishes?
"What was the attraction, Daisy? only tell me that. Dirt and ignorance
and rudeness and disorder--and you contented to be in the midst of it!
Down in the dirt! What was the attraction?"
"She is very unhappy, Preston."
"I don't believe it. Nonsense! All that is not misery to such people,
unless you make it so by shewing them something different. Marble tables
are not the thing for them, Daisy."
"Marble tables!" echoed Daisy.
"Nor fuchsias and geraniums either. That old thing's old flowers do just
as well."
Daisy was silent. She could have answered this. Preston went on.
"She won't be any better with her garden full of roses and myrtles, than
she is with her sunflowers now. What do you expect to do, little Daisy?"
"I know what I would like if I were in her place," said Daisy.
"_You_,--but she is not you. She has not your tastes. Do you mean to
carry her a silver cup and fork, Daisy? You would certainly like that,
if you were in her place. Dear little Daisy, don't you be a mad
philosopher."
But Daisy had not been thinking of silver cups and forks, and she was
not misled by this argument.
"Daisy, do you see you have been under a mistake?"
"No, Preston,"--she said looking up at him.
"Daisy, do you think it is _right_ for you to go into houses and among
people where my uncle and aunt do not wish you to go? You know they do
not wish it, though they have given consent perhaps because you were so
set upon it."
Daisy glanced behind her, at the windows of the library; for they were
at the back entrance of the house; and then seizing Preston's hand and
saying, "Come with me," she drew him down the steps and over the grass
till she reached one of the garden seats under the trees, out of hearing
of any one. There they sat down; Preston curious, Daisy serious and even
doubtful.
"Preston"--she began with all her seriousness upon her,--"I wish I had
the book here, but I will tell you. When the Lord Jesus comes again in
glory, and all the angels with him, he will have all the people before
him, and he will separate them into two sets. One will be on the right
and one on the left. One set will be the people that belong to him, and
the other set will be the people that do not belong to him. Then he will
welcome the first set, and bless them, because they have done things to
the poor and miserable such as they would have liked to have done to
themselves. And he will say--'Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the
least of these, ye have done it unto me.'" Daisy's eyes were full of
water by this time.
"So you are working to gain heaven, Daisy?" said Preston, who did not
know how to answer her.
"O no!" said the child. "I don't mean that."
"Yes, you do."
"No,--that would be doing it for oneself, not for the Lord Jesus"--said
Daisy gravely looking at Preston.
"Then I don't see what you mean by your story."
"I mean only, that Jesus likes to have us do to other people what we
would want in their place."
"Suppose you were in my aunt and uncle's place--do you not think you
would like to have a little daughter regard their wishes?"
Daisy looked distressed.
"I think it is time to go in and get ready for dinner, Preston," she
said.
If she was distressed, Preston was displeased. They went in without any
more words. But Daisy was not perplexed at all. She had not told
Preston her innermost thought and hope--that Molly Skelton might learn
the truth and be one of that blessed throng on the right hand in the
Great Day; but the thought and hope were glowing at her heart; and she
thought she must carry her Master's message, if not positively
forbidden, to all whom she could carry it to. Preston's meditations were
different.
"I have tried my best," he said that evening when Daisy was gone to
bed,--"and I have failed utterly. I tried my best--and all I got was a
rebuke and a sermon."
"A sermon!" said Mrs. Randolph.
"An excellent one, aunt Felicia. It was orderly, serious, and pointed."
"And she went to that place?"
"Yes, ma'am. The sermon was afterwards."
"What do you mean, Preston! Speak intelligibly."
"Daisy did, ma'am. I am speaking sober truth, aunt Felicia."
"What is her motive in going to that horrid place? can you understand?"
"Its disagreeableness, ma'am--so far as I can make out."
"It is very singular," said Mrs. Gary.
"It is very deplorable." said Mrs. Randolph. "So at least it seems to
me. There will be nothing in common soon between Daisy and her family."
"Only that this kind of thing is apt to wear out, my dear. You have that
comfort."
"No comfort at all. You do not know Daisy. She is a persistent child.
She has taken a dose of fanaticism enough to last her for years."
"I am sure nevertheless that Dr. Sandford is right in his advice," said
Mr. Randolph;--"both as a physician and as a philosopher. By far the
best way is not to oppose Daisy, and take as little notice as possible
of her new notions. They will fade out."
"I do not believe it," said the lady "I do not believe it in the least.
If she had not your support, I would have an end of this folly in a
month."
"Indirect ways"--said Mrs. Gary--"indirect ways, my dear; those are your
best chance. Draw off Daisy's attention with other things. That is what
I would do."
And then the ladies put their heads together and concerted a scheme;
Preston joining eagerly in the discussion, and becoming the
manager-in-chief intrusted with its execution. Mr. Randolph heard, but
he gave no help and made no suggestion. He let the ladies alone.