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Melbourne House

by Susan Warner · English · Gutenberg #18686 · 978,561 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Melbourne House

Author: Susan Warner


        
Release date: June 26, 2006 [eBook #18686]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18686


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELBOURNE HOUSE ***


Warner, Susan, 1819-1885, Melbourne House, 1864, Ward Lock edition 1907.

Produced by Daniel FROMONT


MELBOURNE HOUSE


BY
ELIZABETH WETHERELL

AUTHOR OF "WIDE, WIDE WORLD."


"Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be
pure, and whether it be right." - _Prov. xx. 11_


LONDON

WARD LOCK AND C° LIMITED

1907


CONTENTS


CHAPTER I. DAISY'S QUESTION

CHAPTER II. THE PONY-CHAISE

CHAPTER III. THE BIRTHDAY

CHAPTER IV. THE HAM

CHAPTER V. STRAWBERRIES

CHAPTER VI. THE EPERGNE

CHAPTER VII. A SOLDIER

CHAPTER VIII. GEOGRAPHY

CHAPTER IX. AFTER TROUT

CHAPTER X. A FIELD OF BATTLE

CHAPTER XI. THE WOUNDED HAND

CHAPTER XII. THE HUNDRED DOLLARS

CHAPTER XIII. OBEDIENCE

CHAPTER XIV. SUNDAY EVENING

CHAPTER XV. SCHROEDER'S MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER XVI. JUANITA'S COTTAGE

CHAPTER XVII. THE LITTLE CONFESSOR

CHAPTER XVIII. WONDERFUL THINGS

CHAPTER XIX. THE DOCTOR

CHAPTER XX. SUN AND MOON

CHAPTER XXI. TEA AT HOME

CHAPTER XXII. BEING ROBBED

CHAPTER XXIII. THE MAP OF ENGLAND

CHAPTER XXIV. THE PICNIC PARTY

CHAPTER XXV. A SHOWER

CHAPTER XXVI. DAISY'S SUPPER

CHAPTER XXVII. RANSOM AND FIDO

CHAPTER XXVIII. MRS. GARY'S PRESENT

CHAPTER XXIX. THE ROSEBUSH

CHAPTER XXX. MOLLY'S GARDEN

CHAPTER XXXI. THE PICTURES

CHAPTER XXXII. THE BASKET OF SPONGE-CAKE

CHAPTER XXXIII. SATIN AND FEATHERS

CHAPTER XXXIV. CHARITY AND VANITY

CHAPTER XXXV. QUEEN ESTHER

CHAPTER XXXVI. TABLEAUX VIVANTS

CHAPTER XXXVII. AN ACCIDENT

CHAPTER XXXVIII. SOMETHING WRONG

CHAPTER XXXIX. BREAKING UP



CHAPTER I.

DAISY'S QUESTION.


A little girl was coming down a flight of stairs that led up
from a great hall, slowly letting her feet pause on each
stair, while the light touch of her hand on the rail guided
her. The very thoughtful little face seemed to be intent on
something out of the house, and when she reached the bottom,
she still stood with her hand on the great baluster that
rested on the marble there, and looked wistfully out of the
open door. So the sunlight came in and looked at her; a little
figure in a white frock and blue sash, with the hair cut short
all over a little round head, and a face not only just now
full of some grave concern, but with habitually thoughtful
eyes and a wise little mouth. She did not seem to see the
sunlight which poured all over her, and lit up a wide, deep
hall, floored with marble, and opening at the other end on
trees and flowers, which showed the sunlight busy there too.
The child lingered wistfully. Then crossed the hall, and went
into a matted, breezy, elegant room, where a lady lay
luxuriously on a couch, playing with a book and a leaf-cutter.
She could not be _busy_ with anything in that attitude. Nearly
all that was to be seen was a flow of lavender silk flounces,
a rich slipper at rest on a cushion, and a dainty little cap
with roses on a head too much at ease to rest. By the side of
the lavender silk stood the little white dress, still and
preoccupied as before — a few minutes without any notice.

"Do you want anything, Daisy?"

"Mamma, I want to know something."

"Well, what is it?"

"Mamma" — Daisy seemed to be engaged on a very puzzling
question — "what does it mean to be a Christian?"

"_What?_" said her mother, rousing herself up for the first
times to look at her.

"To be a Christian, mamma?"

"It means, to be baptised and go to church, and all that,"
said the lady, turning back to her book.

"But mamma, that isn't all I mean."

"I don't know what you mean. What has put it into your head?"

"Something Mr. Dinwiddie said."

"What absurd nonsense! Who is Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"You know him. He lives at Mrs. Sandford's."

"And where did he talk to you?"

"In the little school in the woods. In his Sunday-school.
Yesterday."

"Well, it's absurd nonsense, your going there. You have
nothing to do with such things. Mr. Randolph? —"

An inarticulate sound, testifying that he was attending, came
from a gentleman who had lounged in and was lounging through
the room.

"I won't have Daisy go to that Sunday-school any more, down
there in the woods. Just tell her she is not to do it, will
you? She is getting her head full of the most absurd nonsense.
Daisy is just the child to be ruined by it."

"You hear, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, indolently, as he
lounged finally out of the room by an open window; which, as
did all the windows in the room, served for a door also. By
the door by which she had entered, Daisy silently withdrew
again, making no effort to change the resolution of either of
her parents. She knew it would be of no use; for excessively
indulgent as they both were in general, whenever they took it
upon them to exercise authority, it was unflinchingly done.
Her father would never even hear a supplication to reconsider
a judgment, especially if pronounced at the desire of her
mother. So Daisy knew.

It was a disappointment, greater than anybody thought or would
have guessed, that saw her. She went out to the large porch
before the door, and stood there, with the same thoughtful
look upon her face, a little cast down now. Still she did not
shed tears about the matter, unless one time when Daisy's hand
went up to her brow rather quick, it was to get rid of some
improper suggestion there. More did not appear, either before
or after the sudden crunching of the gravel by a pair of light
wheels, and the coming up of a little Shetland pony, drawing a
miniature chaise.

"Hollo, Daisy! come along; he goes splendidly!"

So shouted the driver, a boy somewhat bigger than Daisy.

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere — down to the church, if you'll be quick. Never mind
your hat!"

He waited, however, while Daisy dashed into the house and out
again, and then stepped into the low chaise beside him. Then
the eager intimation was given to the pony, which set off as
if knowing that impatience was behind him. The smooth, wide,
gravelled road was as good and much better than a plank
flooring; the chaise rolled daintily on under the great trees;
the pony was not forgetful, yet ever and anon a touch of his
owner's whip came to remind him, and the fellow's little body
fairly wriggled from side to side in his efforts to get on.

"I wish you wouldn't whip him so." said Daisy, "he's doing as
well as he can."

"What do girls know about driving!" was the retort from the
small piece of masculine science beside her.

"Ask papa," said Daisy, quietly.

"Well, what do they know about horses, anyhow!"

"I can _see_," said Daisy, whose manner of speech was somewhat
slow and deliberate, and in the choice of words, like one who
had lived among grown people. "I can observe."

"See that, then!" — And a cut, smarter than ordinary, drove
the pony to his last legs, namely, a gallop. Away they went;
it was but a short-legged gallop after all; yet they passed
along swiftly over the smooth gravel road. Great, beautiful
trees overshadowed the ground on either side with their long
arms; and underneath, the turf was mown short, fresh and
green. Sometimes a flowering bush of some sort broke the
general green with a huge spot of white or red flowers;
gradually those became fewer, and were lost sight of; but the
beautiful grass and the trees seemed to be unending. Then a
gray rock here and there began to show itself. Pony got
through his gallop, and subsided again to a waddling trot.

"This whip's the real thing," said the young driver,
displaying and surveying it as he spoke; "that _is_ a whip now,
fit for a man to use."

"A man wouldn't use it as you do," said Daisy. "It is cruel."

"That's what _you_ think. I guess you'd see papa use a whip once
in a while."

"Besides, you came along too fast to see anything."

"Well, I told you I was going to the church, and we hadn't
time to go slowly. What did you come for?"

"I suppose I came for some diversion," said Daisy, with a
sigh.

"Ain't Loupe a splendid little fellow?"

"Very; I think so."

"Why, Daisy, what ails you? there is no fun in you to-day.
What's the matter?"

"I am concerned about something. There is nothing the matter."

"Concerned about Loupe, eh!"

"I am not thinking about Loupe. Oh, Ransom! stop him; there's
Nora Dinwiddie; I want to get out."

The place at which they were arrived had a little less the air
of carefully kept grounds, and more the look of a sweet wild
wood; for the trees clustered thicker in patches, and grey
rock, in large and in small quantities, was plenty about among
the trees. Yet still here was care; no unsightly underbrush or
rubbish of dead branches was anywhere to be seen; and the
greensward, where it spread, was shaven and soft as ever. It
spread on three sides around a little church, which, in green
and gray, seemed almost a part of its surroundings. A little
church, with a little quaint bell-tower and arched doorway,
built after some old, old model; it stood as quietly in the
green solitude of trees and rocks, as if it and they had grown
up together. It was almost so. The walls were of native
greystone in its natural roughness; all over the front and one
angle the American ivy climbed and waved, mounting to the
tower; while at the back, the closer clinging Irish ivy
covered the little "apse," and creeping round the corner, was
advancing to the windows, and promising to case the first one
in a loving frame of its own. It seemed that no carriage-road
came to this place, other than the dressed gravelled path
which the pony-chaise had travelled, and which made a circuit
on approaching the rear of the church. The worshippers must
come humbly on foot; and a wicket in front of the church led
out upon a path suited for such. Perhaps a public road might
be not far off, but at least here there was no promise of it.
In the edge of the thicket, at the side of the church, was the
girl whose appearance Daisy had hailed.

"I sha'n't wait for you," cried her brother, as she sprang
down.

"No — go — I don't want you," — and Daisy made few steps over
the greensward to the thicket. Then it was, "Oh, Nora! how do
you do? what are you doing?" — and "Oh, Daisy! I'm getting
wintergreens." Anybody who has ever been nine, or ten, or
eleven years old, and gone in the woods looking for
wintergreens, knows what followed. The eager plunging into the
thickest of the thicket; the happy search of every likely bank
or open ground in the shelter of some rock; the careless,
delicious straying from rock to rock, and whithersoever the
bank or the course of the thicket might lead them. The
wintergreens sweet under foot, sweet in the hands of the
children, the whole air full of sweetness. Naturally their
quest led them to the thicker and wilder grown part of the
wood; prettier there, they declared it to be, where the ground
became broken, and there were ups and downs, and rocky dells
and heights, and to turn a corner was to come upon something
new. They did not note nor care where they went, intent upon
business and pleasure together, till they came out suddenly
upon a little rocky height, where a small spot was shaded with
cedars and set with benches around and under them. The view
away off over the tops of the trees to other heights and hills
in the distance was winningly fair, especially as the sun
showed it just now in bright, cool light and shadow. It was
getting near sundown.

"Look where we are!" cried Nora, "at the Sunday-school!"

Daisy seated herself without answering.

"I think," went on Nora, as she followed the example, "it is
the very prettiest place for a Sunday-school that there ever
was."

"Have you been in other Sunday-schools?" asked Daisy.

"Yes, in two."

"What were they like?"

"Oh, they were in a church, or in some sort of a room. I like
being out-of-doors best; don't you?"

"Yes, I think so. But was the school just like this in other
things?"

"Oh, yes; only once I had a teacher who always asked us what
we thought about everything. I didn't like that."

"What you thought about everything?" said Daisy.

"Yes; every verse and question, she would say, 'What do you
think about it?' and I didn't like that, because I never
thought anything."

Whereat Daisy fell into a muse. Her question recurred to her;
but it was hardly likely, she felt, that her little companion
could enlighten her. Nora was a bright, lively, spirited
child, with black eyes and waves of beautiful black hair;
neither at rest; sportive energy and enjoyment in every
motion. Daisy was silent.

"What is supposed to be going on here?" said a stronger voice
behind them, which brought both their heads round. It was to
see another head just making its way up above the level of
their platform; a head that looked strong and spirited as the
voice had sounded; a head set with dark hair, and eyes that
were too full of light to let you see what colour they were.
Both children came to their feet, one saying, "Marmaduke!" the
other, "Mr. Dinwiddie!"

"What do two such mature people do when they get together? I
should like to know," said the young man as he reached the
top.

"Talking, sir," said Daisy.

"Picking wintergreens," said the other, in a breath.

"Talking! I dare say you do. If both things have gone on
together, like your answers," said he, helping himself out of
Nora's stock of wintergreens, — "you must have had a basket of
talk."

"_That_ basket isn't full, sir," said Daisy.

"My dear," said Mr. Dinwiddie, diving again into his sister's,
"that basket never is; there's a hole in it somewhere."

"You are making a hole in mine," said Nora, laughing. "You
sha'n't do it, Marmaduke; they're for old Mrs. Holt, you
know."

"Come along, then," said her brother; "as long as the baskets
are not full the fun isn't over."

And soon the children thought so. Such a scrambling to new
places as they had then; such a harvest of finest wintergreens
as they all gathered together; till Nora took off her sun-
bonnet to serve for a new basket. And such joyous, lively,
rambling talk as they had all three, too; it was twice as good
as they had before; or as Daisy, who was quiet in her
epithets, phrased it, "it was nice." By Mr. Dinwiddie's help
they could go faster and further than they could alone; he
could jump them up and down the rocks, and tell them where it
was no use to waste their tine in trying to go.

They had wandered, as it seemed to them, a long distance —
they knew not whither — when the children's exclamations
suddenly burst forth, as they came out upon the Sunday-school
place again. They were glad to sit down and rest. It was just
sundown, and the light was glistening, crisp and clear, on the
leaves of the trees and on the distant hill-points. In the
west a mass of glory that the eye could not bear was sinking
towards the horizon. The eye could not bear it, and yet every
eye turned that way.

"Can you see the sun?" said Mr. Dinwiddie.

"No, sir," — and "No, Marmaduke."

"Then why do you look at it?"

"I don't know!" laughed Nora; but Daisy said: "Because it is
so beautiful, Mr. Dinwiddie."

"Once when I was in Ireland," said the gentleman, "I was
looking, near sunset, at some curious old ruins. They were
near a very poor little village where I had to pass the night.
There had been a little chapel or church of some sort, but it
had crumbled away; only bits of the walls were standing, and
in place of the floor there was nothing but grass and weeds,
and one or two monuments that had been under shelter of the
roof. One of them was a large square tomb in the middle of the
place. It had been very handsome. The top of it had held two
statues, lying there with hands upraised in prayer, in memory
of those who slept beneath. But it was so very old — he
statues had been lying there so long since the roof that
sheltered them was gone, that they were worn away so that you
could only just see that they had been statues; you could just
make out the remains of what had been the heads and where the
hands had been. It was all rough and shapeless now."

"What had worn the stone so?" asked Daisy.

"The weather — the heat and the cold, and the rain, and the
dew."

"But it must have taken a great while?"

"A very great while. Their names were forgotten — nobody knew
whose monument or what church had been there."

"More than a hundred years?" asked Nora.

"It had been many hundred."

"Oh, Duke!"

"What's the matter? Don't you believe that people died many
hundred years ago?"

"Yes; but —"

"And they had monuments erected to them, and they thought
their names would live forever; but these names were long
gone, and the very stone over their grave was going. While I
sat there, thinking about them, and wondering what sort of
people they were in their lifetime, the sun, which had been
behind a tree, got lower, and the beams came striking across
the stone and brightening up those poor old worn heads and
hands of what had been statues. And with that the words rushed
into my head, and they have never got out since, — '_Then_ shall
the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their
Father.' "

"When, Mr. Dinwiddie?" said Daisy, after a timid silence.

"When the King comes!" said the young man, still looking off
to the glowing west, — "the time when He will put away out of
His kingdom all things that offend Him. You may read about it,
if you will, in the thirteenth chapter of Matthew, in the
parable of the tares."

He turned round to Daisy as he spoke, and the two looked
steadily into one another's faces; the child wondering very
much what feeling it could be that had called an additional
sparkle into those bright eyes the moment before, and brought
to the mouth, which was always in happy play, an expression of
happy rest. He, on his part, queried what lay under the
thoughtful, almost anxious, search of the little one's quiet
grey eyes.

"Do you know," he said, "that you must go home? The sun is
almost down."

So home they went — Mr. Dinwiddie and Nora taking care of
Daisy quite to the house. But it was long after sundown then.

"What has kept you?" her mother asked, as Daisy came in to the
tea-table.

"I didn't know how late it was, mamma."

"Where have you been?"

"I was picking wintergreens with Nora Dinwiddie."

"I hope you brought me some," said Mr. Randolph.

"Oh, I did, papa; only I have not put them in order yet."

"And where did you and Nora part?"

"Here, at the door, mamma."

"Was she alone?"

"No, ma'am — Mr. Dinwiddie found us in the wood, and he took
her home, and he brought me home first."

Daisy was somewhat of a diplomatist. Perhaps a little natural
reserve of character might have been the beginning of it, but
the habit had certainly grown from Daisy's experience of her
mother's somewhat capricious and erratic views of her
movements. She could not but find out that things which to her
father's sense were quite harmless and unobjectionable, were
invested with an unknown and unexpected character of danger or
disagreeableness in the eyes of her mother; neither could
Daisy get hold of any chain of reasoning by which she might
know beforehand what would meet her mother's favour and what
would not. The unconscious conclusion was, that reason had
little to do with it; and the consequence, that without being
untrue, Daisy had learned to be very uncommunicative; about
her thoughts, plans, or wishes. To her mother, that is; she
was more free with her father, though the habit, once a habit,
asserted itself everywhere. Perhaps, too, among causes, the
example of her mother's own elegant manner of showing truth
only as one shows a fine picture, — in the best light, — might
have had its effect. Daisy's diplomacy served her little on
the present occasion.

"Daisy!" said her mother, "look at me." Daisy fixed her eves
on the pleasant, handsome, mild face. "You are not to go
anywhere in future where Mr. Dinwiddie is. Do you understand?"

"If he finds you lost out at night, though," said Mr.
Randolph, a little humorously, "he may bring you home."

Daisy wondered and obeyed, mentally, in silence; making no
answer to either speaker. It was not her habit either to show
her dismay on such occasions, and she showed none. But when
she went up an hour later to be undressed for bed, instead of
letting the business go on, Daisy took a Bible and sat down by
the light and pored over a page that she had found.

The woman waiting on her, a sad-faced mulatto, middle-aged and
respectable- looking, went patiently round the room, doing or
seeming to do some trifles of business, then stood still and
looked at the child, who was intent on her book.

"Come, Miss Daisy," said she at last, "wouldn't you like to be
undressed?"

The words were said in a tone so low they were hardly more
than a suggestion. Daisy gave them no heed. The woman stood
with dressing gown on her arm and a look of habitual endurance
upon her face. It was a singular face, so set in its lines of
enforced patience, so unbending. The black eyes were bright
enough, but without the help of the least play of those fixed
lines, they expressed nothing. A little sigh came from the
lips at last, which also was plainly at home there.

"Miss Daisy, it's gettin' very late."

"June, did you ever read the parable of the tares?"

"The what, Miss Daisy?"

"The parable about the wheat and the tares in the Bible — in
the thirteenth chapter of Matthew?"

"Yes, ma'am," — came somewhat dry and unwillingly from June's
lips, and she moved the dressing-gown on her arm
significantly.

"Do you remember it?"

"Yes, ma'am, — I suppose I do, Miss Daisy —"

"June, when do you think it will be?"

"When will what, Miss Daisy?"

"When the 'Son of Man shall send forth His angels, and they
shall gather out of His kingdom all things that offend and
them which do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of
fire; there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Then shall
the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their
Father.' It says, 'in the end of this world' — did you know
this world would come to an end, June?"

"Yes, Miss Daisy —"

"When will it be, June?"

"I don't know, Miss Daisy."

"There won't be anybody alive that is alive now, will there?"

Again unwillingly the answer came: "Yes, ma'am. Miss Daisy,
hadn't you better —"

"How do you know, June?"

"I have heard so — it's in the Bible — it will be when the
Lord comes."

"Do you like to think of it, June?"

The child's searching eyes were upon her. The woman half
laughed, half answered, and turning aside, broke down and
burst into tears.

"What's the matter, June?" said Daisy, coming nearer and
speaking awedly; for it was startling to see that stony face
give way to anything but its habitual formal smile. But the
woman recovered herself almost immediately, and answered as
usual: "It's nothing, Miss Daisy." She always spoke as if
everything about her was "nothing" to everybody else.

"But, June," said Daisy, tenderly, "why do you feel bad about
it?"

"I shouldn't, I s'pose," said the woman desperately, answering
because she was obliged to answer; "I hain't no right to feel
so — if I felt ready."

"How can one be ready, June? That is what I want to know.
Aren't you ready?"

"Do, don't, Miss Daisy! — the Lord have mercy upon us!" said
June under her breath, wrought up to great excitement, and
unable to bear the look of the child's soft grey eyes. "Why
don't ye ask your papa about them things? he can tell ye."

Alas, Daisy's lips were sealed. Not to father or mother would
she apply with any second question on this subject. And now
she must not ask Mr. Dinwiddie. She went to bed, turning the
matter all over and over in her little head.


CHAPTER II.

THE PONY-CHAISE.


For some days after this time, Mrs. Randolph fancied that her
little daughter was less lively than usual; she "moped," her
mother said. Daisy was not moping, but it was true she had
been little seen or heard; and then it was generally sitting
with a book in the Belvedere or on a bank under a rose-bush,
or going out or coming in with a book under her arm. Mrs.
Randolph did not know that this book was almost always the
Bible, and Daisy had taken a little pains that she should not
know, guessing somehow that it would not be good for her
studies. But her mother thought Daisy was drooping; and Daisy
had been a delicate child, and the doctor had told them to
turn her out in the country and "let her run;" therefore it
was that she was hardly ever checked in any fancy that came
into her head. But therefore it was partly, too, that Mrs.
Randolph tried to put books and thinking as far from her as
she could.

"Daisy," she said one morning at the breakfast-table, "would
you like to go with June and carry some nice things down to
Mrs. Parsons?"

"How, mamma?"

"How what? Do speak distinctly."

"How shall I go, I mean?"

"You may have the carriage. I cannot go, this morning or this
afternoon."

"Oh, papa, mayn't I take Loupe and drive there myself?"

If Daisy had put the question at the other end of the table,
there would have been an end of the business, as she knew. As
it was, her father's "yes" got out just before her mother's
"no."

"Yes she may," said Mr. Randolph — "no harm. John, tell Sam
that he is to take the black pony and go with the pony-chaise
whenever Miss Daisy drives. Daisy, see that he goes with you."

"Well," said Mrs. Randolph, "you may do as you like, but I
think it is a very unsafe proceeding. What's Sam? — he's a
boy."

"Safe enough," said Mr. Randolph. "I can trust all three of
the party; Daisy, Loupe, and Sam. They all know their
business, and they will all do it."

"Well! — I think it is very unsafe," repeated Mrs. Randolph.

"Mamma," said Daisy, when she had allowed a moment to pass —
"what shall I take to Mrs. Parsons?"

"You must go and see Joanna about that. You may make up
whatever you think will please her or do her good. Joanna will
tell you."

And Mrs. Randolph had the satisfaction of seeing that Daisy's
eyes were lively enough for the rest of breakfast-time, and
her colour perceptibly raised. No sooner was breakfast over
than she flew to the consultation in the housekeeper's room.

Joanna was the housekeeper, and Mrs. Randolph's right hand; a
jewel of skill and efficiency; and as fully satisfied with her
post and power in the world, at the head of Mr. Randolph's
household, as any throned emperor or diademed queen;
furthermore, devoted to her employers as though their concerns
had been, what indeed she reckoned them, her own.

"Mrs. Randolph didn't say anything to me about it," said this
piece of capability, — "but I suppose it isn't hard to manage.
Who is Mrs. Parsons? that's the first thing."

"She's a very poor old woman, Joanna; and she is obliged to
keep her bed always; there is something the matter with her.
She lives with a daughter of hers who takes care of her, I
believe; but they haven't much to live upon, and the daughter
isn't smart. Mrs. Parsons hasn't anything fit for her to eat,
unless somebody sends it to her."

"What's the matter with her? ain't she going to get well?"

"No, never — she will always be obliged to lie on her bed as
long as she lives; and so, you see, Joanna, she hasn't
appetite for coarse things."

"Humph!" said Joanna. "Custards won't give it to her. What
does the daughter live upon?"

"She does washing for people; but of course that don't give
her much. They are very poor, I know."

"Well, what would you like to take her, Miss Daisy?"

"Mother said you'd know."

"Well, I'll tell you what _I_ think — sweetmeats ain't good for
such folks. You wait till afternoon, and you shall have a pail
of nice broth, and a bowl of arrowroot with wine and sugar in
it; that'll hearten her up. Will that do?"

"But I should like to take something to the other poor woman,
too."

"How are you going?"

"In my pony-chaise — I can take anything."

Joanna muttered an ejaculation.

"Well then, Miss Daisy, a basket of cold meat wouldn't come
amiss, I suppose."

"And some bread, Joanna?"

"The chaise won't hold so much."

"It has got to hold the basket," said Daisy in much glee, "and
the bread can go in. And, Joanna, I'll have it ready at half-
past four o'clock."

There was no air of moping about Daisy, when, at half-past
four she set off from the house in her pony-chaise, laden with
pail and basket and all she had bargained for. A happier child
was seldom seen. Sam, a capable black boy, was behind her on a
pony not too large to shame her own diminutive equipage; and
Loupe, a good-sized Shetland pony, was very able for more than
his little mistress was going to ask of him. Her father looked
on, pleased, to see her departure; and when she had gathered
up her reins, leaned over her and gave her with his kiss a
little gold piece to go with the pail and basket. It crowned
Daisy's satisfaction; with a quiet glad look and word of
thanks to her father, she drove off.

The pony waddled along nicely, but as his legs were none of
the longest, their rate of travelling was not precisely of the
quickest. Daisy was not impatient. The afternoon was splendid,
the dust had been laid by late rains, and Daisy looked at her
pail and basket with great contentment. Before she had gone a
quarter of a mile from home, she met her little friend of the
wintergreens. Nora sprang across the road to the chaise.

"Oh, Daisy, where are you going?"

"I am going to carry some things for mamma, to a house."

"All alone?"

"No, Sam is there to take care of me."

Nora looked back at the black pony, and then at Daisy. "Isn't
it nice!" she said, with a sort of half-regretful admiration.

"It's as nice as a fairy tale," said Daisy. "I'm just as good
as a princess, you know, Nora. Don't you want to go, too? Do
come."

"No, I mustn't — there are people coming to tea — Mrs.
Linwood, and Charles and Jane — I wish I could go! How far is
it, Daisy?"

"About five miles. Down beyond Crum Elbow, a good nice way;
but I shan't go through Crum Elbow."

"It's so splendid!" sighed Nora. "Well, good-bye. I can't go."

On went the pony. The roads were good and pleasant, leading
through farm fields and here and there a bit of wood, but not
much. It was mostly open country, cultivated by farmers; and
the grain fields not yet ripe, and the grass fields not yet
mown, looked rich and fair and soft in bright colours to
Daisy's eyes, as the afternoon sun shone across them and tree
shadows lay long over the ground. For trees there were, a
great many, growing singly about the fields and fences, and
some of them very large and fine. Daisy was not so busy with
her driving but that she could use her eyes about other
things. Now and then she met a farm wagon, or a labourer going
along the road. The men looked at her curiously and
pleasantly, as if they thought it a pretty sight; but once
Daisy, passing a couple of men together, overheard one say to
the other —

"It's Randolph's folks — they stick themselves up
considerable."

The tone of the voice was gruff and coarse, and Daisy
marvelled much in her little mind what had displeased the man
in her or in "Randolph's folks." She determined to ask her
father. "Stick ourselves up?" said Daisy thoughtfully — "we
_never_ do!"

So she touched the pony, who was falling into a very leisurely
way of trotting, and in good time came to Mrs. Parsons' door.

Daisy went in. The daughter was busy at some ironing in the
outer room; she was a dull, lack-lustre creature, and though
she comprehended the gifts that had been brought her, seemed
hardly to have life enough to thank the donor. That wasn't
quite like a fairy tale, Daisy thought. No doubt this poor
woman must have things to eat, but there was not much fun in
bringing them to her. Daisy was inclined to wonder how she had
ever come to marry anybody with so lively a name as Lark. But
before she got away, Mrs. Lark asked Daisy to go in and see
her mother, and Daisy, not knowing how to refuse, went in as
requested.

What a change! Another poor room to be sure, very poor it
looked to Daisy; with its strip of rag carpet on the floor,
its rush-bottomed chairs, and paper window-shades; and on the
bed lay the bed-ridden woman. But with such a nice pleasant
face; eyes so lively and quiet, smile so contented, brow so
calm, Daisy wondered if it could be she that must lie there
always and never go about again as long as she lived. It had
been a matter of dread to her to see anything so disagreeable;
and now it was not disagreeable. Daisy was fascinated. Mrs.
Lark had withdrawn.

"Is your mother with you, dear?"

"No ma'am, I came alone. Mamma told me to ask Mrs. Parsons if
there is anything she would like to have, that mamma could do
for her."

"Yes; if you would come in and see me sometimes," said the old
lady, "I should like it very much."

"Me?" said Daisy.

"Yes. I don't see young faces very often. They don't care to
come to see an old woman."

"I should like to come," said Daisy, "very much, if I could do
anything; but I must go now, because it will be late. Good-
bye, ma'am."

Daisy's little courtesy it was pleasant to see, and it was so
pleasant altogether that Mrs. Parsons had it over and over in
her thoughts that day and the next.

"It's as nice as a fairy tale," Daisy repeated to herself, as
she took her seat in the chaise again and shook up her reins.
It was better than a fairy tale really, for the sunshine
coming between the trees from the sinking sun, made all the
world look so beautiful that Daisy thought no words could tell
it. It was splendid to drive through that sunlight. In a
minute or two more she had pulled up her reins short, and
almost before she knew why she had done it or whom she had
seen, Mr. Dinwiddie stood at her side. Here he was. She must
not go where he was; she had not; he had come to her. Daisy
was very glad. But she looked up in his face now without
speaking.

"Ha! my stray lamb," said he, "whither are you running?"

"Home, sir," said Daisy, meekly.

"Do you know you have run away from me?"

"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie."

"How came that?"

"It was unavoidable, sir," said Daisy, in her slow, old-
fashioned way. But the bright eye of the young man saw that
her eye fell and her face clouded over; it was not a slight
nor a chance hindrance that had been in her way, he was sure.

"Then you don't mean to come to me any more."

It was a dreadful question, but Mr. Dinwiddie's way of
speaking was so clear and quick and business-like, and he
seemed to know so well what he was talking about, that the
answer was forced from Daisy. She looked up and said, "No,
sir."

He watched the soft thoughtful face that was raised towards
him.

"Then if this is the last time we are to talk about it, Daisy,
shall I look for you among those that will 'shine as the sun'
in the Lord's kingdom?"

"Oh, sir, — Mr. Dinwiddie," — said Daisy, dropping her reins
and rising up, "that is what I want to know about. Please tell
me!"

"Tell you what?" said Mr. Dinwiddie, gathering up the reins.

"Tell me how to do, sir, please."

"What have you done, Daisy?"

"Nothing, sir — only reading the Bible."

"And you do not find it there?"

"I find a great deal, sir; but I don't quite understand. I
don't know how to be a Christian."

Daisy thought it might be her last chance; she was desperate,
and spoke out.

"Do you love the Lord Jesus, Daisy?"

"I don't know, Mr. Dinwiddie."

"You know how He loves you? You know what He has done for
you?"

"Yes — I know —"

"He died to save you from death and sin. He will do it if you
trust Him. Now what He wants is that you should love Him and
trust Him. 'Let the little children come to me,' He said a
great while ago, and says now. Daisy, the good Lord wants you
to give Him your heart."

"But suppose, Mr. Dinwiddie —"

"Yes. What?"

"Suppose I can't. I don't know how."

"Do you want to do it?"

"Yes, sir. Indeed I do."

"Very well; the Lord knows just what your difficulty is; you
must apply to Him."

"Apply to Him?" said Daisy.

"Ask Him."

"How, sir?"

"Pray to Him. Tell the Lord your trouble, and ask Him to make
it all right for you. Did you never pray to Him?"

"No, sir — not ever."

"My lamb," said Mr. Dinwiddie, "He will hear you, if you never
prayed to Him before. I will show you the word of His
promise." And he opened a pocket-Bible and found the place of
these words which he gave Daisy to read : "I will put a new
spirit within you; and I will take the stony heart out of
their flesh, and will give them an heart of flesh; that they
may walk in My statutes, and keep Mine ordinances, and do
them: and they shall be My people, and I will be their God."

"Now is that what you want, Daisy?"

"Yes, sir; only I don't know how."

"Never mind; the Lord knows. He will make it all right, if
only you are willing to give yourself to be His little
servant."

"I will give Him all I have got, sir," said Daisy, looking up.

"Very well; then I will show you one thing more — it is a word
of the Lord Jesus. See — 'If ye love Me, keep My
commandments.' Now I want you to keep those two words, and you
can't remember where to find them again — I must let you take
this book with you." And Mr. Dinwiddie folded down leaves in
the two places.

"But Mr. Dinwiddie," — said Daisy softly — "I don't know when
I can get it back to you again, sir."

"Never mind — keep it, and when you don't want it, give it to
some poor person that does. And remember, little one, that the
good Lord expects His servants to tell Him their troubles and
to pray to Him every day."

"Thank you, sir!" was Daisy's deep ejaculation.

"Don't thank me. Now will your pony get you home before dark?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Dinwiddie! Loupe is lazy, but he can go, and I
will make him."

The chaise went off at a swift rate accordingly, after another
soft grateful look from its little driver. Mr. Dinwiddie stood
looking after it. Of a certain woman of Thyatira it is written
that "the Lord opened her heart, that she attended to the
things which were spoken." Surely, the gentleman thought, the
same had been true of his late little charge. He went
thoughtfully home. While Daisy, not speculating at all, in her
simplicity sat thinking that she was the Lord's servant; and
rejoiced over and over again that she had for her own and
might keep the book of her Lord's commandments. There were
such things as Bibles in the house, certainly, but Daisy had
never had one of her own. That in which she had read the other
night, and which she had used to study her lessons for Mr.
Dinwiddie, was one belonging to her brother, which he was
obliged to use at school. Doubtless Daisy could also have had
one for the asking — she knew that — but it might have been
some time first; and she had a certain doubt in her little
mind that the less she said upon the subject the better. She
resolved her treasure should be a secret one. It was right for
her to have a Bible; she would not run the risk of
disagreeable comments or commands by in any way putting it
forward. Meanwhile she had become the Lord's servant! A very
poor little beginning of a servant she thought herself;
nevertheless, in telling Mr. Dinwiddie what she had, it seemed
to Daisy that she had spoken aloud her oath of allegiance; and
a growing joy in the transaction and a growing love to the
great Saviour who was willing to let her be His servant,
filled her little heart. She just knew that the ride home was
lovely, but Daisy's mind was travelling a yet more sunshiny
road.

She was intelligent in what she had done. One by one Mr.
Dinwiddie's lessons had fallen on a willing and open ear. She
knew herself to be a sinner and lost; she believed that the
Lord Jesus would save her by His death; and it seemed to her
the most natural and reasonable and pleasant thing in the
world, that the life for which His blood had been shed, should
be given to Him. "If ye love me, keep My commandments." "I
wonder," thought Daisy, "what they are."


CHAPTER III.

THE BIRTHDAY.


"What sort of an expedition did you have, Daisy?" her father
asked at breakfast next morning. Company the evening before
had prevented any talk about it.

"Oh, very good, papa! It was as good as a fairy tale."

"Was it?" said Mr. Randolph. "I wonder what pitch of
excellence that is. I don't remember ever finding a fairy tale
very good to me."

"Did you ever read any, papa?"

"I don't know! Were you not tired with your long drive?"

"Oh, no, papa!"

"Would you like to go again?"

"Yes, papa, very much."

"You may go as often as you like — only always let Sam be
along."

"Did you find out what Mrs. Parsons wants?" said Mrs.
Randolph.

"No, mamma — she did not look as if she wanted anything,
except to see me. And yet she is very poor, mamma."

At this speech Mr. Randolph burst into a round laugh, and even
Mrs. Randolph seemed amused.

"Did she _look_ as if she wanted to see you, Daisy?"

"Papa, I think she did," said Daisy, colouring; "she said so
at any rate; but I could not find out what else she would
like."

"Daisy, I think she showed very good taste," said Mr.
Randolph, drawing his little daughter into his arms; "but it
would be safe to take something else with you when you go."

"Your birthday is next week, Daisy," said her mother; "and
your aunt Gary and your cousins will be here. What would you
like to have, to celebrate the day?"

"I don't know, mamma," said Daisy, returning her father's
kisses.

"You may have what you please, if you will think and tell me."

"Mamma, may I talk to Nora Dinwiddie about it?"

"Nonsense! What for?"

"Only to consult, mamma."

"Consult Ransom. He would be a much better help to you."

Daisy looked sober, and said nothing.

"Why not?" said Mr. Randolph. "Why not consult your brother?"

"Papa," said Daisy slowly, "Ransom and I do not understand
each other."

"Don't you," said her father, laughing; "what is the cause of
that, Daisy?"

Daisy was not very willing to answer, but being pressed by
both father and mother, she at length spoke. "I think, papa,
it is because he understands so many other things."

Mr. Randolph was excessively amused. "Ransom!" he called out
to the hall.

"Please, papa, don't!" said Daisy.

"Ransom! — come here. — What is this? your sister says you do
not understand her."

"Well, papa," said Ransom, an exceedingly handsome and bright-
looking boy, and a great pet of his mother, "there are things
that are not deep enough to be understood."

Daisy's lips opened eagerly and then closed again.

"Girls always use magnifying glasses where themselves are
concerned!" went on Ransom, whose dignity seemed to be
excited.

"Hush, hush!" said his father, — "take yourself off, it you
cannot maintain civility. And your mother does not like
fishing-tackle at the breakfast-table — go! I believe," he
said as Ransom bounded away, "I believe conceit is the normal
condition of boyhood."

"I am sure," said Mrs. Randolph, "girls have enough of it —
and women too."

"I suppose it would be rash to deny that," said Mr. Randolph.
"Daisy, I think I understand you. I do not require so much
depth as is necessary for Ransom's understanding to swim in."

"If you do not deny it, it would be well not to forget it,"
said Mrs. Randolph; while Daisy, still in her father's arms,
was softly returning his caresses.

"What shall we do on your birthday, Daisy." said her father,
without seeming to heed this remark.

"Papa, I will think about it. Mamma, do you like I should talk
to Nora about it?"

"By all means!" said Mr. Randolph; "send for her and hold a
grand council. Your mother can have no objection."

Daisy did not feel quite so sure of that; but at any rate she
made none, and a messenger was sent to ask Nora to come that
afternoon. All the morning Daisy was engaged with her mother,
going to make a visit to some friends that lived a long way
off. It was not till the afternoon was growing cool and
pleasant that she was released from dinner and dressing and
free to go with her Bible to her favourite reading place; — or
rather one of her favourites; — a garden seat under a thick
oak. The oak stood alone on a knoll looking over a beautiful
spread of grassy sward that sloped and rolled away to a
distant edge of thicket. Other noble trees dotted the ground
here and there; some fine cattle showed their red and white
heads, standing or lying about in the shade. Above the distant
thicket, far, far away, rose the heads of great blue
mountains. The grass had just been mown, in part; and a very
sweet smell from the hay floated about under the trees around
the house. Daisy's tree however was at some distance from the
house. In the absolute sweet quiet, Daisy and her Bible took
possession of the place. The Bible had grown a wonderful book
to her now. It was the book of the commandments of the Great
King whose servant she felt herself. Now every word would tell
her of something she must do, or not do; all sweet to Daisy;
for she felt she loved the King, and His commandments were
good to her. This time she got very much interested in the
twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, in the parable of the
talents. But she wished she could have had Mr. Dinwiddie to
tell her a little better exactly what it meant. Some of its
meaning she understood; and remembering Mr. Dinwiddie's words,
she prayed with clasped hands and a very earnest little heart,
that the Lord would "make her know what all her talents were
and help her to make good use of them." Then Daisy went on
studying.

In the midst of her studies, a light step bounded down through
the shrubbery from the house, and Daisy had hardly raised her
head when Nora was at her side. There was room for her on the
seat, and after a glad greeting the children sat down
together, to talk much joyful talk and tell childish news, in
the course of which Daisy's perplexities came out, for which
she had wanted Nora's counsel. She explained that she could
have precisely what she chose, in the way of merry-making for
her birthday. Daisy spoke about it seriously, as a weighty and
important matter; and so Nora took it up, with a face of great
eagerness.

"You can have _just_ what you like, Daisy?" Daisy nodded. "Oh,
what have you thought of, Daisy?"

"What would be nicest, Nora?"

"I'll tell you what _I_ should have — I should have a party."

"A party!"

"Yes, that is what I should have."

"I never thought of that. Who would you ask, Nora? I thought
of a pic-nic; and of a great journey to Schroeder's Mountain;
— that would be nice; — to spend the whole day, you know."

"Yes, that would be nice: but I should have a party. Oh, there
are plenty to have. There is Kitty Marsden."

"I don't know Kitty Marsden, much" — said Daisy.

"And Ella Stanfield."

"I like Ella Stanfield" — said Daisy, sedately.

"And there are the Fishes."

"I don't like Mrs. Fish's children very well; — when Alexander
and Ransom get together, they make — a great deal of
disturbance!"

"Oh, we needn't mind their disturbance," said Nora; and she
went on discussing the plan and the advantages of the party.
Suddenly Daisy broke in with a new subject. "Nora, you know
the story of the servants with the talents, in the New
Testament?"

"Yes —" said Nora, with open eyes; "I know."

"Do you know what it means? — the talents, I mean; of course I
know what the rest means; but do you know what the talents
are? Is it just money? — because then you and I have very
little indeed; and all the servants had something."

"Why, Daisy, what made you think of that just now? we were
talking about the party."

"I have been thinking of it all the while," said Daisy. "I was
reading it — do you know what it means, Nora?"

"But we were talking about the party!" said Nora.

"Yes, but I want to understand this; and then we will go on
about the party. If you know what it means."

"I have heard Duke explain it," said Nora, unwillingly coming
to the graver subject.

"Well, what does he say it is? — the talents, you know."

"Duke says it is everything anybody has. Not money, —
_everything_ — Now don't you think we can make up a nice party?"

"Everything, Nora? Just wait a little — I want to know about
this. What do you mean by 'everything'?"

"Are you studying for Sunday-school, Daisy? that isn't the
lesson."

"No," said Daisy sorrowfully; "if I was, I could ask Mr.
Dinwiddie. That's why I want you to help me, Nora; so think,
and tell me what he said."

"Well, that," said Nora, "he said that; he said the talents
meant everything God has given people to work with for Him."

"What could they work with besides money?" said Daisy.

"Why, _everything_, Duke says; all they've got; their tongues
and their hands and their feet, and all they know, and all
their love for people; and even the way we do things, our
studies and all, Marmaduke says. What do you want to know for,
Daisy?"

"I was thinking about it," answered Daisy, evasively. "Wait a
minute, Nora, — I want to write it down, for fear I should
forget something."

"What _are_ you going to do?" exclaimed Nora. "Are you going to
teach a class yourself?"

Daisy did not answer, while she was writing down with a pencil
what Nora had said, and making her repeat it for that purpose.
When she had done she looked a little dubiously off towards
the woods, while Nora was surprised and disappointed into
silence.

"I think perhaps I ought to tell you," was Daisy's slow
conclusion. "I want to know what this means, that I may do it,
Nora."

"_Do_ it?"

"Yes," said Daisy, turning her quiet eyes full upon her
companion — "I want to try to please God. I love the Lord
Jesus."

Nora was very much confounded, and looked at Daisy as if a gap
in the ground had suddenly separated them.

"So," Daisy went on, "as I have talents to use, I want to know
what they are, for fear I shouldn't use them all. I don't
understand it yet, but I will think about it. Now we will go
on about the party if you like."

"But, Daisy," said Nora.

"What?"

"Are you in earnest?"

"Certainly I am in earnest," said Daisy gravely. "What makes
you ask me? Don't you think your brother is in earnest?"

"Marmaduke! oh yes, — but — you never told me of it before."

"I didn't know it till yesterday," said Daisy simply, "that I
loved the Lord Jesus; but I know I do now, and I am very glad;
and I am going to be His servant."

Her little face was very sweet and quiet as she looked at her
little neighbour and said these words; but Nora was utterly
confounded, and so nearly dismayed that she was silent; and it
was not till several invitations in Daisy's usual manner had
urged her, that she was able to get upon the subject of the
party again, and to discuss it with any spirit. The discussion
then did not come to any determination. Daisy was at least
lukewarm in her fancy for that mode of spending her birthday;
and separate plans of pic-nics and expeditions of pleasure
were taken up and handled, sure to be thrown aside by Nora for
the greater promise and splendour of the home entertainment.
They broke up at last without deciding upon anything, except
that Nora should come again to talk about it, and should at
all events have and give her share in whatever the plan for
the day might be.

Perhaps Daisy watched her opportunity, perhaps it came; but at
all events she seized the first chance that she saw to speak
with her father in private. He was sauntering out the next
morning after breakfast. Daisy joined him, and they strolled
along through the grounds, giving here and there directions to
the gardener, till they came near one of the pleasant rustic
seats, under the shade of a group of larches.

"Papa, suppose we sit down here for a moment and let us look
about us."

"Well, Daisy," — said her father, who knew by experience what
was likely to follow.

"Papa," said Daisy as they sat down, "I want to ask you about
something."

"What is it?"

"When I was in the chaise, driving Loupe the other clay, papa,
I heard something that I could not understand."

"Did you?"

"It was two men that passed me on the road; I heard one say to
the other as I went by, that it was your carriage, and then he
said that 'Randolph's folks were a good deal _stuck up;_' — what
did he mean, papa?"

"Nothing of any consequence, Daisy."

"But why did he say it, papa?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I did not understand it nor like it, papa; I wanted to know
what he meant."

"It is hardly worth talking about, Daisy. It is the way those
who have not enough in the world are very apt to talk of
others who are better off than themselves."

"Why, papa?"

"They were poor men, I suppose, weren't they."

"Yes; papa — working men."

"That class of people, my dear, are very apt to have a grudge
against the rich."

"For what, papa?"

"For being able to live better than they do."

"Why, papa! do poor people generally feel so?"

"Very often, I think. They do not generally speak it out
aloud."

"Then, papa," said Daisy, speaking slowly, "how do you know?
What makes you think they feel so?"

Her father smiled at her eagerness and gravity.

"I see it, Daisy, when they do not speak it. They show it in
various ways. Besides, I know their habit of talking among
themselves."

"But papa, that is very bad."

"What?"

"That poor people should feel so. I am sure rich people are
their best friends."

Her father stroked her head fondly, and looked amused.

"They don't believe that, Daisy."

"But _why_ don't they believe it, papa?" said Daisy, growing
more and more surprised.

"I suppose," said Mr. Randolph, rising, "they would be better
satisfied if I gave them my horses and went afoot." — A speech
which Daisy pondered and pondered and could make nothing of.

They walked on, Mr. Randolph making observations and giving
orders now and then to workmen. Here a man was mowing under
the shrubbery; there the gardener was setting out pots of
greenhouse flowers; in another place there were holes digging
for trees to be planted. Daisy went musing on while her father
gave his orders, and when they were again safe out of hearing
she spoke. "Papa, do you suppose Michael and Andrew and John,
and all your own people, feel so about you?"

"I think it is likely, Daisy. I can't hope to escape better
than my neighbours."

"But, papa, they don't look so, nor act so?"

"Not before me. They do not wish to lose their places."

"Papa, — couldn't something be done to make them feel better."

"Why, Daisy," said her father laughing, "are you going to turn
reformer!"

"I don't know what that is, papa."

"A thankless office, my dear. If you could make all the world
wise, it would do, but fools are always angry with you for
trying it."

The conversation ended, and left Daisy greatly mystified. Her
father's people not liking him? — the poor having ill-will
against the rich, and a grudge against their pleasant things —
it was very melancholy! Daisy thought about it a great deal
that day; and had a very great talk on the subject with Nora,
who without a quarter of the interest had much more knowledge
about it than Daisy. She had been with her brother sometimes
to the houses of poor children, and she gave Daisy a high-
coloured picture of the ways of living in such houses and the
absence of many things by Daisy and herself thought the
necessaries of life. Daisy heard her with a lengthening face,
and almost thought there was some excuse for the state of
feeling her father had explained in the morning. The question,
however, was too long a one for Daisy; but she arrived at one
conclusion, which was announced the next morning at the
breakfast-table. Mrs. Randolph had called upon her to say what
was determined upon for the birthday.

"Papa," said Daisy, "will there be a great plenty of
strawberries next week?"

"Yes, I believe so. Logan says the vines are very full. What
then?"

"Papa, you gave me my choice of what I would have for
Wednesday."

"Yes. Is it my strawberry patch?"

"Not for myself, papa. I want you to have a great table set
out of doors somewhere, and give a feast to all your work
people."

"Daisy!" exclaimed Mrs. Randolph. "I never heard anything so
ridiculous in all my life!"

Daisy waited with downcast eyes for her father to speak. He
was not in a hurry.

"Would that give you pleasure, Daisy?"

"Yes, papa."

"Did Nora Dinwiddie put that scheme in your head?" asked Mrs.
Randolph.

"She didn't like it at all, mamma. I put it into her head."

"Where did you get it?"

Daisy looked troubled and puzzled, and did not answer till her
father said "Speak." Then, nestling up to him with her head on
his breast, a favourite position, she said, "I got it from
different sources, I think, papa."

"Let us hear, for instance."

"I think, partly from the Bible, papa — and partly from what
we were talking of yesterday."

"I wish you would show me where you found it in the Bible. I
don't remember a strawberry feast there."

"Do you mean it in earnest, papa?"

"Yes."

Daisy walked off for a Bible — not her own — and after some
trouble found a place which she showed her father; and he read
aloud, "When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy
friends nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich
neighbours; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be
made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the
maimed, the lame, the blind; and thou shalt be blessed; for
they cannot recompense thee; for thou shalt be recompensed at
the resurrection of the just." Mr. Randolph closed the book
and laid it on the table, and drew his little daughter again
within his arms.

"That child is in a way to get ruined!" said Mrs. Randolph,
energetically.

"But Daisy, our work people are not lame or blind — how will
they do?" said her father.

"They are poor, papa. I would like to have the others too, but
we can't have everybody."

Mr. Randolph kissed the little mouth that was lifted so near
his own, and went on.

"Do you think then it is wrong to have our friends and
neighbours? Shall we write to your aunt and cousins, and Gary
McFarlane and Captain Drummond, to stay away?"

"No, papa," said Daisy, smiling, — and her smile was very
sweet, — "you know I don't mean that. I would like to have
them all; but I would like the feast made for the other
people."

"You will let the rest of us have some strawberries?"

"If there are enough, papa. For that day, I would like the
other people to have them."

Mr. Randolph seemed to find something as sweet as strawberries
in Daisy's lips.

"It is the very most absurd plan I ever heard of!" repeated
her mother.

"I am not sure that it is not a very good thing," remarked Mr.
Randolph.

"Is it expected that on that day we are to do without servants
in the house, and wait upon ourselves? or are we expected to
wait upon the party!"

"Oh, mamma," said Daisy, "it isn't the servants — it's only
the out-of-door people."

"How many will there be, Daisy?" said her father; "have you
numbered them up?"

"Not yet, papa. There is Logan, and Michael, and Mr. Stilton,
and the two under-gardeners —"

"And four hay-makers."

"Hay-makers, papa?"

"Yes — there will be four of them in the fields next week. And
there is the herdsman and boy."

"And there is old Patrick at the gate. That is all, papa."

"And are the ladies of all these families to be invited?"

"Papa! What do you think?"

"I have no doubt there will be strawberries enough."

"But I am afraid there would be too many children. Logan has
six, and Michael has four, and I believe the herdsman has
some; and there are four at the Lodge. And Mr. Stilton has
two."

"What shall we do with them, Daisy?"

"Papa, we can't have them. I should like to have the men and
their wives come, I think, and send some strawberries home to
the children. Wouldn't that do best?"

"Admirably. And you can drive over to Crum Elbow and purchase
some suitable baskets. Take the chaise and Sam. I expect you
to arrange everything. If you want help, come and consult me."

"If mamma will tell Joanna," said Daisy, looking somewhat
doubtfully towards the other end of the table.

"I have nothing to do with it," said Mrs. Randolph. "I have
no knowledge how to order such parties. You and Joanna may do
what you please."

Daisy's eye went to her father.

"That will do, Daisy," said he. "You and Joanna can manage it.
You may have carte-blanche."

The earliest minute that she knew Joanna could attend to her,
found Daisy in the housekeeper's room. Joanna was a tall,
rather hard-featured woman, with skill and capacity in every
line of her face however, and almost in every fold of her
gown. She heard with a good deal of astonishment the project
unfolded to her, and to Daisy's great delight gave it her
unqualified approbation.

"It's a first-rate plan," said Joanna. "Now I like that. The
men won't forget it. Where are you going to have the table
set, Miss Daisy?"

"I don't know yet, Joanna. In some pretty, shady place, under
the trees."

"Out-of-doors, eh!" said Joanna. " 'Well, I suppose that'll be
as good a way as any. Now what are you going to have, Miss
Daisy? what do you want of me?"

"Mamma and papa said I was to arrange it with you."

Joanna sat down and folded her arms to consider the matter.

"How many will there be?"

"I counted," said Daisy. "There will be about seventeen, with
their wives, you know."

"Seventeen, wives and all?" said Joanna. "You'll have to get
the carpenter or Mr. Stilton to make you a table."

"Yes, that's easy," said Daisy; "but Joanna, what shall we
have on it? There will want to be a good deal, for seventeen
people; and I want it handsome, you know."

"Of course," said Joanna, looking as if she were casting up
the multiplication table — "it'll have to be that, whatever
else it, is. Miss Daisy, suppose you let me manage it — and
I'll see and have it all right. If you will give orders about
the strawberries, and have the table made."

"I shall dress the table with flowers, Joanna."

"Yes — well —" — said Joanna, — "I don't know anything about
flowers; but I'll have the cake ready, and everything else."

"And tea and coffee, Joanna?"

"Why, I never thought of that! — yes, to be sure, they'll want
something to drink — who will pour it out, Miss Daisy?"

"I don't know. Won't you, Joanna?"

"Well — I don't know —" said the housekeeper, as if she were
afraid of being taken on too fast by her little counsellor —
"I don't know as there's anything to hinder, as it's your
birthday, Miss Daisy."

Away went Daisy delighted, having secured just what she
wanted. The rest was easy. And Daisy certainly thought it was
as promising an entertainment as she could have devised. It
gave her a good deal of business. The table, and the place for
the table, had to be settled with Mr. Stilton, and the
invitations given, and many particulars settled; but to settle
them was extremely pleasant, and Daisy found that every face
of those concerned in the invitations wore a most golden glow
of satisfaction when the thing was understood. Daisy was very
happy. She hoped, besides the pleasantness of the matter, it
would surely incline the hearts of her father's work-people to
think kindly of him.


CHAPTER IV.

THE HAM.


It happened that one cause and another hindered Daisy from
going to Crum Elbow to fetch the strawberry-baskets, until the
very Tuesday afternoon before the birthday. Then everything
was right; the pony chaise before the door, Sam in waiting,
and Daisy just pulling her gloves on, when Ransom rushed up.
He was flushed and hurried.

"Who's going out with Loupe?"

"I am, Ransom."

"You can't go, Daisy — I'm going myself."

"You cannot, Ransom. I am going on business. Papa said I was
to go."

"He couldn't have said it! for he said I might have the chaise
this afternoon, and that Loupe wanted exercise. So, I am going
to give him some. He wouldn't get it with you."

"Ransom," said Daisy trembling, "I have got business at Crum
Elbow, and I must go, and you must not."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Ransom, snapping his fingers at her.
"Business! I guess you have. Girls have a great deal of
business! Here, Sam — ride round mighty quick to Mr. Rush's,
and tell Hamilton to meet me at the cross road."

And without another word to Daisy, Ransom sprang into the
chaise, cracked his whip over Loupe's head and started him off
in a very ungraceful but very eager waddling gallop. Daisy was
left with one glove on and with a spirit thoroughly
disordered. A passionate child she was not, in outward manner
at least; but her feelings once roused were by no means easy
to bring down again. She was exceedingly offended, very much
disturbed at missing her errand, very sore at Ransom's ill-
bred treatment of her. Nobody was near; her father and mother
both gone out; and Daisy sat upon the porch with all sorts of
resentful thoughts and words boiling up in her mind. She did
not believe half of what her brother had said; was sure her
father had given no order interfering with her proceedings;
and she determined to wait upon the porch till he came home,
and so she would have a good opportunity of letting him know
the right and the wrong of the case. Ransom deserved it, as
she truly said to herself. And then Daisy sorrowed over her
lost expedition, and her missing strawberry baskets. What
should she do? for the next morning would find work enough of
its own at home, and nobody else could choose the baskets to
please her. Ransom deserved —

In the midst of the angry thoughts that were breaking one over
the other in Daisy's mind, there suddenly came up the
remembrance of some words she had read that day or the day
before. "Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me and I
forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not
unto thee, until seven times, but until seventy times seven."
This brought Daisy up short; her head which had been leaning
on her hands suddenly straightened itself up. What did those
words mean? There could be no doubt, for with the question
came the words in the Lord's Prayer which she knew well, but
had never felt till then. Forgive Ransom out and out? — say
nothing about it? — not tell her father, nor make her
grievance at all known to Ransom's discomfiture? — Daisy did
not want to yield. He _deserved_ to be reproved and ashamed and
made to do better. It was the first time that a real conflict
had come up in her mind between wrong and right; and now that
she clearly saw what was right, to her surprise she did not
want to do it! Daisy saw both facts. There was a power in her
heart that said, "No, I will not forgive," to the command from
a greater power that bade her do it. Poor Daisy! it was her
first view of her enemy; the first trial that gave her any
notion of the fighting that might be necessary to overcome
him. Daisy found she could not overcome him. She was fain to
go, where she had just begun to learn she might go, "to the
Strong for strength." She ran away from the porch to her room,
and kneeled down and prayed that the King would give her help
to keep His commandments. She was ashamed of herself now; but
so obstinate was her feeling of displeasure against her
brother, that even after she thought she had forgiven him,
Daisy would not go downstairs again nor meet him nor her
father, for fear she should speak words that she ought not, or
fail of a perfectly gentle and kind manner.

But what to do about her baskets? A bright and most business-
like thought suddenly came into her head. The breakfast-hour
was always late; by being a little earlier than usual she
could have plenty of time to go to Crum Elbow and return
before the family were assembled. Splendid! Daisy went down
the back stairs, and gave her orders in such a way that they
should not reach Ransom's ear. If not put on the alert he was
sure to be down to breakfast last of anybody. So Daisy went to
bed and to sleep with her mind at rest.

It was so pleasant when she came out at half past six the next
morning, that Daisy almost thought it was the prettiest time
of all.

The morning air smelt so fresh, with the scent of the trees
and flowers coming through the dew; and the light, was so cool
and clear, not like the hot glow of later hours, that Daisy
felt like dancing for very gladness. Then it was such a stroke
of business to go to Crum Elbow before breakfast!

The pony and the chaise came up presently, and Sam and the
black pony, all right, and every one of them looking more
brisk and fresh than usual. And off they went; under the
boughs of the dew-bright trees, where the birds seemed to be
as glad as Daisy, to judge by the songs they were singing; and
by and by out from the beautiful grounds of Melbourne, into
the road. It was pleasanter there, Daisy thought, than she had
ever seen it. The fields looked more gay in that clear early
light, and the dust was kept down by the freshness in the air.
It was delightful; and Loupe never went better. Daisy was a
very good little driver, and now the pony seemed to understand
the feeling in her fingers and waddled along at a goodly rate.

Crum Elbow was not a great many miles off, and in due time
they reached it. But Daisy found that other people kept
earlier hours than her father and mother at Melbourne. She saw
the farmers were getting to work as she went on; and in the
houses of the village there were signs that everybody was
fully astir to the business of the day. It was a scattering
village; the houses and the churches stood and called to each
other across great spaces of fields and fences between; but
just where the crossing of two roads made a business point,
there was a little more compactness. There was the baker's,
and the post-office, and two stores and various other houses,
and a blacksmith's shop. Up to the corner where the principal
store stood, came the pony and his mistress, and forthwith out
came Mr. Lamb the storekeeper, to see what the little pony
chaise wanted to take home; but Daisy must see for herself,
and she got out and went into the store.

"Baskets," said Mr. Lamb. "What sort of baskets?"

"Baskets to hold strawberries — little baskets," said Daisy.

"Ah! strawberry-baskets. That, ma'am, is the article."

Was it? Daisy did not think so. The storekeeper had showed her
the kind of baskets commonly used to hold strawberries for the
market; containing about half a pint. She remarked they were
not large enough.

"No, ma'am? They are the kind generally used — regular
strawberry-baskets — we have sold 'em nearly all out, but
we've got a few left."

"They are not large enough, nor pretty enough," repeated
Daisy.

"They'll look pretty when they get the strawberries in them,"
said the storekeeper, with a knowing look at her. "But here's
a kind, ma'am, are a little neater — maybe you would like
these — What do you want, child?"

There had come into the store just after Daisy a little poor-
looking child, who had stood near, watching what was going on.
Daisy turned to look at her as Mr. Lamb's question was thrown
at her over the counter, in a tone very different from his
words to herself. She saw a pale, freckled, pensive-faced
little girl, in very slim clothing, her dress short and
ragged, and feet bare. The child had been looking at her and
her baskets, but now suddenly looked away to the shopkeeper.

"Please, sir, I want —"

"There! stop," said Mr. Lamb; "don't you see I'm busy. I can't
attend to you just now; you must wait. Are these baskets
better, ma'am?" he said, coming back to Daisy and a smooth
voice.

Daisy felt troubled, but she tried to attend to her business.
She asked the price of the baskets.

"Those first I showed you, ma'am, are three pence apiece —
these are sixpence. This is quite a tasty basket," said Mr.
Lamb, balancing one on his forefinger. "Being open, you see,
it shows the fruit through. I think these might answer your
purpose."

"What are those?" said Daisy, pointing to another kind.

"Those, ma'am, are not strawberry baskets."

"But please let me see one. — What is the price?"

"These fancy baskets, ma'am, you know, are another figure.
These are not intended for fruit. These are eighteen pence
apiece, ma'am."

Daisy turned the baskets and the price over. They were very
neat! they would hold as many berries as the sixpenny ones,
and look pretty too, as for a festival they should. The
sixpenny ones were barely neat — they had no gala look about
them at all. While Daisy's eye went from one to the other, it
glanced upon the figure of the poor, patient, little waiting
girl who stood watching her. "If you please, Mr. Lamb," she
said, "will you hear what this little girl has to say? — while
I look at these."

"What do you want, child?"

The answer came very low, but though Daisy did not want to
listen she could not help hearing.

"Mother wants a pound of ham, sir."

"Have you brought the money for the flour?"

"No, sir — mother'll send it."

"We don't cut our hams any more," said the storekeeper. "Can't
sell any less than a whole one — and that's always cash.
There! Go, child — I can't cut one for you."

Daisy looked after the little ragged frock as it went out of
the door. The extreme mystery of some people being rich and
some people poor, struck her anew, and perhaps something in
her look as it came back to the storekeeper made him say, —

"They're very poor folks, Miss Randolph — the mother's sickly,
and I should only lose my money. They came and got some flour
of me yesterday without paying for it — and it's necessary to
put a stop to that kind of thing at once. Don't you think that
basket'll suit, ma'am?"

Baskets? and what meant those words which had been over and
over in Daisy's mind for the few days past? — "Whatsoever ye
would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." Her
mind was in great confusion.

"How much does a ham cost, Mr. Lamb?"

"Sixteen pence a pound, ma'am," said the storekeeper rather
dryly, for he did not know but Daisy was thinking a reproof to
him.

"But how many pounds are there in a ham?"

"Just as it happens, ma'am — sometimes twenty, and from there
down to ten."

"Then how much does a whole ham cost?" said Daisy, whose
arithmetic was not ready.

"A ham of fifteen pounds, ma'am, would be about two dollars
and forty cents."

Daisy stood looking at the baskets, and thinking how much
money she would have over if she took the sixpenny ones. She
wanted twenty baskets; she found that the difference of price
between the plain and the pretty would leave her twenty
shillings in hand. Just enough! thought Daisy, — and yet, how
could she go to a strange house and offer to give them a ham?
She thought she could not. If she had known the people; but as
it was — Daisy bought the pretty baskets and set off
homewards.

"Whatsoever ye would that others should do to you, do ye even
so to them" — Daisy could see nothing along the road but those
words. "That is my King's command to me — and those poor
people have got no breakfast. If I was in that little girl's
place, I would _like_ to have it given to me. But those other
baskets — would they do? — I could make them do somehow — Nora
and I could dress them up with greens and flowers!"

The pony chaise stopped. Sam came up alongside.

"Sam, take those baskets back to the store. I am going back
there."

Round came the chaise, and in five minutes more they were at
the Crum Elbow corner again, for Daisy's heart-burning had not
let her go far. Mr. Lamb was exceedingly mystified, as it was
very unusual for young ladies like this one to come buying
whole hams and riding off with them. However, he made no
objections to the exchange, being a gainer by ten cents; for
Daisy had asked for a ham of fifteen pounds.

Then Daisy enquired the way to the girl's house, and her name,
and set off in a new direction. It was not far; a plain little
brown house, with a brown gate a few yards from the door.
Daisy got out of the chaise and opened the gate, and there
stood still and prayed a little prayer that God would help her
not to feel foolish or afraid when she was trying to do right.
Then she went up to the door and knocked. Somebody said in a
very uninviting tone of voice, "Come in!"

It was hard for Daisy; she had expected that somebody would
open the door, but now she must go in and face all that was
there. However, in she went. There was a poor room to be sure,
with not much in it. A woman was taking some hot bread, just
baked, out of a little cooking stove. Daisy saw the little
girl standing by; it was the right place.

"Well!" said the woman, looking up at Daisy from her stove
oven — "what is it?" She looked pale and unhappy, and her
words were impatient. Daisy was half afraid.

"I am Daisy Randolph" — she began, gently.

"Go on," said the woman, as Daisy hesitated.

"I was in Mr. Lamb's store just now, when your little girl
came to buy some ham."

"Well! — what then?"

"Mr. Lamb said he would not cut any, and she was obliged to go
without it."

"Well, what have you to do with all that?"

"I was sorry she was disappointed," said Daisy, more steadily;
"and as Mr. Lamb would not cut one for her I have brought a
whole one — if you will please accept it. It is at the gate,
because the boy could not leave the horses."

The woman set her bread on the floor, left the oven door open,
and rose to her feet.

"What did you tell her, Hephzibah?" she said, in a threatening
voice.

"I didn't tell her nothing," said the girl hurriedly — "I
never spoke to her."

"How did she know what you came for?"

"I was so near," said Daisy, bravely, though she was afraid,
"that I couldn't help hearing."

"Well, what business was it of yourn?" said the woman, turning
upon her. "If we are poor, we don't throw it in anybody's
face; and if you are rich, you may give charity to those that
ask it. _We_ never asked none of you — and don't want it."

"I am not rich," said Daisy, gently, though she coloured and
her eyes were full of tears; — "I did not mean to offend you;
but I thought you wanted the ham, and I had money enough to
get it. I am very sorry you won't have it."

"Did Mr. Lamb tell you we were beggars?"

"No, not at all."

"Then what put into your head to come bringing a ham here? who
told you to do it?"

"Nobody told me," said Daisy. "Yes there did, though. The Lord
Jesus Christ told me to do it, ma'am."

"What do you mean?" said the woman, suddenly sobering as if
she was struck.

"That's all, ma'am," said Daisy. "He had given me the money to
buy the ham, and I heard that your little girl wanted it. And
I remembered His commandment, to do to others what I would
like they should do to me — I didn't mean to offend you."

"Well, I ain't offended," said the woman. "I s'pose you didn't
mean no harm; but we have some feelings as well as other
folks. Folks may work, and yet have feelings. And if I could
work, things would be well enough; but I've been sick, miss,
and I can't always get work that I would like to do — and when
I can get it, I can't always do it," she added with a sigh.

Daisy wanted to go, but pity held her fast. That poor, pale,
ragged child, standing motionless opposite her! Daisy didn't
venture to look much, but she saw her all the same.

"Please keep the ham this time!" she broke out, bravely, — "I
won't bring another one!"

"Did nobody send you?" said the woman, eyeing her keenly.

"No," said Daisy, "except the Lord Jesus — He sent me."

"You're a kind little soul!" said the woman, "and as good a
Christian as most of 'em I guess. But I won't do that. I'd die
first! — unless you'll let me do some work for you and make it
up so." There was relenting in the tone of these last words.

"Oh, that will do," said Daisy, gladly. "Then will you let
your little girl come out and get the ham? because the boy
cannot leave the horses. Good-bye, Mrs. Harbonner."

"But stop!" cried the woman — "you hain't told me what I am to
do for you."

"I don't know till I get home and ask there. What would you
like to do?"

"My work is tailoring — I learnt that trade; but beggars
mustn't be choosers. I can do other things — plain sewing, and
washing, and cleaning, and dairy work; anything I _can_ do."

Daisy said she would bring her word, and at last got off;
without her ham, and in glee inexpressible. "They will have
some for breakfast," she said to herself; for there had been
something in little Hephzibah's eye as she received the great
ham in her arms, that went through and through Daisy's heart
and almost set her to crying. She was _very_ glad to get away
and to be in the pony chaise again, driving home, and she
almost wondered at her own bravery in that house. She hardly
knew herself; for true it was, Daisy had considered herself as
doing work not of her own choosing while she was there; she
felt in her Master's service, and so was bold where for her
own cause she would have shrunk away. "But they have got
something for breakfast! I think mine will be good when I get
it," said Daisy.

Daisy, however, fell into a great muse upon the course of her
morning's experience. To do as she would be done by, now
seemed not quite so easy as she had thought; since it was
plain that her notions and those of some other people were not
alike on the subject. How should she know what people would
like? When in so simple a matter as hunger, she found that
some would prefer starving to being fed. It was too deep a
question for Daisy. She had made a mistake, and she rather
thought she should make more mistakes; since the only way she
could see straight before her was the way of the command, and
the way of duty, therefore; and she was very much inclined to
think, besides, that in that way her difficulties would be
taken care of for her. It had been so this morning. Mrs.
Harbonner and she had parted on excellent terms — and the
gleam in that poor child's eyes!


CHAPTER V.

STRAWBERRIES.


Daisy was so full of her thoughts that she never perceived two
gentlemen standing at the foot of the hall steps to receive
her. Not till Loupe in his best style had trotted up the road
and stopped, and she had risen to throw down her reins. Then
Daisy started a little. One gentleman touched his cap to her,
and the other held out his hands to help her to alight.

"You are just in time for breakfast, Miss Randolph. Is that
the coach that was made out of a pumpkin?"

Daisy shook hands with the other gentleman, and made no
answer.

"I had always heard," went on the first, "that the young
ladies at the North were very independent in their habits; but
I had no idea that they went to market before breakfast."

"Sam," said Daisy, "take the baskets to Joanna."

"What is in the baskets? — eggs? — or butter? — or vegetables?
Where do you go to market?"

"To New York, sir," said Daisy.

"To New York! And have you come from there this morning? Then
that is certainly also the pony that was once a rat! it's a
witchcraft concern altogether."

"No sir," said Daisy, "I don't go to market."

"Will you excuse me for remarking, that you just said you
did?"

"No, sir, I didn't mean that _I_ went."

"How are gentlemen to understand you, in the future experience
of life, if you are in the habit of saying what you do not
mean?"

"I am not in the habit of it," said Daisy, half laughing, for
she knew her questioner. He was a handsome young man, with a
grave face and manner through all his absurd speeches; dressed
rather picturesquely; and altogether a striking person in
Daisy's eyes. To her relief, as they reached the hall her
mother appeared.

"Come in to breakfast, Gary — Daisy, run and get yourself
ready."

And Daisy went, in great glee on various accounts. When she
came down, everybody was at table; and for a little while she
was permitted to eat her breakfast in peace. Daisy felt
wonderfully happy. Such a pleasant breakfast, for the talk
among the elders went on very briskly; such pleasant work done
already, such pleasant work to do all through the day; nothing
but joy seemed to be in the air.

"And what did you get at market, Daisy?" suddenly asked the
gentleman whom her mother called "Gary."

"I went to buy baskets," said Daisy, concisely.

"What else did you get at market?"

"I didn't go to market, sir."

"She told me she did" — said Mr. Gary, looking at her father.

"Did you buy anything else, Daisy?" said her father,
carelessly.

"Papa," said Daisy, colouring, "Mr. McFarlane asked me, I
thought, where we went to market, and I told him New York. I
did not mean that I went myself."

"Didn't you get anything but baskets?" said Mr. McFarlane
mischievously.

"Papa," said Daisy, making a brave push, "if I only spend what
you give me for my birthday, don't you think it would be
considerate in Mr. McFarlane not to ask me any more?" But this
speech set the gentlemen to laughing.

"Daisy, you make me curious," said her father. "Do you think
it would be inconsiderate in _me_ to ask?"

"Papa, I think it would."

"Answer, Daisy, directly, and don't be ridiculous," said her
mother.

Daisy's face clouded, coloured, and the tears came into her
eyes.

"Answer, Daisy, since it is put so," said her father, gravely.

"I bought a ham, papa."

But the shout that was raised at this was so uproarious that
Daisy was almost overcome. She would certainly have made her
escape, only she knew such a thing would not be permitted. She
sat still, and bore it as well as she could.

"The baskets held eggs, no doubt," said Captain Drummond, the
other gentleman.

"Roast potatoes would be better for your Irish friends,
Daisy," said McFarlane. "Ham and eggs is good for the Yankees.
It would be the best plan to make a fire out-of-doors and let
each one cook for himself, according to his country. How do
you expect to please everybody?"

"Come here, Daisy," said her father, kindly, and he put his
arm round her and kissed her; "did you have money enough for
your ham and your other purchases too?"

"Plenty, papa," said Daisy, gratefully.

"And why didn't you go yesterday afternoon, as I thought you
intended?" Daisy's and Ransom's eyes met.

"Papa, it was a great deal pleasanter this morning than it
would have been then; I never had such a nice ride."

"And what do you want done now? Is your table ready?"

"It will be ready — Mr. Stilton is getting it ready."

"Who is invited, Daisy?" inquired Mr. McFarlane. "Do you
intend to receive any except those who are not your friends?"

"I don't think those of a different class had better come,"
said Daisy.

"Daisy is quite right," said Mrs. Randolph.

"Do you not intend to show yourself?" said her husband, with
some meaning.

"I? No! Certainly not. At her age, since you choose to indulge
Daisy in her whim, she may do what she pleases."

Was this what the man meant by Randolph's people being "stuck
up?" Daisy looked grave, and her father bade her run away and
attend to her preparations.

Even then she went slowly and a little puzzled, till she
reached the housekeeper's room; and there the full beauty of
the occasion burst upon her. Such nice things as Joanna was
making ready!

Daisy ran off at full speed to Logan to get a supply of greens
and flowers to trim her baskets. Nora was coming to help her
and be with her all day, and arrived just in time. With aprons
and baskets full, the two children sought a hidden spot on the
bank under the trees, and there sat down, with strawberry
baskets in one heap, and the sprigs and leaves to dress them
in another.

"Now throw off your hat," said Daisy. "It's shady enough, and
you'll feel cooler. Now Nora. how shall we do? — You try one,
and I'll try one; that will be best; and then we can see. I
want them to look very pretty, you know; and they are to be
filled with strawberries to send home to the children; if we
make them very nice they will go on the table, I think, and
help dress it up."

For a time there was comparative silence, while the little
hands turned and twisted the mosses and bits of larch and
cedar and hemlock in and out of the openings of the baskets.
It was not found easy at first to produce a good effect; hands
were unused to the work; and Nora declared after half an hour
she believed the baskets would look best plain, just as they
were. But Daisy would not give up. She grew very warm indeed
with the excitement of her efforts, but she worked on. By and
by she succeeded in dressing a basket so that it looked rich
with green; and then a bit or two of rosebuds or heath or
bright yellow everlasting made the adornment gay and pretty
enough. It was taken for a model; and from that time tongues
and fingers worked together, and heat was forgotten.

"Isn't this pleasant!" exclaimed Daisy at length, dropping her
work into her lap. "Isn't it just as pleasant as it can be,
Nora?"

"Yes," said Nora, working away.

"Just see the river — it's so smooth. And look up into the
leaves; — how pretty they are! — and every one of them is
trembling a little; not one of them is still, Nora. How
beautiful the green is, with the sun shining through! Wouldn't
you like to be a bird up there?"

"No," said Nora; "I'd rather be down here."

"I think it would be nice to be a bird," said Daisy; "it must
be pleasant up in those branches — only the birds don't know
anything, I suppose. What do you think heaven must be like,
Nora?"

"Daisy, you're so funny. What makes you think about heaven?"

"Why, you know," said Daisy slowly, "I expect to go there. Why
shouldn't I think about it?"

"But you won't go there till you die," said Nora.

"I don't see what that has to do with my thinking about it. I
shall die, some time."

"Yes, but Daisy, don't be so queer. You are not going to die
now."

"I don't know about that," said Daisy; "but I like to think of
heaven. Jesus is there. Isn't it pleasant, Nora, that He can
see us always, and knows what we are doing?"

"Daisy, Marmaduke said he wished you would invite him to your
party."

The turn Nora wished to give to Daisy's thoughts took effect
for the moment. It was grievous; to wish so much for her
friend and to have him join in the wish, and all in vain. But,
characteristically, Daisy said nothing. She was only silent a
moment.

"Nora, did you ever hear Mr. Dinwiddie say that poor people
disliked rich people?"

"No. They don't dislike him, I know."

"Is Mr. Dinwiddie rich too?"

"Of course he is," said Nora.

"I shouldn't think anybody would dislike him," said Daisy;
"but then he never seemed like rich people." She went into a
muse about it.

"Well, he is," said Nora. "He has got as much money as he
wants, I know."

"Nora, you know the parable of the servants and the talents?"

"Yes."

"Are you one of the good servants?"

Nora looked up very uneasily. Daisy's face was one of quiet
inquiry. Nora fidgeted.

"Daisy, I wish you would be like yourself, as you used to be,
and not talk so."

"But _are_ you, Nora?"

"No, I don't suppose I am! I couldn't do much."

"But would you like to have the King say to you what He said
to the servant who had one talent and didn't do anything?"

"Daisy, I don't want to have you talk to me about it," said
Nora, a little loftily. "I have got Marmaduke to talk to me,
and that's as much as I want."

"_I_ mean to be one of them!" said Daisy gently. "Jesus is the
king; and it makes me so glad to think of it! — so glad, Nora.
He is my King, and I belong to Him; and I _love_ to give Him all
I've got; and so would you, Nora. I only want to find out all
I have got, that I may give it to Him."

Nora went on very assiduously with the covering of the
baskets, and Daisy presently followed her example. But the
talk was checked for a little.

"Nora, Jesus is _your_ King, though," said Daisy again. "He made
everything, and He made you; and He _is_ your King. I wish you
would be His servant too."

Daisy was greatly astonished at the effect of this speech; for
Nora without speaking arose, left her baskets and greens on
the ground, and set off from the spot with an air that said
she did not mean to return to it. Daisy was too bewildered to
speak, and only looked after her till she was too far to be
recalled. What was the matter? Greatly puzzled and dismayed,
she tried to find a possible answer to this question. Left
alone on her birthday in the midst of her business, by her
best friend, — what could have brought about so untoward a
combination of circumstances? Daisy could not understand it;
and there was no time to go after Nora to get an
understanding. The baskets must be finished. Luckily there did
not much remain to be done, for Daisy was tired. As soon as
her work was out of her hand, she went to see about the
success of her table. It was done; a nice long, neat table of
boards, on trestles; and it was fixed under a beautiful grove
of trees, on the edge of a bank from which the view over the
grounds was charming. Mr. Stilton was just gathering up his
tools to go away, and looked himself so smiling and bright
that Daisy concluded there was reason to hope her party was
going to be all right; so with fresh spirit she went in to her
own dinner.

After that it was busy times. The long table was to be spread
with a table-cloth, and then the cups and plates in proper
number and position, leaving the places for the baskets of
strawberries. It was a grave question whether they should be
arranged in a pyramid, with roses filling the spaces, or be
distributed all round the table. Daisy and Joanna debated the
matter, and decided finally on the simpler manner; and Logan
dressed some splendid bouquets for the centre of the table
instead. Daisy saw that the maids were bringing from the house
pretty china dishes and cups; and then she ran away to get
dressed herself. Just as this was almost done she saw her
mother driving off from the house with several gentlemen in
her party. It suddenly struck Daisy, who was to do the honours
of the strawberry feast? She ran down stairs to find her
father; she could not find him, he was out; so Daisy went to
see that the setting the table was going on all right, and
then came and planted herself in the library, to wait for Mr.
Randolph's coming in. And while she waited eagerly, she began
to think about its being her birthday.

"Nine years old," thought Daisy; "there isn't much of my life
passed. Perhaps, if I live a good while, I may do a great deal
to serve the Lord. I wonder if I know all the things I can do
now! all my 'talents'? I am afraid of missing some of them for
not knowing. Everything I have, Mr. Dinwiddie said, — so Nora
said, — is a talent of some sort or other. How strange Nora
was to-day! But I suppose she will come and tell me what was
the matter. Now about the talents — I wish papa would come!
This birthday was one talent, and I thought it would be a good
thing if papa's people could be made to know that he is not
'stuck up,' if he is rich, — but if neither he nor mamma come
out to speak to them at all, I wonder what they will think?"

Daisy ran out again to view the table. Yes, it was looking
very handsome. Joanna was there herself, ordering and
directing; and china and glass, and flowers, and silver, made
a very brilliant appearance, though none of the dishes were on
the table as yet.

"But who is going to pour out the coffee and the tea, Joanna?"
said Daisy. "Aren't you going to dress and come and do it for
me?"

"La! Miss Daisy, I don't see how I can. I expect the best plan
will be to have you do it yourself. That will give the most
satisfaction, I guess."

"Joanna! I don't know how."

"Yes, you do, Miss Daisy; you'll have the coffee urn, and all
you have to do is to turn the faucet, you know; and Sam will
wait upon you, and if you want tea poured out, he can lift it
for you. It'll taste twice as good to all the party if you do
it."

"Do you think so, Joanna?"

"I don't want to think about it," said Joanna; "I know without
thinking."

"But, Joanna, I can't reach the things."

"I'll have a high seat fixed for you. I know what you want."

Daisy stood watching; it was such a pleasure to see Joanna's
nice preparations. And now came on the great dishes of
strawberries, rich and sweet to the eye and the smell; and
then handsome pitchers filled with milk and ice-water, in a
range down the table. Then came great fruit cakes and pound
cakes, superbly frosted and dressed with strawberries and
rosebuds; Joanna had spared no pains. Great store of sliced
bread and butter too, and plates of ham and cold beef, and
forms of jelly. And when the dressed baskets of strawberries
were set in their places all round the table, filling up the
spaces, there was a very elegant, flowery, and sparkling
appearance of a rich feast. Why was not Nora there? — and with
the next thought Daisy flew back to the library to find her
father. He was found.

"Oh, papa," she said, gently, though she had rushed in like a
little summer wind, "are you going to come to the feast?"

"What for, my dear?"

"Papa, they will all like it; they will be pleased."

"I think they will enjoy themselves better without me."

"Papa, I am sure they would be pleased."

"I should only make it a constraint for them, Daisy. I do not
think they will want anything but the strawberries —
especially if _you_ look at them."

"But mamma is not here to speak to them either, papa."

"You think somebody must speak to them, eh? I don't think I
can make speeches, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, stretching
himself at ease in a chaise longue. "But perhaps I may step
down and look at them by and by, my dear."

There was no more to be done, Daisy knew. She went slowly off
over the grounds, meditating whether the people would be
satisfied with so very at-arms'-length an entertainment. Would
_this_ draw the poor nearer to the rich? or the rich nearer to
the poor? Daisy had an instinctive, delicate sense of the
want, which she set herself to do the best her little self
could to supply. "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to
you" — that sweet and most perfect rule of high breeding was
moving her now; and already the spirit of another rule, which
in words she did not yet know, was beginning to possess her
heart in its young discipleship; she was ready "to do good to
all men, even as she had opportunity."

She went slowly back to the table. Nobody come yet. Joanna was
there, putting some last touches. Suddenly a new idea struck
Daisy, as she saw what a long table it was.

"Joanna — there must be somebody else to wait. Sam can never
do it all."

"He'll have to. James is busy, and Hiram. Sam's all that can
be spared; and that's as much as ever."

"But I must have more, Joanna. Can't some of the maids come?"

"To wait? — they wouldn't, Miss Daisy."

"Yes, they would, Joanna. You must make them, Joanna. Send
Maria and Ophelia down here, and I'll tell them what I want of
them. And quick, Joanna; and don't you tell them, please, what
I want."

"I hope you'll grow up to marry the President, some day," said
Joanna, walking off; "you could help him if he got puzzled!"

Poor Daisy almost felt as if she had the affairs of a nation
on her hands, when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Stilton, dressed in
their best, coming near through the trees. But the spirit of
kindness was so thoroughly at work in Daisy, that it made her
reception of her guests just what it ought to be, and she was
delighted a few minutes after to see that their eyes were
kindling with gratification. Logan looked at the table as if
he had some right to take an interest in it; the hay-makers
were open-mouthed; the women in a flutter of ribands and
propriety; and the various people who had come upon the ground
with doubtful expectancy, sat down to table proud and gay. It
was a pretty sight! and prettier was the sight of little Daisy
perched up at one end of the board, and with tremulous fingers
filling cups of coffee, and ordering cups of tea.

"Miss Daisy," said Mrs. Stilton, "it's too much trouble for
you to fill all them cups — sha'n't I come there, and take the
responsibility? if you would delegate me."

Gladly Daisy agreed, slipped off her high chair, and saw Mrs.
Stilton's full portly figure take the place. But Daisy's
labours were not ended. She saw one of the Irish labourers
sitting with his eyes straight before him, and nothing on his
plate for them to look at. Daisy went round. It was her feast;
she felt she must do the honours.

"Will you have a cup of coffee?" said a soft little voice at
the man's elbow. He started.

"Ach! — Sure Miss, I wouldn't be troublesome."

"It's no trouble. Will you have some tea or some coffee?"

" 'Dade, sorrow a drop ever I tuk of ary one of 'em but the one
time, plase yer ladyship. It's too good for me, sure; that's
why it don't agree wid me, Miss."

Very much puzzled by the confidential little nod with which
this information was communicated, Daisy yet felt she could
not give up the matter.

"Then what will you have? — some ham? or some strawberries?"

"Sure I'll do very well, niver fear, plase yer ladyship; don't
trouble yerself. The angels wouldn't want something purtier to
eat, than what we have, Miss!"

Daisy gave up in despair, and charged Sam to see that the man
had his supper. Then, without asking any more questions, she
carried a cup of coffee down the table to a meek-looking old
woman who likewise seemed to be in a state of bewilderment. It
was the mother of Michael the gate-keeper. She started a
little too, as Daisy's hand set down her cup, and half rose
from her chair.

"Blessings on ye, for a dear little lady! It's a wonder to see
the likes of you. The saints above bless the hand and the fut
that wasn't above doing that same! and may ye always have
plenty to wait on ye, and the angels of heaven above all!"

"Sit down, Mrs. Sullivan," said Daisy. "Do you like coffee?"

"Do I like it! It's better to me nor anything else in the
worruld, when it wouldn't be a sup o' summat now and thin, if
I'd have the rheumatiz."

"A sup of what?"

"Medicine, dear, medicine that I take whin the doctor says
it's good for me. May you niver know the want of it, nor of
anything in the wide worruld! and niver know what it is to be
poor!"

Daisy managed to get the old woman to eat, supplying her with
various things, every one of which was accepted with — "Thank
you, Miss," and "Blessings on ye!" and turning away from her
at last, saw her handmaids approaching from the house. The
girls, however disposed to stand upon their dignity, could not
refuse to do what their little mistress was doing; and a
lively time of it they and Daisy had for the next hour, with
all the help Sam and Mrs. Stilton could give them. Daisy saw
that strawberries and cream, cake and coffee, were thoroughly
enjoyed; she saw too that the honour of being served off
silver and china was duly felt. If her father had but come out
to say a kind word! but he did not come. His little substitute
did all a substitute could do; and at last when everybody
seemed in full tide of merrymaking, she stole away that they
might have no constraint upon it. Before she had got far, she
was startled by a noise behind her, and looking round saw that
all the tableful had risen to their feet. The next instant
there was a great shout. Daisy could not imagine what they
were doing, but she saw that they were all looking at her. She
came back a step or two. Now there was another shout greater
than the other; the women flourished handkerchiefs, the men
waved their arms above their heads. "Long life to ye!" "Good
luck to ye forever!" "Blessings on ye for a lady!" "Many
thanks to ye, Miss Daisy!" "May ye niver want as good!"
"Hurrah for the flower of Melbourne!" — Shouts various and
confused at last made Daisy comprehend they were cheering _her_.
So she gave them a little courtesy or two, and walked off
again as fast as she thought it was proper to go.

She went home and to the library, but found nobody there; and
sat down to breathe and rest; she was tired. Presently Ransom
came in.

"Hallo, Daisy! — is nobody here?"

"No."

"Have you seen your things yet?"

"My things? — what things?"

"Why, your _things_ — your birthday things. Of course you
haven't, or you'd know. Never mind, you'll know what I mean by
and by. I say, Daisy."

"What?"

"You know when papa asked you this morning why you didn't go
yesterday to Crum Elbow? —"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

Daisy hesitated. Ransom was cutting a pencil vigorously, but
as she was silent he looked up.

"Why didn't you tell him? did you tell him _afterwards?_"

"Why, no, Ransom!"

"Well, why didn't you? — that's what I want to know. Didn't
you tell anybody?"

"No, of course not."

"Why didn't you, then?"

"Ransom," said Daisy, doubtfully.

"What? I think you're turned queer."

"I don't know whether you'd understand me."

"Understand _you!_ That's a good one! I couldn't understand _you!_
I should rather like to have you try."

"Well, I'll tell you," said Daisy.

"Just do."

"Ransom, you know who the Lord Jesus Christ is."

"I used to; but I have forgotten."

"Oh, Ransom!"

"Come, go ahead, and don't palaver."

"I am His servant," said Daisy; "and He has bid me do to other
people what I would like to have them do to me."

"He has bid you! What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. It is in the Bible."

"What's in the Bible?"

"_That;_ — that I must do to other people what I would like to
have them do to me."

"And I suppose you thought I wouldn't like to have you tell?
Well you're out, for I don't care a shot about it — there! and
you may tell just as fast as you're a mind to."

"Oh, Ransom! you know —"

"What do I know?"

"It's no matter," said little Daisy, checking herself.

"Go ahead, and finish! What is the use of breaking off? That's
the way with girls; — they don't know how to speak English.
You may just as well say the whole of something ugly, as the
half of it."

If Daisy was tempted to comply with the request, she did not
give way to the temptation; for she was silent; and in a mood
less pleasant than her own apparently, Ransom took himself out
of her presence. Left alone, Daisy presently curled herself
down on a couch, and being very tired fell asleep.


CHAPTER VI.

THE EPERGNE.


Daisy slept on, until a bustle and sounds of voices and
laughter in the hall, and boots clattering over the marble and
up the staircase, at last found their way into her ears.

The riding party had got home. Daisy sat up and rubbed her
eves and looked out.

The sun was low, and shining from the western mountains over
the tops of all the trees. It was certainly near dinner-time;
the cool glittering look of the light on the trees and shrubs
could not be earlier than that. What had become of the
strawberry feast? It seemed like a dream. Daisy shook off the
remains of her sleep and hurried out by one of the glass doors
to go and see. She ran down to the bank where the table was
spread. It was a feast over. The company were gone, so were
the baskets of strawberries; yes, and the very bouquets of
flowers had been taken away. That was a sign of pleasure.
Nothing was left but the disordered table. Daisy hoped the
people had had a good time, and slowly went back towards the
house. As she came near the library window she saw her father,
standing in it.

"Well, Daisy?"

"Well, papa."

"How has the feast gone off?"

"I don't know, papa. There's nothing left but the boards and
the cups and saucers."

Mr. Randolph sat down and drew his little daughter up to his
side.

"Have you enjoyed it, Daisy?"

"Yes — papa — I have enjoyed it pretty well."

"Only pretty well! — for your birthday! Do you think now you
made a good choice, Daisy?"

"Yes, sir — I think I did."

"What has been wanting? I am afraid your ham did not figure on
the board, if it is so empty?"

Daisy did not answer, but her father, watching her, saw
something in her face which made him pursue the subject.

"Did it?"

"No, papa," said Daisy, colouring a little.

"How was that?"

"Joanna arranged everything that was to go on the table."

"And left the ham out of the question? It seems to me that was
a mistake, though I am not much of a housekeeper. Why was
that?"

"Papa," said Daisy, "do you think I would make a wrong use of
a ham?"

Mr. Randolph laughed. "Why, Daisy, unless you are a finished
economist, that might be. Do you mean that I am not to know
the particular use made of this ham."

"Papa, I wish you would not desire to know!"

But Daisy's face was too much in earnest. "I think I cannot
grant that request," said her father. "You must tell me."

Daisy looked distressed. But she dared not evade the order,
though she feared very much what might come of it.

"I didn't buy the ham for the party, papa."

"Then for what?"

"I bought it, papa, for a little girl who was going without
her breakfast. She came to Mr. Lamb's to buy ham, and she had
no money, and he wouldn't let her have any."

"And what became of your baskets?"

"Oh, I got them, papa; I got cheaper ones; and Nora and I
dressed them with greens. I had money enough."

Mr. Randolph took his little daughter on his knee, and softly
put down his lips to kiss her.

"But Daisy, after all, why did you not go to Crum Elbow
yesterday afternoon, as you meant to do?"

"Papa, this morning did better, for it was pleasanter."

"Do you call that an answer?" said Mr. Randolph, who was still
softly kissing her.

"Papa, if you would be so _very_ good as not to ask me that?"

"I am not good at all, Daisy. I ask, — and I mean to know."

Daisy was in trouble. No entreaty was worth a straw after
that. She was puzzled how to answer.

"Papa," she ventured, "I don't like to tell you, because
Ransom would not like I should."

"Ransom's pleasure must give way to mine, Daisy."

"He wanted the pony-chaise," said Daisy, looking very
downcast.

"And you gave it him?"

"No, sir."

"What then? Daisy," said Mr. Randolph, bringing her head round
to face him, "tell me what I want to know without any more
questions."

"He took the chaise, papa, — that was all, — so I went this
morning."

"Ransom knew you wanted it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, Daisy, tell me further, why you did not give me this
information when I asked about your drive this morning at
breakfast?"

"Papa, I thought Ransom would not like to have it told."

"Were you afraid he would revenge himself in any way if you
did?"

"Oh, no, papa! not at all."

"Then what moved you to silence?"

"Why, papa, I did not want to trouble Ransom. I was afraid you
would be displeased with him perhaps, if I told."

"Were you not displeased when he took the chaise?"

"Yes, papa," said Daisy, softly.

"And had your displeasure all gone off by this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Randolph was not quite satisfied. There was no doubting
Daisy; but he had reasons of his own for knowing that she had
not said to him quite all that she had confessed to her
brother. He would have liked the whole confession; but did not
see how he could get at it just now. He took a little gold
piece out of his pocket, and quietly slipped it into Daisy's
hand.

"Papa! what is this for?"

"For your poor woman, if you like. You can send it to her by
Sam."

"Oh, thank you, papa! But, papa, she won't take it so — she
will not take the least thing without working to pay for it."

"How do you know?"

"She told me so, papa."

"Who told you so?"

"The poor woman — Mrs. Harbonner."

"Where did you see her?"

"I saw her at her house, papa."

"Why did you go to her house?"

"To take her the ham, sir."

"And she told you she wouldn't have anything without doing
work for it — eh?"

"Yes, papa — she wouldn't even take the ham any other way."

"What work did you engage her to do, Daisy?"

"I thought Joanna could find her some, papa."

"Well, let Joanna manage it. You must not go there again, nor
into any strange house, Daisy, without my leave. Now go and
get ready for dinner, and your part of your birthday."

Daisy went very soberly. To see Mrs. Harbonner and her
daughter again, and to do them all sorts of good, had been a
dream of hers, ever since the morning. Now this was shut off.
She was very sorry. How were the rich to do good to the poor,
if they never came together? A question which Daisy thought
about while she was dressing. Then she doubted how her feast
had gone; and she had been obliged to tell of Ransom.
Altogether, Daisy felt that doing good was a somewhat
difficult matter, and she let June dress her in very sober
silence. Daisy was elegantly dressed for her birthday and the
dinner. Her robe was a fine beautifully embroidered muslin,
looped with rose ribands on the shoulder and tied with a broad
rose-coloured sash round the waist. There was very little rose
in Daisy's cheeks, however; and June stood and looked at her
when she had done, with mingled satisfaction and
dissatisfaction.

"You've tired yourself to-day, Miss Daisy, with making that
party for the men!" she said.

"Have you done? Now, June, will you go away, please, and leave
me my room for a few minutes?"

"Yes, Miss Daisy — but it's most time for you to go down."

June went, and Daisy locked her doors, and dropped on her
knees by her little bed. How was she to know what was right to
do? and still more, how was she to do it wisely and
faithfully? Little Daisy went to her stronghold, and asked for
help; and that she might know what her talents were.

"Miss Daisy," said the voice of June at the door, "you are
wanted in the library."

Down went Daisy in a hurry. There was her father; and there
also, to her great surprise, were Nora and Mr. Dinwiddie!

"I have brought Nora to make her peace with you, Daisy," said
Mr. Dinwiddie. "I found her in great trouble because, she
said, you were offended with her. Will you love her again?"

Daisy put her arms round Nora, who looked a little ashamed,
and gave her a very peaceful and reassuring kiss. The
gentlemen both smiled at her action. It was too graceful to
need the aid of words.

"My mission is successful," said Mr. Dinwiddie.

"But I was not offended the least bit, Mr. Dinwiddie," said
Daisy.

"I believe it; but Nora thought you had so much reason, that
she would not come alone to make her apology."

The young man looked towards Mr. Randolph, whose attention was
just then taken by somebody who had come to him on business.
He waited.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Dinwiddie." said Daisy.

"I must go."

"But I want to ask you a question, sir."

Mr. Dinwiddie sat down.

"Mr. Dinwiddie," said Daisy with a grave face, "what are my
talents?"

"What is the question, Daisy? I do not understand."

"You know, sir — one servant had ten and another had five.
What are my talents?"

"I do not know."

"But how can I tell, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

Then the young man's eyes glowed, as Daisy had a few times
seen them do before.

"Ask the Lord, Daisy. See what His word tells you to do."

"But Mr. Dinwiddie, I am little; I can't do much."

"_You_ cannot do anything. But Jesus can use you, to do what He
pleases, — if you will be His little servant. Give me that
spoon, Nora."

"But, Marmaduke —"

"Yes — I know," said her brother. He took from Nora's hand?
and unfolded from its wrapping-paper a very curious thing,
which he told Daisy was an Egyptian spoon. He did not give her
time to look at it, only he held it so that she saw what it
was.

"You see that spoon, Daisy. It cannot do anything. But in your
hand it might carry drops of comfort to somebody's lips."

Daisy looked earnestly at the spoon, then at the bright eyes
that were fixed on her; and taking his meaning, she smiled, a
bright, satisfied smile. It satisfied Mr. Dinwiddie too. He
wrapped up the spoon again, handed it to Nora, and rose up to
make his adieus to Mr. Randolph.

"Daisy," whispered Nora, "this spoon is for you. Will you take
it for my birthday present? Marmaduke says it is very
handsome. It is his — he gave it to me to give to you."

"It is very, very old," said Mr. Dinwiddie, coming to Daisy.
"It was found in an old Egyptian tomb, and was made and put
there perhaps before the Israelites came out of Egypt. Good
bye!"

He took Daisy's hand with a strong, kindly grasp, and went
away with his little sister just as the dinner-bell rang.
Daisy had not time to look at her present. She held it tight,
and went in to dinner with it in her hand.

Daisy did not generally dine with her father and mother. To-
day was a great exception to the rule. Even to-day she was not
expected to eat anything till the dessert came on; she had had
her dinner; so she had the more time for other things. Her
place was by her mother; Captain Drummond on the other side,
and Gary McFarlane opposite. Then her aunt, Mrs. Gary, had
arrived, just an hour before dinner; and she and her children
and one or two other friends filled the table, and the talking
and laughing went round faster than the soup. Daisy looked and
listened, very much pleased to see her aunt and cousins, and
amused; though, as usual, in her quiet fashion, she gave no
sign of it.

"How did that party come off, Daisy?" said Mr. Gary McFarlane.

"What party?" said Mrs. Gary.

"Daisy's birthday entertainment."

"Daisy invited all the gardeners and haymakers to take supper
and strawberries with her, Aunt Gary," said Ransom.

"What is that?" said Mrs. Gary, looking to her sister.

"Ransom has stated the matter correctly."

"Gardeners and haymakers! What was that for, Daisy?"

"I thought it would give them pleasure, aunt Gary, —" said
Daisy.

"Give _them_ pleasure! of course, I suppose it would; but are we
to give everybody pleasure that we can? At that rate, why not
invite our footmen and chambermaids too? Why stop?"

"I suppose that will be the next thing," said Mrs. Randolph.
"Daisy, you must not eat that cheese."

"What's Daisy's notion?" said Mrs. Gary, appealing to her
brother-in-law.

"A child's notion," said Mr. Randolph. "The worst you can say
of it is, that it is Arcadian."

"How did it go off, Daisy?" said Gary McFarlane.

"I don't know," said Daisy. "I think it went off pretty well."

"How did the hob-nails behave themselves?"

"They had lots of things to eat," said Ransom. "I don't
believe we shall have any strawberries for a day or two
ourselves."

"Did you give them strawberries?" said Mrs. Gary.

"A tableful," said Ransom; "and baskets and baskets to take
home."

"Something new, —" said Mrs. Gary, eating her salad.

"But how did the company behave?" said Mr. McFarlane.

"I saw no behaviour that was not proper," Daisy answered,
gravely. She thought as much could not be said of the present
company, seeing that servants were present.

"What have you there, Daisy?" said her mother.

"It is a birthday present, mamma. It is an Egyptian spoon."

"An Egyptian spoon! Where did you get it?"

"Mr. Dinwiddie — I mean, Nora gave it to me."

"What about Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Nothing, mamma."

"Then why did you speak his name?"

"I don't know. He brought Nora to see me just now."

"Where did you see him?"

"In the library."

"Mr. Randolph" — said the lady — "did Mr. Dinwiddie call to
see you?"

"He did me that honour," said Mr. Randolph; "but I think
primarily his visit was to Daisy."

"Who is Mr. Dinwiddie?" said Mrs. Gary, seeing a contraction
in her sister's brow. "It's a Virginian name."

"He is a fanatic," said Mrs. Randolph. "I don't know what else
he is."

"Let us see the fanatic's spoon," said Gary McFarlane.
"Egyptian, is it, Daisy? Curious, upon my word!"

"Beautiful!" said Captain Drummond, taking the spoon in his
turn across the table. "Beautiful! This is a nice piece of
carving — and very old it undoubtedly is. This is the lotus,
Daisy — this stem part of the spoon; and do you see, in the
bowl here is the carving of a lake, with fish in it?"

"Is it?" said Daisy; "and what is a _lotus_, Captain Drummond?"

"If you will put me in mind to-morrow, privately, I will tell
you about it," said he.

"Let me look at that, Captain Drummond," said Mrs. Gary. —
"Why, here's a duck's head at the end of the handle. What a
dear old thing! Who is this Mr. Dinwiddie, pray?"

"The duck's bill makes the spoon, aunt Gary," said Daisy.

"If you asked me _what_ he is, I have told you," said Mrs.
Randolph.

"He is a young man, of good family I believe, spending the
summer with a neighbour of ours who is his relation," Mr.
Randolph answered.

"What is he a fanatic about?"

This question did not get an immediate answer; the
conversation diverged, and it was lost. Daisy's spoon made the
round of the company. It was greatly admired, both from its
oddness and from the beauty of its carving.

"Daisy, I will buy this spoon of you," said her aunt.

Daisy thought not; but she said, "With what, aunt Gary?"

"With anything you please. Do you set a high value on it? What
is it worth?"

Daisy hesitated; and then she said, "I think it is worth my
regard, aunt Gary!"

She could not guess why there was a general little laugh round
the table at this speech.

"Daisy, you are an original," said Mrs. Gary. "May I ask, why
this piece of old Egypt deserves your regard?"

"I think anything does, aunt Gary, that is a gift," Daisy
said, a little shyly.

"If your first speech sounded forty years old, your second
does not," said the lady.

"Arcadian again, both of them," Mr. Randolph remarked.

"You always take Daisy's part," said the lady briskly. But Mr.
Randolph let the assertion drop.

"Mamma," said Daisy, "what is an original?"

"Something your aunt says you are. Do you like some of this
_biscuit_, Daisy?"

"If you please, mamma. And mamma, what do you mean by a
fanatic?"

"Something that I will not have you," said her mother, with
knitting brow again.

Daisy slowly eat her biscuit-glacé and wondered — wondered
what it could be that Mr. Dinwiddie was, and that her mother
was determined she should not be.

Mr. Dinwiddie was a friend of poor people — was that what her
mother meant? He was a devoted, unflinching servant of Christ;
— "so will I be," said Daisy to herself; "so I am now; for I
have given the Lord Jesus all I have got, and I don't want to
take anything back. Is that what mamma calls being a fanatic?"
— Daisy's meditations were broken off; for a general stir
round the table made her look up.

The table was cleared, and the servants were bringing on the
fruit; and with the fruit they were setting on the table a
beautiful old fashioned silver épergne, that was never used
but for great occasions. Generally it was adorned with fruit
and flowers; to-day it was empty, and the attendants proceeded
to arrange upon it very strange looking things; packages in
white paper, books, trinkets, what not; and in the middle of
all a little statuette of a Grecian nymph, which was a great
favourite of Daisy's. Daisy began to guess that the épergne
had something to do with her birthday. But the nymph? —
perhaps she came there by her beauty to dignify this use made
of the stately old thing. However, she forgot all about
fanatics and Mr. Dinwiddie for the present. The looks and
smiles of the company were unmistakable. Who would speak
first?

"How are you to reach the épergne, Daisy?" said her father.

"Shall I be the medium?" said Mrs. Gary. "These things are to
travel up to Daisy, I suppose."

"I will represent the rolling stock of this road, and
undertake to carry parcels safely," said Mr. McFarlane. "Any
message with the goods, Mrs. Gary?"

"I believe they carry their own message with them," said the
lady; — "or else I don't see what is the use of these little
white tickets. Where shall I begin, Mr. Randolph?"

"I do not think the order of proceedings will be criticized,
provided it does not delay," said Daisy's father.

"Then transmit this, Gary."

"Literary freight" —said Gary McFarlane, handing over to Daisy
a little parcel of books. Five or six little volumes, in
pretty binding — Daisy looked eagerly to see what they might
be. "Marmion" — "The Lady of the Lake" — "Scott's Poetical
Works."

"Oh, thank you, papa!" said Daisy, looking delighted.

"Not me," said Mr. Randolph. "I am not to be thanked."

"There's no name in them —" said Daisy.

"That's Preston's gift," said her aunt. Preston was Daisy's
oldest cousin; a fine boy of sixteen.

"I like it so much, Preston!" said Daisy, sending a grateful
look down the table to where he sat.

"Is Daisy fond of poetry?" inquired Mr. McFarlane, with a
grave look.

"Very fond," Mrs. Randolph said.

"Dangerous taste!" said Gary. "What is this new consignment?"

"Something valuable — take care of it."

"To be taken with care — right side up," said Gary, putting
before Daisy by a stretch of his long arm a little paper
covered package. Daisy's cheeks were beginning to grow pink.
She unfolded the package.

A little box — then white cotton — then a gold bracelet.

"Mamma? —" said Daisy instantly. Mrs. Randolph stooped and
kissed her. "It's beautiful, mamma!" Daisy spoke very
earnestly; however, her face did not show the light of
pleasure which the first gift had called into it.

"How did you know so well?" said Mr. McFarlane. "Mrs.
Randolph, I am afraid you are not literary. Now Daisy,
exercise your discernment upon that."

It was a little box containing a Chinese puzzle, with the
plans and keys belonging to it.

"Where do you think that comes from?"

Daisy looked up. "I think — perhaps — from you, Mr.
McFarlane."

"Do you think I am anything like a puzzle?"

"I think — perhaps — you mean to be," — Daisy said,
innocently. But a shout from the whole tableful answered to
this chance hit. Daisy didn't know what they could mean.

"I have done!" said Gary. "I have got more than my match. But
I know who will plague people worse than a puzzle, if she gets
well educated. There's a pair of gloves, you little fencer."

It was a nice little thick pair of riding or driving gloves;
beautifully made and ornamented. These came from Eloise,
Daisy's other cousin. Mrs. Gary had brought her two beautiful
toilet bottles of Bohemian glass. Daisy's end of the table was
growing full.

"What is this?" said Mrs. Gary, taking from the épergne a
sealed note directed to Daisy.

"That is Ransom's present. Give her mine first," said Mr.
Randolph.

"Which is yours? I don't see anything more."

"That little Proserpine in the middle."

"_This?_ Are you going to give this to Daisy? But why is she
called Proserpine? I don't see."

"Nor I," said Mr. Randolph, "only that everything must have a
name. And this damsel is supposed to have been carrying a
basket, which might easily have been a basket of flowers, I
don't see how the statement could be disproved. And Daisy is
fonder of the little nymph, I believe, than any one else in
the house.

"Oh, papa! thank you," exclaimed Daisy, whose eyes sparkled.
"I like to have her very much!"

"Well, here she goes," said Mrs. Gary. "Hand her over. You
have a variety, Daisy. Chinese playthings and Grecian art."

"_Some_ modern luxury," said Gary McFarlane. "Just a little."

"Egyptian art, too," said Captain Drummond.

"Oh, where's my spoon?" cried Daisy. "Has papa got it?"

"Here is Ransom's present," said her aunt, handing the note.
"Nobody knows what it is. Are we to know?"

Daisy opened and read, read over again, looked very grave, and
finally folded the note up in silence.

"What is it?" said her aunt.

Daisy hesitated, wishing, but in doubt if she would be
permitted to keep it to herself. Her father answered for her.

"It is all of Ransom's part, share, and possession in a
certain small equipage known about these premises; the intent
and understanding being, that henceforth the pony carriage and
pony are Daisy's sole property, and to be by her used and
appropriated without any other person's interference
whatever."

"But, papa —" Ransom began.

"I think it is a very poor arrangement, Mr. Randolph," said
Ransom's mother. "Daisy cannot use the pony half enough for
his good."

"She will make more use of him now," said Mr. Randolph.

Ransom looked very glum. His mother rose, with the ladies, and
went to the drawing-room.


CHAPTER VII.

A SOLDIER.


A day or two after the birthday, it happened that Captain
Drummond was enjoying the sunshine in a way that gentlemen
like to enjoy it; that is, he was stretched comfortably on the
grass under the shade of some elm trees, looking at it.
Perhaps it was not exactly the sunshine that he was enjoying,
but the soft couch of short grass, and the luxurious warm
shadow of the elms, and a little fanciful breeze which played
and stopped playing, and set the elm trees all a flutter and
let them be still, by turns. But Captain Drummond was having a
good time there, all by himself, and lying at length in a most
lazy luxurious fashion; when he suddenly was "ware" of a fold
of white drapery somewhere not very far from his left ear. He
raised himself a little up, and there to be sure, as he had
guessed, was Daisy. She was all alone too, and standing there
looking at him.

Now Captain Drummond was a great favourite of Daisy's. In the
first place he was a handsome fellow, with a face which was
both gentle and manly; and his curly light brown hair and his
slight well-trimmed moustache set off features that were
pleasant for man or woman to look upon. Perhaps Daisy liked
him partly for this, but I think she had other reasons. At any
rate, there she stood looking at him.

"Can you command me, Daisy?" said the young officer.

"Are you at leisure, Captain Drummond?"

"Looks like it!" said the gentleman rousing himself. "What
shall I give you? a camp-chair? or will you take the — Oh!
that is a better arrangement."

For Daisy had thrown on the ground a soft shawl for a carpet,
and took her place upon it beside Captain Drummond, who looked
at her in a pleased kind of way.

"Are you quite at leisure, Captain Drummond?"

"Gentlemen always are — when ladies' affairs are to be
attended to."

"Are they?" said Daisy.

"They ought to be!"

"But I am not a lady."

"What do you call yourself?"

"I don't know," said Daisy, gravely. "I suppose I am a little
piece of one."

"Is that it?" said Captain Drummond, laughing. "Well, I will
give you as large a piece of my leisure as you can make use of
— without regard to proportions. What is on hand, Daisy?"

"Captain Drummond," said Daisy, with a very serious face, —
"do soldiers have a very hard time?"

"Not always. Not when they are lying out under the trees at
Melbourne, for example."

"But I mean, when they are acting like soldiers?"

He was ready with a laughing answer again, but seeing how
earnest Daisy's face was, he controlled himself; and leaning
on his elbow, with just a little smile of amusement on his
face, he answered her.

"Well, Daisy — sometimes they do."

"How, Captain Drummond?"

"In a variety of ways."

"Will you please tell me about it?"

He looked up at her. "Why, Daisy, what makes you curious in
the matter? Have you a friend in the army?"

"No other but you," said Daisy.

"That is a kind speech. To reward you for it, I will tell you
anything you please. What is the question, Daisy?"

"I would like to know in what way soldiers have a hard time?"

"Well, Daisy, to begin with, a soldier can't do what he has a
mind."

"Not about anything?"

"Well — no; not unless he gets leave. I am only at Melbourne
now because I have got leave; and I must go when my leave is
up. A soldier does not belong to himself."

"To whom does he belong?"

"To his commander! He must go and come, do or not do things,
just as his General bids him; and ask no questions."

"Ask no questions?" said Daisy.

"No; only do what he is ordered."

"But why mayn't he ask questions?"

"That isn't his business. He has nothing to do with the reason
of things; all he has got to do is his duty. The _reason_ is his
General's duty to look after."

"But suppose he had a very good General — then that wouldn't
be much of a hardship," said Daisy.

"Well, that is a very material point," said the Captain.
"_Suppose_ he has a good General — as you say; that would make a
great difference, certainly."

"Is that all, Captain Drummond?"

"Not quite all."

"What else?"

"Well, Daisy, a soldier, even under a good General, is often
ordered to do hard things."

"What sort of things?"

"What do you think," said the Captain, lolling comfortably on
the green bank, "of camping out under the rain-clouds — with
no bed but stones or puddles of mud and wet leaves — and rain
pouring down all night, and hard work all day; and no better
accommodations for week in and week out?"

"But Captain Drummond!" said Daisy, horrified, "I thought
soldiers had tents?"

"So they do — in fine weather —" said the Captain. "But just
where the hardest work is to do, is where they can't carry
their tents."

"Couldn't that be prevented?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I should think they'd get sick?"

"_Think_ they would! Why, they do, Daisy, by hundreds and
hundreds. What then? A soldier's life isn't his own; and if he
has to give it up in a hospital instead of on the field, why
it's good for some other fellow."

So this it was, not to belong to oneself! Daisy looked on the
soldier before her who had run, or would run, such risks, very
tenderly; but nevertheless the child was thinking her own
thoughts all the while. The Captain saw both things.

"What is the 'hard work' they have to do?" she asked,
presently.

"Daisy, you wouldn't like to see it."

"Why, sir?"

"Poor fellows digging and making walls of sand or sods to
shelter them from fire — when every now and then comes a shot
from the enemy's batteries, ploughs up their work, and knocks
over some poor rascal who never gets up again. That's one kind
of hard work."

Daisy's face was intent in its interest; but she only said,
"Please go on."

"Do you like to hear it?"

"Yes, I like to know about it."

"I wonder what Mrs. Randolph would say to me?"

"Please go on, Captain Drummond!"

"I don't know about that. However, Daisy, work in the trenches
is not the hardest thing — nor living wet through or frozen
half through — nor going half fed — about the hardest thing I
know, is in a hurried retreat to be obliged to leave sick and
wounded friends and poor fellows to fall into the hands of the
enemy. That's hard."

"Isn't it hard to fight a battle?"

"You would not like to march up to the fire of the enemy's
guns, and see your friends falling right and left of you —
struck down?"

"Would you?" said Daisy.

"Would I what?"

"Don't _you_ think it is hard, to do that?"

"Not just at the time, Daisy. It is a little tough afterwards,
when one comes to think about it. It is hard to see fellows
suffer too, that one cannot help."

Daisy hardly knew what to think of Captain Drummond. His
handsome pleasant face looked not less gentle than usual, and
_did_ look somewhat more sober. Daisy concluded it must be
something about a soldier's life that she could not
understand, all this coolness with which he spoke of dreadful
things. A deep sigh was the testimony of the different
feelings of her little breast. Captain Drummond looked up at
her.

"Daisy, women are not called to be soldiers."

Daisy passed that.

"Have you told me all you can tell me, Captain Drummond?"

"I should not like to tell you all I could tell you."

"Why? Please do! I want to know all about soldiers."

He looked curiously at her. "After all," he said, "it is not
so bad as you think, Daisy. A good soldier does not find it
hard to obey orders."

"What sorts of orders does he have to obey?"

"All sorts."

"But suppose they were wrong orders?"

"Makes no difference."

"_Wrong_ orders?"

"Yes," said Captain Drummond, laughing. "If it is something he
can do, he does it; if it is something he can't do, he loses
his head trying."

"Loses his head, sir?"

"Yes — by a cannon ball; or his heart, by a musket ball; or
maybe he gets off with losing a hand or a leg; just as it
happens. That makes no difference, either." He watched Daisy
as he spoke, seeing a slight colour rise in her cheeks, and
wondering what made the child's quiet grey eyes look at him so
thoughtfully.

"Captain Drummond, is he ever told to do anything he _can't_
do?"

"A few years ago, Daisy, the English and the French were
fighting the Russians in the Crimea. I happened to be there on
business, and I saw some things. An order was brought one day
to an officer commanding a body of cavalry — you know what
cavalry is?"

"Yes, I know."

"The order was brought in — Hallo! what's that?" For a voice
was heard shouting at a little distance, "Drummond! Ho,
Drummond! Where are you?"

"It's Mr. McFarlane!" said Daisy. "He'll come here. I'm very
sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said the Captain. "Come, — let us disappoint
him. He can't play hide and seek."

He jumped up and caught Daisy's willing hand, with the other
hand caught up her shawl, and drew her along swiftly under
cover of the trees and shrubbery towards the river, and away
from the voice they heard calling. Daisy half ran, half flew,
it seemed to her; so fast the strong hand of her friend pulled
her over the ground. At the edge of the bank that faced the
river, at the top of a very steep descent of a hundred feet or
near that, under a thick shelter of trees, Captain Drummond
called a halt and stood listening. Far off, faint in the
distance, they could still hear the shout, — "Drummond! —
where are you? Hallo!"

"We'll go down to the river," said the Captain; "and he is too
lazy to look for us there. We shall be safe. Daisy, this is a
retreat — but it is not a hardship, is it?"

Daisy looked up delighted. The little face so soberly
thoughtful a few minutes ago was all bright and flushed. The
Captain was charmed too.

"But we can't get down there," — said Daisy, casting her eye
down the very steep pitch of the bank.

"That is something," said the Captain, "with which as a
soldier you have nothing to do. All you have to do is to obey
orders; and the orders are that we charge down hill."

"I shall go head first, then," said Daisy, "or over and over.
I couldn't keep my feet one minute."

"Now you are arguing," said the Captain; "and that shows
insubordination, or want of discipline. But we have got to
charge, all the same; and we'll see about putting you under
arrest afterwards."

Daisy laughed at him, but she could not conceive how they
should get to the bottom. It was very steep, and strewn with
dead leaves from the trees which grew thick all the way.
Rolling down was out of the question, for the stems of the
trees would catch them; and to keep on their feet seemed
impossible. Daisy found, however, that Captain Drummond could
manage what she could not. He took hold of her hand again; and
then — Daisy hardly believed it while she was doing it, — but
there she was, going down that bank in an upright position;
not falling nor stumbling, though it is true she was not
walking neither. The Captain did not let her fall, and his
strong hand seemed to take her like a feather over the stones
and among the trees, giving her flying leaps and bounds down
the hill along with him. How he went and kept his feet
remained always a marvel to Daisy; but down they went, and at
the bottom they were in a trifle of time.

"Do you think he will come down there after us?" said the
Captain.

"I am sure he won't," said Daisy.

"So am I sure. We are safe, Daisy. Now I am your prisoner, and
you are my prisoner; and we will set each other at any work we
please. This is a nice place."

Behind them was the high, steep, wooded bank, rising right up.
Before them was a little strip of pebbly beach, and little
wavelets of the river washing past it. Beyond lay the broad
stream, all bright in the summer sunshine, with the great blue
hills rising up misty and blue in the distance. Nothing else;
a little curve in the shore on each side shut them in from all
that was above or below near at hand.

"Why, this is a fine place," repeated the Captain. "Were you
ever here before?"

"Not in a long time," said Daisy. "I have been here with
June."

"June! Aren't we here with June now?"

"_Now?_ — Oh, I don't mean the month — I mean mamma's black
June," said Daisy, laughing.

"Well, that is the first time I ever heard of a black June!"
muttered the Captain. "Does she resemble her name or her
colour?"

"She isn't much like the month of June," said Daisy. "I don't
think she is a very cheerful person."

"Then I wouldn't come here any more with her — or anywhere
else."

"I don't," said Daisy. "I don't go with her, or with anybody
else — much. Only I go with Sam and the pony."

"Where's Ransom. Don't he go with you?"

"Oh, Ransom's older, you know; and he's a boy."

"Ransom don't know his advantages. This is pleasant, Daisy.
Now let us see. What were you and I about?"

"You were telling me something, Captain Drummond."

"What was it? Oh, I know. Daisy, you are under arrest, you
know, and sentenced to extra duty. The work you are to
perform, is to gather as many of these little pebbles together
— these white ones — as you can in five minutes."

Daisy went to work; so did the Captain; and very busy they
were, for the Captain gathered as many pebbles as she did. He
made her fetch them to a place where the little beach was
clean and smooth, and in the shadow of an overhanging tree
they both sat down. Then the Captain, throwing off his cap,
began arranging the white pebbles on the sand in some
mysterious manner — lines of them here and lines of them there
— whistling as he worked. Daisy waited with curious patience;
watched him closely, but never asked what he was doing. At
last he stopped, looked up at her, and smiled.

"Well! —" he said.

"What is it all, Captain Drummond?"

"This is your story, Daisy."

"My story!"

"Yes. Look here — these rows of white stones are the Russians;
— these brown stones are the English," said he, beginning to
marshal another set into mysterious order some distance from
the white stones. "Now what shall I do for some guns?"

Daisy, in a very great state of delight, began to make search
for something that would do to stand for artillery; but
Captain Drummond presently solved the question by breaking
some twigs from the tree overhead and cutting them up into
inch lengths. These little mock guns he distributed liberally
among the white stones, pointing their muzzles in various
directions; and finally drew some lines in the sand which he
informed Daisy were fortifications. Daisy looked on; it was
better than a fairy tale.

"Now Daisy, we are ready for action. This is the battle of
Balaklava; and these are part of the lines. An order was
brought to an officer commanding a body of cavalry stationed
up here — you know what cavalry is."

"Yes, I know."

"The order was brought to him to charge upon the enemy down
_there_, — in a place where he could do no good and must be cut
to pieces; — the enemy had so many guns in that place and he
had so few men to attack them with. The order was a mistake.
He knew it was a mistake, but his General had sent it — there
was nothing for him to do but to obey. So he charged."

"And his men?"

"Every one. They knew they were going to their death — and
everybody else knew it that saw them go — but they charged!"

"Did you see it, Captain Drummond?"

"I saw it."

"And did they go to their death?" said Daisy, awe-stricken,
for Captain Drummond's look said that he was thinking of
something it had been grave to see.

"Why, yes. Look here, Daisy — here were cannon; there were
cannon; there were more cannon; cannon on every side of them
but one. They went into death they knew, when they went in
there."

"How many of them went there?"

"Six hundred."

"Six hundred! — were they _all_ killed?"

"No. There were a part of them that escaped and lived to come
back."

Daisy looked at the pebbles and the guns in profound silence.

"But if the officer knew the order was a mistake, why must he
obey it?"

"That's a soldier's duty, Daisy. He can do nothing but follow
orders. A soldier can't know, very often, what an order is
given for; he cannot judge; he does not know what his General
means to accomplish. All he has to think of is to obey orders;
and if every soldier does that, all is right."

What was little Daisy thinking of? She sat looking at her
friend the Captain. He was amused.

"Well, Daisy — what do you think? — will it do? Do you think
you will stand it and be a soldier?"

Daisy hesitated a good deal, and looked off and on at the
Captain's face. Then she said very quietly, "Yes."

"You will!" he said. "I wish you would join my branch of the
service. Suppose you come into my company?"

"Suppose you join mine?"

"With all my heart!" said the Captain, laughing; "if it is not
inconsistent with my present duties. So you have enlisted
already? Are you authorised to receive recruits?"

Daisy shook her head, and did not join in his laugh.

"Honestly, Daisy, tell me true; what did you want to know
about soldiers for? I have answered you; now answer me. I am
curious."

Daisy did not answer, and seemed in doubt.

"Will you not honour me so far?"

Daisy hesitated still, and looked at the Captain more than
once. But Captain Drummond was a great favourite, and had
earned her favour partly by never talking nonsense to her; a
great distinction.

"I will tell you when we get back to the house," she said, —
"if you will not speak of it, Captain Drummond."

The Captain could get no nearer his point; and he and Daisy
spent a good while longer by the river-side, erecting
fortifications and studying the charge of the Light brigade.


CHAPTER VIII.

GEOGRAPHY.


The Captain was not able to claim Daisy's promise immediately.
On their return to the house he was at once taken up with some
of the older people, and Daisy ran off to her long delayed
dinner.

The next day in the course of her wanderings about the
grounds, which were universal, Daisy came upon her cousin
Preston. He sat in the shade of a clump of larches under a
great oak, making flies for fishing; which occupation, like a
gentlemanly boy as he was, he had carried out there where the
litter of it would be in nobody's way. Preston Gary was a very
fine fellow; about sixteen, a handsome fellow, very spirited,
very clever, and very gentle and kind to his little cousin
Daisy. Daisy liked him much, and was more entirely free with
him perhaps than with any other person in the family. Her
seeing him now was the signal for a joyous skip and bound
which brought her to his side.

"Oh, Preston, are you going fishing?"

"Perhaps — if I have a good day for it."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"Who's going with you?"

"Nobody, I reckon. Unless you want to go, Daisy."

"Oh, Preston, may I go with you? Where are you going?"

"Daisy, I'm bound for the Hillsdale woods, back of Crum Elbow
— they say there are first-rate trout streams there; but I am
afraid you can't go so far."

"Oh, I can go anywhere, Preston! — with Loupe, you know.
You're going to ride, aren't you?"

"Yes, but Loupe! What shall we do with Loupe? You see, I shall
be gone the whole day, Daisy — it's likely. You'd get tired."

"Why, we could find somewhere to put Loupe — Sam could take
care of him. And I should like to go, Preston, if you think I
would not frighten the fish."

"Oh, if Sam's going along, that is another matter," said
Preston. "You frighten the fish, Daisy! I don't believe you
can do that for anything. But I won't let you get into
mischief."

So it was settled, and Daisy's face looked delighted; and for
some time she and Preston discussed the plan, the fish, and
his flies. Then suddenly Daisy introduced another subject.

"Preston, where is the Crimea?"

"The Crimea!" said Preston.

"Yes; where the English and the French were fighting with the
Russians."

"The Crimea! Why, Daisy, don't you know where it is? You'll
find it in the Black Sea somewhere."

Daisy hesitated.

"But Preston, I don't know where the Black Sea is."

"Why, Daisy, what has become of your geography?"

"I never had much," said Daisy, humbly, and looking serious; —
"and lately mamma hasn't wanted me to do anything but run
about."

"Well, if you take the map of Europe, and set out from the
north of Russia and walk down, you'll find yourself in the
Crimea after a while. Just hold that, Daisy, will you."

Daisy held the ends of silk he put in her fingers; but while
he worked, she thought. Might it not be possible that a good
knowledge of geography might have something to do with the use
or the improvement of her _talents?_ And if a knowledge of
geography, why not also a knowledge of history, and of
arithmetic, and of everything! There could not be a reasonable
doubt of it. What would Preston be, — what would Mr. Dinwiddie
or Captain Drummond be, — if they knew nothing? And by the
same reasoning, what would Daisy Randolph be? What could she
do with her talents, if she let them lie rusty with ignorance?
Now this was a very serious thought to Daisy, because she did
not like study. She liked knowledge right well, if she could
get it without trouble, and if it was entertaining knowledge;
but she did not think geography at all entertaining, nor
arithmetic. Yet — Daisy forgot all about Preston's artificial
flies, and her face grew into a depth of sobriety.

"Preston —" she began, slowly, — "is it hard?"

"Not just that," said Preston, busy in finishing a piece of
work, — "it is a little ticklish to stroke this into order —
but it isn't hard, if you have the right materials, and know
how."

"Oh, no — I don't mean flies — I mean geography."

"Geography!" said Preston. "Oh, you are at the Crimea yet, are
you? I'll show it to you, Daisy, when we go in."

"Preston, is the use of geography only to know where places
are?"

"Well, that's pretty convenient," said Preston. "Daisy, just
look for that bunch of grey silk — I had it here a minute
ago."

"But Preston, tell me what _is_ the use of it?"

"Why, my dear little Daisy — thank you! — you'd be all abroad
without it."

"All abroad!" exclaimed Daisy.

"It comes to about that, I reckon. You wouldn't understand
anything. How can you? Suppose I show you my pictures of the
North American Indians — they'll be as good as Chinese to you,
if you don't know geography."

Daisy was silent, feeling puzzled.

"And," said Preston, binding his fly, "when you talk of the
Crimea, you will not know whether the English came from the
east or the west, nor whether the Russians are not living
under the equator and eating ripe oranges."

"Don't they eat oranges?" said Daisy, seriously. But that
question set Preston off into a burst of laughter, for which
he atoned as soon as it was over by a very gentle kiss to his
little cousin.

"Never mind, Daisy," he said; "I think you are better without
geography. You aren't just like everybody else — that's a
fact."

"Daisy," said Captain Drummond, coming upon the scene, "do you
allow such things?"

"It is Preston's manner of asking my pardon, Captain
Drummond," Daisy answered, looking a little troubled, but in
her slow, womanly way. The Captain could not help laughing in
his turn.

"What offence has he been guilty of? — tell me, and I will
make him ask pardon in another manner. But, Daisy, do you
reckon such a liberty no offence?"

"Not if I am willing he should take it," said Daisy.

The Captain seemed much amused. "My dear little lady!" he
said, "it is good for me you are not half a score of years
wiser. What were you talking about the Crimea? — I heard the
word as I came up."

"I asked Preston to show it to me on the map — or he said he
would."

"Come with me, and I'll do it. You shouldn't ask anybody but
me about the Crimea."

So getting hold affectionately of Daisy's hand, he and she
went off to the house. No one was in the library. The Captain
opened a large map of Russia; Daisy got up in a chair, with
her elbows on the great library table, and leaned over it,
while the Captain drew up another chair and pointed out the
Crimea and Sebastopol, and showed the course by which the
English ships had come, for Daisy took care to ask that. Then,
finding so earnest a listener, he went on to describe to her
the situation of other places on the Peninsula, and the
character of the country, and the severities of the climate in
the region of the great struggle. Daisy listened, with her
eyes varying between Captain Drummond's face and the map. The
Black Sea became known to Daisy thence and forever.

"I never thought geography was so interesting!" she remarked
with a sigh, as the Captain paused. He smiled.

"Now, Daisy, you have something to tell me," he said.

"What?" said Daisy, looking up suddenly.

"Why, you wanted to know about soldiers — don't you remember
your promise?"

The child's face all changed; her busy, eager, animated look
became on the instant thoughtful and still. Yet changed, as
the Captain saw with some curiosity, not to lesser but to
greater intentness.

"Well, Daisy?"

"Captain Drummond, if I tell you, I do not wish it talked
about."

"Certainly not!" he said, suppressing a smile, and watched her
while she got down from her chair and looked about among the
book-shelves.

"Will you please put this on the table for me?" she said — "I
can't lift it."

"A Bible!" said the Captain to himself. "This is growing
serious." But he carried the great quarto silently and placed
it on the table. It was a very large volume, fall of
magnificent engravings, which were the sole cause and
explanation of its finding a place in Mr. Randolph's library.
He put it on the table and watched Daisy curiously, who,
disregarding all the pictures, turned over the leaves
hurriedly, till near the end of the book; then stopped, put
her little finger under some words, and turned to him. The
Captain looked and read — over the little finger — "Thou
therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."

It gave the Captain a very odd feeling. He stopped, and read
it two or three times over.

"But Daisy!" — he said.

"What, Captain Drummond?"

"What has this to do with what we were talking about?"

"Would you please shut this up and put it away, first."

The Captain obeyed, and as he turned from the bookshelves
Daisy took his hand again, and drew him, child-fashion, out of
the house and through the shrubbery. He let her alone till she
had brought him to a shady spot, where, under the thick growth
of magnificent trees a rustic seat stood, in full view of the
distant mountains and the river.

"Where is my answer, Daisy?" he said, as she let go his hand
and seated herself.

"What was your question, Captain Drummond?"

"Now you are playing hide and seek with me. What have those
words you showed me, — what have they to do with our
yesterday's conversation?"

"I would like to know," said Daisy, slowly, "what it means, to
be a good soldier?"

"Why?"

"I think I have told you," she said.

She said it with the most unmoved simplicity. The Captain
could not imagine what made him feel uncomfortable. He
whistled.

"Daisy, you are incomprehensible!" he exclaimed, and, catching
hold of her hand, he began a race down towards the river. Such
a race as they had taken the day before. Through shade and
through sun, down grassy steeps and up again, flying among the
trees as if some one were after them, the Captain ran; and
Daisy was pulled along with him. At the edge of the woods
which crowned the river bank, he stopped and looked at Daisy
who was all flushed and sparkling with exertion and merriment.

"Sit down there!" said he, putting her on the bank and
throwing himself beside her. "Now you look as you ought to
look!"

"I don't think mamma would think so," said Daisy, panting and
laughing.

"Yes, she would. Now tell me — do you call yourself a
soldier?"

"I don't know whether there can be such little soldiers," said
Daisy. "If there can be, I am."

"And what fighting do you expect to do, little one?"

"I don't know," said Daisy. "Not very well."

"What enemies are you going to face?"

But Daisy only looked rather hard at the Captain, and made him
no answer.

"Do you expect to emulate the charge of the Light Brigade, in
some tilt against fancied wrong?"

Daisy looked at her friend; she did not quite understand him,
but his last words were intelligible.

"I don't know," she said, meekly. "But if I do, it will not be
because the order is a _mistake_, Captain Drummond."

The Captain bit his lip. "Daisy," said he, "are you the only
soldier in the family?"

Daisy sat still, looking up over the sunny slopes of ground
towards the house.

The sunbeams showed it bright and stately on the higher
ground; they poured over a rich luxuriant spread of greensward
and trees, highly kept; stately and fair; and Daisy could not
help remembering that in all that domain, so far as she knew,
there was not a thought in any heart of being the sort of
soldier she wished to be. She got up from the ground and
smoothed her dress down.

"Captain Drummond," she said, with a grave dignity that was at
the same time perfectly childish too, — "I have told you about
myself — I can't tell you about other people."

"Daisy, you are not angry with me!"

"No, sir."

"Don't you sometimes permit other people to ask your pardon in
Preston Gary's way?"

Daisy was about to give a quiet negative to this proposal,
when perceiving more mischief in the Captain's face than might
be manageable, she pulled away her hand from him, and dashed
off like a deer. The Captain was wiser than to follow.

Later in the day, which turned out a very warm one, he and
Gary McFarlane went down again to the edge of the bank, hoping
to get if they could a taste of the river breeze. Lying there
stretched out under the trees, after a little while they heard
voices. The voices were down on the shore. Gary moved his
position to look.

"It's that child — what under the sun is she doing! I beg
pardon for naming anything warm just now, Drummond — but she
is building fortifications of some sort, down there."

Captain Drummond came forward too. Down below them, a little
to the right, where a tiny bend in the shore made a spot of
shade, Daisy was crouching on the ground apparently very busy.
Back of her a few paces was her dark attendant, June.

"There's energy," said Gary. "What a nice thing it is to be a
child and play in the sand!"

The talk down on the shore went on; June's voice could
scarcely be heard, but Daisy's words were clear — "Do, June!
Please try." Another murmur from June, and then Daisy — "Try,
June — do, please!" The little voice was soft, but its
utterances were distinct; the words could be heard quite
plainly. And Daisy sat back from her sand-work, and June began
to sing something. _What_, it would have been difficult to tell
at the top of the bank, but then Daisy's voice struck in. With
no knowledge that she had listeners, the notes came mounting
up to the top of the bank, clear, joyous and strong, with a
sweet power that nobody knew Daisy's voice had.

"Upon my word, that's pretty!" said the Captain.

"A pretty thing, too, faith," said Gary. "Captain, let's get
nearer the performers. Look out, now, and don't strike to
windward."

They went, like hunters, softly down the bank, keeping under
shelter, and winding round so as to get near before they
should be seen. They succeeded. Daisy was intent upon her
sand-work again, and June's back was towards them. The song
went on more softly; then in a chorus Daisy's voice rang out
again, and the words were plain.


"Die in the field of battle,
Die in the field of battle,
Die in the field of battle,
Glory in your view."


"Spirited!" whispered Gary.

"I almost think it is a Swedish war song," said the Captain.
"I am not sure."

"Miss Daisy!" — said June — "the gentlemen —"

Daisy started up. The intruders came near. On the ground
beside her lay an open map of Europe; in the sand before her
she had drawn the same outlines on a larger scale. The shore
generally was rough and pebbly; just in this little cove there
was a space of very fine sand, left wetted and adhesive by the
last tide. Here the battle of Inkermann had been fought, and
here Daisy's geography was going on. Captain Drummond, who
alone had the clue to all this, sat down on a convenient stone
to examine the work. The lines were pretty fairly drawn, and
Daisy had gone on to excavate to some depth the whole area of
the Mediterranean and Black Seas, and the region of the
Atlantic to some extent; with the course of the larger rivers
deeply indented.

"What is all this gouging for, Daisy?" he said. "You want
water here now, to fill up."

"I thought when the tide came, Captain Drummond, I could let
it flow in here, and see how it would look."

"It's a poor rule that don't work both ways," said the
Captain. "I always heard that 'time and tide wait for no man;'
and we won't wait for the tide. Here Gary — make yourself
useful — fetch some water here; — enough to fill two seas and
a portion of the Atlantic Ocean."

"What shall I bring it in, if you please?"

"Anything! — your hands, or your hat, man. Do impossibilities
for once. It is easy to see you are not a soldier."

"The fates preserve me from being a soldier under you!" said
Gary — "if that's your idea of military duty! What are you
going to do while I play Neptune in a bucket."

"I am going to build cities and raise up mountains. Daisy,
suppose we lay in a supply of these little white stones, and
some black ones."

While this was done, and Daisy looked delighted, Mr. McFarlane
seized upon a tin dipper which June had brought, and filled it
at the river. Captain Drummond carefully poured out the water
into the Mediterranean, and opened a channel through the
Bosphorus and Dardanelles, which were very full of sand, into
the Black Sea. Then he sent Gary off again for more; and began
placing the pebbles.

"What is that for, Captain Drummond?" asked Daisy.

"These are the Alps — white, as they should be, for the snow
always lies on them."

"Is it so cold there?"

"No, — but the mountains are so high. Their tops are always
cold, but flowers grow down in the valleys. These are very
great mountains, Daisy."

"And what are those black ones, Captain Drummond?"

"This range is the Pyrénées — between France and Spain; — they
are great too, and beautiful. And here go the Carpathians —
and here the Ural mountains, — and these must stand for the
Apennines."

"Are they beautiful too?"

"I suppose so — but I can't say, never having been there. Now
what shall we do for the cities? As they are centres of
wealth, I think a three-cent piece must mark them. Hand over,
Gary; I have not thrips enough. There is St. Petersburg — here
is Constantinople — here is Rome — now here is Paris. Hallo!
we've no England! can't leave London out. Give me that spoon,
Daisy —" and the Captain, as he expressed it, went to work in
the trenches. England was duly marked out, the channel filled,
and a bit of silver planted for the metropolis of the world.

"Upon my word!" said Gary, — "I never knew geography before. I
shall carry away some ideas."

"Keep all you can get," said the Captain. "Now, there's
Europe."

"And here were the battles," — said Daisy, touching the little
spot of wet sand which stood for the Crimea.

"_The_ battles!" said Gary. "What battles?"

"Why, where the English and French fought the Russians."

"_The_ battles! Shades of all the heroes! Why, Daisy, Europe has
done nothing but fight for a hundred thousand years. There
isn't a half inch of it that hasn't had a battle. See, _there_
was one, — and there was another — tremendous; — and there, —
and there, — and there, — and there, — and all over! This
little strip here that is getting swallowed up in the
Mediterranean — there has been blood enough shed on it to make
it red from one end to the other, a foot deep. That's because
it has had so many great men belonging to it."

Daisy looked at Captain Drummond.

"It's pretty much so, Daisy," he said; "all over the south of
Europe, at any rate."

"Why over the south and not the north?"

"People in the north haven't anything to fight for," said
Gary. "Nobody wants a possession of ice and snow — more than
will cool his butter."

"A good deal so, Daisy," said Captain Drummond, taking the
silent appeal of her eyes.

"Besides," continued Gary, "great men don't grow in the north.
Daisy, I want to know which is the battle-field you are going
to die on."

Daisy sat back from the map of Europe, and looked at Gary with
unqualified amazement.

"Well?" said Gary. "I mean it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I hear you are going to die on the field of battle — and I
want to be there that I may throw myself after you, as Douglas
did after the Bruce's locket; saying 'Go thou first, brave
heart, as thou art wont, and I will follow thee!' "

"Daisy," said the Captain, "you were singing a battle-song as
we came down the hill — that is what he means."

"Oh! —" said Daisy, her face changing from its amazed look.
But her colour rose, too, a little.

"What was it?"

"That?" said Daisy. "Oh, that was a hymn."

"A hymn!" shouted Gary. "Good! A hymn! That's glorious! Where
did you get it, Daisy? Have you got a collection of Swedish
war-songs? They used to sing and fight together, I am told.
They are the only people I ever heard of that did — except
North American Indians. Where did you get it?"

"I got it from June."

"June! what, by inspiration? June is a fine month, I know —
for strawberries — but I had no idea —"

"No, no," said Daisy, half laughing, — "I mean my June — there
she is; I got it from her."

"Hollo!" cried Gary. "Come here, my good woman — Powers of
Darkness! Is your name June?"

"Yes sir, if you please," the woman said, in her low voice,
dropping a courtesy.

"Well, nobody offers more attractions — in a name," said Gary;
— "I'll say that for you. Where did you get that song your
little mistress was singing when we came down the hill? Can
you sing it?"

June's reply was unintelligible.

"Speak louder, my friend. What did you say?"

June made an effort. "If you please, sir, I can't sing," she
was understood to say. "They sings it in camp meeting."

"In camp meeting!" said Gary. "I should think so! What's that!
You see I have never been there, and don't understand."

"If you please, sir — the gentleman knows" — June said,
retreating backwards as she spoke, and so fast that she soon
got out of their neighbourhood. The shrinking, gliding action
accorded perfectly with the smothered tones and subdued face
of the woman.

"Don't _she_ know!" said Gary. "Isn't that a character now? But,
Daisy, are you turning Puritan?"

"I don't know what that is," said Daisy.

"Upon my word, you look like it! It's a dreadful disease,
Daisy; — generally takes the form of — I declare I don't know!
— fever, I believe, and delirium; and singing is one of the
symptoms."

"You don't want to stop her singing?" said Captain Drummond.

"That sort? yes I do. It wouldn't be healthy, up at the house.
Daisy, sing that gipsy-song from 'The Camp in Silesia,' that I
heard you singing a day or two ago."

" 'The Camp in Silesia'?" said Captain Drummond. "Daisy, can
you sing _that?_"

"Whistles it off like a gipsy herself," said Gary. "Daisy,
sing it."

"I like the other best," said Daisy.

But neither teasing nor coaxing could make her sing again,
either the one or the other.


CHAPTER IX.

AFTER TROUT.


It was bright morning, the pony-chaise at the door, and Daisy
in it; standing to arrange matters.

"Now, Daisy, have you got all in there? I don't believe it."

"Why don't you believe it?"

"How much will that concern hold?"

"A great deal more than you want. There's a big box under all
the seat."

"What have you got in it?"

Daisy went off into a laugh, such a laugh of glee as did her
father's heart good. Mr. Randolph was standing in the doorway
to see the expedition set forward.

"What's the matter, Daisy?" he said.

"Papa, he don't think anybody is a person of forethought but
himself."

It was Preston's turn to laugh, and Mr. Randolph joined him.

"Shows he don't know you, Daisy, as well as I do. When do you
expect to be home again?"

Mr. Randolph had come down to the side of the chaise, and was
looking with a very pleased face at what was in it. Daisy said
she supposed they would stay till Preston had caught as many
fish as he wanted.

"And won't you be tired before that?"

"Oh, no, papa! I am going to fish too."

"I'll have all you catch, Daisy, — for my own eating!"

He bent his head down as he spoke, to kiss the little
fisherwoman; but Daisy, answering some unusual tenderness of
face or manner, sprung up and threw her arms round his neck,
and only released him after a very close pressure.

"She is in a fair way to be cured of her morbid seriousness,"
— Mr. Randolph thought as he saw the cavalcade set forth; and,
well pleased, he went in to breakfast. Daisy and Preston had
breakfasted already, before the family; and now were off to
the hills just as other people were stirring sugar into cups
of coffee.

Preston led the way on a fine bay of his uncle's; taking good
gallops now and then to ease his own and his horse's spirits,
and returning to go quietly for a space by the side of the
pony-chaise. Loupe never went into anything more exciting than
his waddling trot; though Daisy made him keep that up briskly.

"What a thing it is, to have such short legs!" said Preston,
watching the movements of the pony.

"_You_ go over the road without seeing it," said Daisy.

"I don't want to see it. What I want to see is Hillsdale."

"So do I; but I want to see everything."

Preston smiled, he could not help it, at the very happy and
busy little face and spirit down in the pony-chaise.

"What do you see, Daisy, that you have not seen a hundred
times before?"

"That makes no difference," said Daisy. "I have seen you a
hundred times before."

Preston laughed, set spurs to his horse, and went off for
another gallop.

Daisy enjoyed her morning's drive. The light was clear and the
air was fresh; Preston galloping before and Sam jogging on
behind; everything was fine! Then it was quite true that she
liked to see everything; those grey eyes of hers were
extremely busy. All the work going on in the fields had
interest for her, and all the passers-by on the road. — A
strange interest, often, for Daisy was very apt to be
wondering whether any of them knew and loved the name she
loved best; wondering who among all those rough-looking,
unknown people, might be her fellow-servants. And with that a
thought which, if Mr. Randolph had known it, would have
checked his self-congratulations. He had not guessed what made
the clasp of Daisy's arms round his neck so close that
morning.

Till they passed through Crum Elbow everything had been, as
Preston said, seen a hundred times before. A little way beyond
that everything became new. Mrs. Randolph's carriage never
came that road. The country grew more rough and broken, and
the hills in their woody dress showed more and more near.

"Do you see that break in the woods?" said Preston, pointing
with his whip; "that is where the brook comes out, — that is
where we are going."

"What time is it, Preston?"

"Time? — it is half past nine. What about it?"

"I'm hungry — that's all. I wanted to know what time it was."

"Hungry! Oh, what a fisher you will make, Daisy! Can't stand
fasting for two hours and a half."

"No, but Preston, I didn't eat much breakfast. And I've had
all this ride since. I am going to stand fasting; but I am
going to be hungry too."

"No, you aren't," said Preston. "Just let Loupe take you up to
that little gate, will you? I'll see if we can leave the
horses here. Sam! — take this fellow!"

Preston jumped down from the saddle and went into the house,
to the front yard of which the little gate opened. Daisy
looked after him. It was a yard full of grass and weeds, among
which a few poppies and hollyhocks and balsams grew straggling
up where they could. Nothing kept them out of the path but the
foot-tread of the people that went over it; hoe and rake were
never known there since the walk was first made. The house was
a little, low, red-front house, with one small window on each
side the door.

"All right!" said Preston, coming back. "Sam, take the horses
round to the barn; and bring the baskets out of the chaise-
box, and wait at this gate for us."

"Why is he to wait? where are we going?"

"Going in to get some breakfast."

"_Here_, Preston? — Oh, I can't."

"What's the matter?"

"I can't eat anything in there. I can wait."

"Why, it looks clean," said Preston; "room and table and woman
and all." — But Daisy still shook her head, and was not to be
persuaded; and Preston, laughing, went back to the house. But
presently he came out again, bearing a tray in his hand, and
brought it to Daisy. On the tray was very nice looking brown
and white bread, and milk and cheese and a platter of
strawberries. Preston got into the chaise and set the tray on
his knees. After him had come from the house a woman in a fly-
away cap and short-gown. She stood just inside the gate,
leaning her arms on it. If she had not been there, perhaps
Daisy would still have refused to touch the food; but she was
afraid of offending or hurting the woman's feelings; so first
she tried a strawberry, and found it of rare flavour; for it
was a wild one; then she broke a morsel of bread, and that was
excellent. Daisy discovered that breakfast in a pony-chaise,
out in the air, was a very fine thing. So did Preston.

"So you're agoin' afishin'?" said the woman at the gate.

"Yes, ma'am," Preston said.

"And that little one too?"

"Certainly."

"I declare! I never see nobody so little and gauzy as was
willin' to do such indelicate work! But I shouldn't wonder,
now, if she was to catch some. Fishes — and all things — is
curious creeturs, and goes by contrairies."

"Hope they won't to-day!" said Preston, who was eating
strawberries and bread and milk at a great rate.

"Where's the rest of your party?" the woman went on.

"We're all here, ma'am," said Preston.

"Well, I see a horse there that haint nobody on top of him?"

"I was on top of him a little while ago," said Preston.

"Well, I expect that little creetur hain't druv herself?"

"Drove the pony, anyhow," said Preston. "Now, ma'am, what do
we owe you, besides thanks, for your excellent hospitality?"

"I reckon you don't owe me much," said the woman, as Preston
got out of the chaise. "You can set the tray in there on the
table, if you're a mind to. We always calculate to set a good
meal, and we're allowed to; but we don't never calculate to
live by it, and we've no dispensary. There's only my husband
and me, and there's a plenty for more than us."

Preston had handed the tray to Sam to carry in, and as soon as
he could get a chance bade good morning, and went forward with
Daisy. On foot now they took their way to the woods, and
presently plunged into then. It was very pleasant under the
deep shade, for the sun had grown warm, and there was hardly
air enough to flutter the leaves in the high branches. But
Daisy and Preston pushed on briskly, and soon the gurgle of
the brook gave its sweet sound to their ears. They followed up
the stream then, over stones and rocks, and crossing from side
to side on trunks of trees that had fallen across the water;
till a part of the brook was reached far enough back among the
hills to be wild and lonely; where the trout might be supposed
to be having a good time.

"Now, Daisy," said Preston, "I think this will do. Can't have
a better place. I'll try and get you to work here."

"And now, how must I manage, Preston?" said Daisy, anxiously.

"I'll show you."

Daisy watched while Preston took out and put together the
light rod which she was to use, and fixed a fly for the bait.

"Do you see that little waterfall, Daisy?"

"Yes."

"And you see where the water curls round just under the fall?"

"Yes."

"That is where you must cast your fly. I should think there
must be some speckled fellows there. What glory, Daisy, if you
should catch one!"

"Well, what must I do, Preston?"

"Throw your fly over, so that it may light just there, and
then watch; and if a fish jumps up and catches it, you pull
your line away and catch the fish."

"But I can't throw it from here? I must go nearer."

"No, you mustn't — you're near enough; stand just here. Try if
you can't throw your fly there. If you went nearer, you would
frighten the fish. They are just about as shy as if they were
Daisies. Now I will go a little further off, and see what I
can do. You'll catch the first fish!"

"No, I shall not," said Daisy, gravely. She tried with a
beating heart to throw her line; she tried very hard. The
first time it landed on the opposite side of the brook. The
next time it landed on a big stone this side of the waterfall.
The third trial fastened the hook firmly in Daisy's hat. In
vain Daisy gently sought to release it; she was obliged at
last to ask help of Sam.

"That ar's no good, Miss Daisy," said Sam, as he got the fly
out of its difficulty.

"If I could only throw it in," said Daisy. And this time, with
a very great effort she did succeed in swinging the bait by a
gentle motion to the very spot. No statue was more motionless
than Daisy then. She had eyes and ears for nothing but the
trout in the brook. Minutes went by. The brook leaped and sang
on its way the air brought the sweet odours of mosses and
ferns; the leaves flapped idly overhead; you could hear every
little sound. For there sat Daisy, and there stood Sam, as
still as the stones. Time went by. At last a sigh came from
Daisy's weary little body, which she had not dared to move an
inch for half an hour.

"Tain't no good, Miss Daisy," whispered Sam.

"I can't keep it still," said Daisy, under her breath, as if
the fishes would hear and understand her.

"Suppos'n you try t'other bait, Miss Daisy."

"What bait?"

"Oh, t'other kind, Miss Daisy. Will I put it on for you to
try?"

Daisy sat awhile longer, however, in silence and watching,
until every joint was weary and her patience too. Then she
left the rod in Sam's hands, and went up to see what Preston
was doing. He was some distance higher up the stream. Slowly
and carefully Daisy crept near, till she could see his basket,
and find out how much he had in it. That view loosed her
tongue.

"Not one yet, Preston!" she exclaimed.

"Not a bite," said Preston.

"I hadn't either."

"I don't believe that there are any fish," said Preston.

"Oh, but Sam said he saw lots of them."

"Lots of them! It's the flies then. Sam! — Hollo, Sam! — Sam!
—"

"Here, sir," said Sam, coming up the brook.

"Just find me some worms, will you? — and be spry. I can't get
a bite."

Daisy sat down to look about her, while Preston drew in his
line and threw the fly away. It was a pretty place! The brook
spread just there into a round pool several feet across; deep
and still; and above it the great trees towered up as if they
would hide the sun. Sam came presently with the bait. Preston
dressed his hook, and gave his line a swing, to cast the bait
into the pool; rather incautiously, seeing that the trees
stood so thick and so near. Accordingly the line lodged in the
high branches of an oak on the opposite side of the pool.
Neither was there any coaxing it down.

"What a pity!" said Daisy.

"Not at all," said Preston. "Here, Sam — just go up that tree
and clear the line — will you?"

Sam looked at the straight high stem of the oak, which had
shot up high before it put forth a single branch, and he did
not like the job. His slow motions said so.

"Come!" said Preston, — "be alive and do it quick, will you."

"He can't —" said Daisy.

"Yes, he can," said Preston. "If he can't, he isn't worth his
bread and salt. That's it, Sam — hand over hand, and you'll be
there directly."

Sam showed what he _could_ do, if he did not like it; for he
worked himself up the tall tree like a monkey. It was not so
large but he could clasp it; so after a little rough work on
his part, and anxious watching on Daisy's, he got to the
branches. But now the line was caught in the small forks at
the leafy end of the branch. Sam lay out upon it as far as he
dared; he could not reach the line.

"Oh, he'll fall!" cried Daisy, softly. "Oh, Preston, let him
come down! — he can't get it."

"He'll come to no harm," said Preston, coolly. "A little
further, Sam — it's oak wood, it will hold you; a little
further, and you will have it — a little further! —"

And Daisy saw that Sam had gone too far. The bough swayed, —
Sam made a lunge after the line, lost his hold, and the next
minute his dark body was falling through the air and splashed
into the pool. The water flew all over the two fishers who
stood by its side; Preston awe-struck for the moment, Daisy
white as death. But before either of them could speak or move,
Sam's head reappeared above water.

"Oh, get him out! get him out, Preston!" was Daisy's
distressed cry. Preston spoke nothing, but he snatched a long
stick that lay near, and held it out to Sam; and so in a few
minutes drew him to the shore and helped him out. Sam went to
a little distance and stood dripping with water from head to
foot; he did not shake himself, as a Newfoundland dog would
have done.

"Are you hurt, Sam?" said Preston.

"No, sir —" Sam answered, in a tone as if he felt very wet.

"Well, you've cleared the line for me at last," said Preston.
"All's well that ends well. Hollo! — here's my hook gone, —
broken off, float and all. Where's that basket, Sam?"

"It's below, sir."

"Below? where? just fetch it here, will you? This misfortune
can be mended."

Sam moved off, dripping from every inch of him.

"Oh, Preston," said Daisy, "he's all wet as he can be — do let
him go right down to that house and dry himself! We can get
the basket."

"Do him good to move about," said Preston. "Nonsense, Daisy! —
a ducking like that won't do anybody any harm in a summer's
day."

"I don't think _you'd_ like it," said Daisy; "and all his
clothes are full of water, and the sun don't come down here.
Tell him to go and get dry!"

"I will, as soon as I've done with him. Here, Sam — just bend
on this hook for me, while I see how the brook is further up.
I've no time to lose, — and then you can go sun yourself
somewhere."

Preston bounded off; Sam stood with the tackle in hand,
silently at work. Daisy sat still on a stone near by, looking
at him.

"Were you hurt, Sam?" she asked, tenderly.

"No, Miss Daisy." This answer was not discontented, but
stoical.

"As soon as you have done that, Sam, run down to Mrs.
Dipper's, and maybe she can give you something dry to put on
while your clothes can be hung out."

Silence on Sam's part.

"Have you almost finished that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then run off, Sam! Make haste to Mrs. Dipper's and get
yourself dry — and don't come back till you are quite dry,
Sam."

Sam finished his piece of work, flung down the line, and with
a grateful "Thank you, Miss Daisy!" set off at a bound. Daisy
watched him running at full speed down the brook till he was
out of sight.

"Has he done it?" said Preston returning. "The rascal hasn't
put any bait on. However, Daisy, it's no use coaxing the trout
in _this_ place at present — and I haven't found any other good
spots for some distance up; — suppose we have our lunch and
try again?"

"Oh, yes!" said Daisy. "The other basket is down by my
fishing-place — it's just as pleasant there, Preston."

They went back to the basket, and a very convenient huge rock
was found on the edge of the brook, which would serve for
table and seats too, it was so large and smooth. Preston took
his place upon it, and Daisy at the other end with the basket
began to unpack.

"Napkins?" said Preston — "you have no right to be so
luxurious on a fishing party."

"Why not?"

"Why, because a fisher is a kind of a Spartan animal, while he
is about his business."

"What kind of an animal is that?" said Daisy, looking up from
her arrangements.

She had set out a plate of delicate rolls, and another with
bread and butter folded in a napkin; and still she paused with
her hand in the basket.

"Go on, Daisy. I want to see what comes next."

"I don't know," said Daisy. "Why, Joanna has made us a lemon
pie!"

"Capital!" said Preston. "And what have you got in that dish?"

"I know," said Daisy. "Joanna has put in some jelly for me.
What sort of an animal is that, Preston?"

"It is a sort I shall not be to-day — with jelly and lemon
pie. But what has Joanna put in for me? nothing but bread?"

"Why, there are sandwiches."

"Where?"

"Why, there! Those rolls are stuffed with meat, Preston."

"Splendid!" said Preston, falling foul of the rolls
immediately. "What sort of an animal is a Spartan? My dear
little Daisy, don't you know?"

"I don't believe I know anything," said Daisy, humbly.

"Don't you want to?"

"Oh, yes, Preston! if I had anybody to help me, — I do."

"Well — we'll see. How perfect these sandwiches are! when
one's hungry."

"I am hungry too," said Daisy. "I think the sound of the water
makes me hungry. Oh, I wish I had given Sam some! — I never
thought of it. How hungry he must be!"

"He'll get along," said Preston, helping himself to another
roll.

"But how could I forget!" said Daisy. "And _he_ did not have a
second breakfast either. I am so sorry!" Daisy's hands fell
from her own dainties.

"There is nothing here fit for him," said Preston. "I dare say
he has his own pockets full."

"They were full of water, the last thing," said Daisy,
quaintly.

Preston could not help laughing. "My dear Daisy," he said, "I
hope you are not getting soft-hearted on the subject of
servants?"

"How, Preston?"

"Don't; — because it is foolish."

"But, Preston," said Daisy, looking earnestly at his handsome
pleasant face which she liked very much, "don't you know what
the Bible says?"

"No."

"It says, 'The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is
the maker of them all.' "

"Well," said Preston, "that don't mean that He made them all
alike."

"Then, if they are not made alike, what is the difference?"

"Good gracious!" said Preston; "do you often ask such
questions, Daisy? I hope you are not going to turn out a Mrs.
Child, or a philanthropist, or anything of that sort?"

"I am not going to be a Mrs. Anybody," said Daisy; "but why
don't you answer me?"

"Where did you get hold of those words?"

"What words?"

"Those words that you quoted to me about rich and poor."

"I was reading them this morning."

"In what?"

"Why, in the Bible of course," said Daisy, with a little check
upon her manner.

"This morning! Before we started! How came you to be reading
the Bible so early in the morning?"

"I like to read it."

"Well, I'd take proper times for reading it," said Preston.
"Who set you to reading it at five o'clock in the morning?"

"Nobody. Oh, Preston, it was a great deal after five o'clock.
What are proper times for reading it?"

"Are you going to cut that lemon pie? — or shall I? Daisy, I
thought you were hungry. What is the use of jelly, if you
don't eat it? You'll never catch fish at that rate. Fishers
must eat."

"But, Preston, what do you mean by proper times for reading
the Bible?"

"Daisy, eat some lemon pie. It's capital. It melts in your
mouth. Joanna Underwood is an excellent woman!"

"But, Preston, what do you mean?"

"I don't mean you shall be religious, Daisy, if I can help
it."

"What do you mean by being religious?"

"I declare!" said Preston, laughing at her grave little face,
"I believe you've begun already. I am come in good time. I
won't let you be anything but just what you ought to be,
Daisy. Come — eat some jelly, or some pie, or something."

"But, tell me then, Preston!" Daisy persisted.

"It is something ridiculous, — and you would not wish to be
ridiculous."

"I do not think I have ever seen ridiculous religious people,"
said Daisy, steadily; "and they couldn't be ridiculous _because_
they were religious."

"Couldn't they?" said Preston. "Look out well, Daisy — I shall
watch you. But they won't like it much down at Melbourne
House, Daisy. If I were you, I would stop before you begin."

Daisy was silent. One thing was clear, she and Preston were at
issue; and the value she set upon his favour was very high.
She would not risk it by contending. Another thing was as
clear, that Preston's last words were truth. Among her
opposers, Daisy must reckon her father and mother, if she laid
herself open at all to the charge of being "religious." And
what opposition that would be, Daisy did not let herself
think. She shrunk from it. The lunch was finished, and she set
her attention to pack the remainder of the things back into
the basket. Suddenly she stopped.

"Preston, I wish you to consider my words confidential."

"Perfectly!" said Preston.

"You are honourable," — said Daisy.

"Oh, Daisy, Daisy! you ought to have lived hundreds of years
ago! You have me under command. Come," said he, kissing her
grave little face, "are all these things to go in here? Let me
help — and then we will go up stream."

He helped her with a delicate kind of observance which was not
like most boys of sixteen, and which Daisy fully relished. It
met her notions. Then she went to get her fishing-rod which
lay fallen into the water.

"Oh, Preston!" she exclaimed, "there is something on it! —
it's heavy! — it's a fish!"

"It _is_ a fish!" repeated Preston, as a jerk of Daisy's line
threw it out high and dry on the shore — "and what's more,
it's a splendid one. Daisy, you've done it now!"

"And papa will have it for breakfast! Preston, put it in a
pail of water till we come back. There's that tin pail — we
don't want it for anything — won't you. Oh, I have caught
one!"

It was done; and Daisy and Preston set off on a charming walk
up the brook; but though they tried the virtue of their bait
in various places, however it was, that trout was the only one
caught. Daisy thought it was a fine day's fishing.

They found Sam, sound and dry, mounting guard over the tin
pail when they came back to it. And I think Daisy held to her
own understanding of the text that had been in debate; for
there was a fine portion of lemon pie, jelly, and sandwiches,
laid by for him in the basket, and by Sam devoured with great
appreciation.


CHAPTER X.

A FIELD OF BATTLE.


June came the next morning to dress her young mistress as
usual. Daisy was not soon done with that business on this
particular day; she would break off, half dressed, and go to
lean out of her window. There was a honey-suckle below the
window; its dewy sweet smell came up to her, and the breath of
the morning was sweet beside in all the trees and leaves
around; the sun shone on the short turf by glimpses, where the
trees would let it. Daisy leaned out of her window. June stood
as often before, with comb and brush in hand.

"Miss Daisy — it's late."

"June," said Daisy, — "it's Sunday."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It'll be hot too," Daisy went on. "June, are you glad when
Sunday comes?"

"Yes ma'am," said June, shifting her position a little.

"I am," said Daisy. "Jesus is King to-day. To be sure, He is
King always; but to-day _everything_ is His."

"Miss Daisy, you won't be dressed."

Daisy drew her head in from the window, and sat down to submit
it to June's brush; but she went on talking.

"What part of the Bible do you like best to read, June."

"Miss Daisy, will you wear your white muslin to-day — or the
one with blue spots?"

"White. But tell me, June — which part of the Bible do you
like best?"

"I like where it tells about all they had to go through," —
June answered, rather unwillingly.

"They? — who?"

"The people, Miss Daisy — Christians, I s'pose."

"What did they have to go through?"

"Things, ma'am," said June, very confusedly. "Miss Daisy,
please don't turn your head round."

"But what things? and what for? Where is it, June?"

"I can't tell — I can find it for you, Miss Daisy. But you
won't be ready."

June, however, had to risk that and find the chapter; and then
Daisy read perseveringly all through the rest of her dressing,
till it was finished. All the while June was fastening her
frock, and tying her sash, and lacing her boots, Daisy stood
or sat with the Bible in her hands and her eyes on the
eleventh of Hebrews.

"June, I wonder when all this happened?"

"A great while ago, it's likely, Miss Daisy — but it's good to
read now" — June added, but half distinctly, as it was her
manner often to speak. Daisy was accustomed to her, and heard
it. She did not answer except by breaking out into the chorus
she had learnt from June: —


"Die in the field of battle,
Die in the field of battle,
Die in the field of battle,
Glory in your view!"


"Miss Daisy — I wouldn't sing that in the house," June
ventured. For the child's voice, clear and full, raised the
sweet notes to a pitch that might have been heard at least
through several of the large rooms. Daisy hushed her song.

The trout was to be for breakfast, and Daisy, when she was
quite ready, went gaily down to see if it would be approved.
Her father was engaged to eat it all, and he held to his
promise; only allowing Daisy herself to share with him; and on
the whole Daisy and he had a very gay breakfast.

"It is too hot to do anything," said Mrs. Randolph, as the
trout was very nearly reduced to a skeleton. "I shall not go
to church this morning."

A shade passed over Daisy's face, but she did not look towards
her mother.

"If you do not, I can't see why I should," said Mr. Randolph.
"The burden of setting a good example lies upon you."

"Why?" said his wife, quickly.

"Nobody will know whether _I_ am there or not."

"Nobody will know that I am there at any rate," the lady
rejoined. "The heat will be insufferable." Mrs. Gary declared
herself of the same opinion.

An hour after, Daisy came into her mother's room.

"Mamma, may I go to church with Joanna?"

"It's too hot, Daisy."

"No, mamma — I don't mind it. I would like to go."

"Children don't mind anything! Please yourself. But how are
you going?"

"On foot, mamma; under the shade of the trees. It is nice and
shady, all the way."

"It is enough to kill you! But go."

So Daisy's great flat set off alongside of Miss Underwood's
Sunday gown to walk to church. They set out all right, on the
way to the church by the evergreens. Preston Gary was a good
deal surprised to find them some time later in another part of
the grounds, and going in a different direction.

"Where are you bound, Daisy." he asked.

"To church, Preston."

"Church is the other way."

"Yes, but Mr. Pyne is sick, and the church is closed, and we
are going over to that little church on the other side of the
road."

"Why, that is a dissenting chapel, isn't it?"

"There's no more dissent amongst 'em than there is among other
folks!" broke in Miss Underwood, with a good deal of
expression. "I wish all other folks and churches was as
peaceable and kept as close to their business! Anyhow, it's a
church, and the other one won't let us in."

Preston smiled and stepped back, and to Daisy's satisfaction
they met with no further stay. They got to the little church,
and took their places in the very front; that place was empty,
and Joanna said it was the only one that she could see. The
house was full. It was a plain little church, very neat, but
very plain compared with what Daisy was accustomed to. So were
the people. These were not rich people, not any of them, she
thought. At least there were no costly bonnets, nor exquisite
lace shawls, nor embroidered muslin dresses among them; and
many persons that she saw looked absolutely poor. Daisy,
however, did not see this at first; for the service began
almost as soon as they entered.

Daisy was very fond of the prayers always in church, but she
seldom could make much of the sermon. It was not so to-day. In
the first place, when the prayers and hymns were over, and
what Daisy called "the good part" of the service was done, her
astonishment and delight were about equal to see Mr. Dinwiddie
come forward to speak. It is impossible to tell how glad Daisy
was; even a sermon she thought she could relish from his lips;
but when he began, she forgot all about it's being a sermon.
Mr. Dinwiddie was talking to her and to the rest of the
people; that was all she knew; he was not looking down at his
book, he was looking at them; his eyes were going right
through hers. And he did not speak as if he was preaching; his
voice sounded exactly as it did every day out of church. It
was delightful. Daisy forgot all about it's being a sermon,
and only drank in the words with her ears and her heart, and
never took her eyes from those bright ones that every now and
then looked down at her. For Mr. Dinwiddie was telling of Him
"who though He was rich yet for our sakes became poor." He
told how rich He was, in the glories and happiness of heaven,
where everything is perfect and all is His. And then he told
how Jesus made Himself poor; how He left all that glory and
everything that pleased Him; came where everything displeased
Him; lived among sin and sinners; was poor, and despised, and
rejected, and treated with every shame, and at last shamefully
put to death and His dead body laid in the grave. All this
because He loved us; all this because He wanted to make us
rich, and without His death to buy our forgiveness there was
no other way. "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that
He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our
sins."

Daisy forgot even Mr. Dinwiddie in thinking of that wonderful
One. She thought she had never seen before how good He is, or
how beautiful; she had never felt how loving and tender Jesus
is in His mercy to those that seek Him, and whom _He_ came to
seek first; she never saw "the kindness and love of God our
Saviour" before. As the story went on, again and again Daisy
would see a cloud or mist of tears come over the brightness of
those brilliant eyes; and saw the lips tremble; and Daisy's
own eyes filled and ran over, and her cheeks were wet with
tears, and she never knew it!

But when Mr. Dinwiddie stopped, she was so full of gladness in
her little heart, — gladness that this beautiful Saviour loved
her and that she loved Him, that although if she _could_ have
been sorry, she would have been very sorry that the sermon was
over, she was not; she could be nothing but glad.

She thought they were going home then, after the hymn was
sung; but in her thoughts she had missed some words not spoken
by Mr. Dinwiddie. And now she perceived that not only it was
sacrament day, which she had seen before; but further, that
the people who would not share in that service were going, and
that Miss Underwood was staying, and by consequence she must
stay too. Daisy was pleased. She had never in her life, as it
happened, seen the observance of this ordinance; and she had,
besides a child's curiosity, a deep, deep interest in all that
Christians are accustomed to do. Was she not one?

Mr. Dinwiddie had spoken about the service and the purpose of
it; he explained how the servants of Christ at His command
take the bread and wine in remembrance of Him and what He has
done for them; and as a sign to all the world that they
believe in Him and love Him, and wait for Him to come again.
Now some prayers were made, and there were spoken some grave
words of counsel and warning, which sounded sweet and awful in
Daisy's ears; and then the people came forward, a part of
them, and knelt around a low railing which was before the
pulpit. As they did this, some voices began to sing a hymn, in
a wonderfully sweet and touching music. Daisy was exceedingly
fond of every melody and harmony that was worthy the name; and
this — plaintive, slow, simple — seemed to go not only through
her ears, but down to the very bottom of her heart. They sang
but a verse and a chorus; and then, after an interval, when
those around the railings rose and gave place to others, they
sang a verse and a chorus again; and this is the chorus that
they sang. It dwelt in Daisy's heart for many a day; but I can
never tell you the sweetness of it.


"Oh, the Lamb! the loving Lamb!
The Lamb on Calvary;
The Lamb that was slain, but lives again,
To intercede for me."


It seemed to Daisy a sort of paradise while they were singing.
Again and again, after a pause the notes measuredly rose and
fell; and little Daisy who could take no other open part in
what was going on, responded to them with her tears. Nobody
was looking, she thought; nobody would see.

At last it was all done; the last verses were sung; the las

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