Daisy reflected the next morning as to what was her right course with respect to the action that had troubled her mother so much. Ought she to do it? In the abstract it was right to do it; but ought she in these circumstances? And how much of a Christian\'s ordinary duty might she be required to forego? and where must the stand be made? Daisy did not know; she had rather the mind of a soldier, and was much inclined to obey her orders, as such, come what might. That is, it seemed to her that so she would be in the sure and safe way; but Daisy had no appetite at all for the fighting that this course would ensure. One thing she knew by experience; that if she drew upon herself a direct command to do such a thing no more, the order would stand; there would be no dealing with it afterwards except in the way of submission. That command she had not in this case yet received, and she judged it prudent not to risk receiving it. She went down to breakfast as usual, but she did not bow her little head to give any thanks or make any prayers. She hoped the breakfast would pass off quietly. So it did as to that matter. But another subject came up.

"What became of you last night at supper, Daisy?" her aunt asked. "Dr. Sandford was enquiring for you. I think you received quite your share of attention, for so young a lady, for my part."

"Daisy had more than anybody else, yesterday," remarked Elo?se.

"A sprained or a broken ankle is a very good thing occasionally," said
Mr. Randolph.

"Yes," said Mrs. Gary—"I think Daisy had quite the best time of anybody yesterday. A palanquin with gentlemen for her porters, and friendly arms to go to sleep in—most devoted care!"

"Yes, I was one of her porters," said Ransom. "I think Dr. Sandford takes rather too much on himself."

"Did he take you?" said Mr. Randolph.

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

"Why Ransom," said Daisy, "there was no one else to carry my chair but
Preston and you."

"Did Preston feel aggrieved?" asked his uncle.

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

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

"I suppose it was not the doctor\'s business either," said Mr.
Randolph—"though he made it so afterwards."

"O, I dare say it was a pleasure to him, too," said Mrs. Gary. "Really, the doctor did not take care of anybody yesterday, that I saw, except Daisy. I thought he admired Frederica Fish—I had heard so—but there was nothing of it. Daisy was quite queen of the day."

Mr. Randolph smiled. Ransom seemed to consider himself insulted. "I suppose that was the reason," he said, "that she called me worse than a dog, because I took a meringue from the dinner-spread."

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

"No, mamma," said Daisy low. Her nice had flushed with astonishment and sorrow.

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

"O no, Ransom you forget."

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

"Mamma, I did not say that. I said something—I did not mean it for anything like that."

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

"Wait till after breakfast," said Mr. Randolph. "I wish to be present at the investigation of this subject, Felicia—but I would rather take it by itself than with my coffee."

So there was a lull in the storm which seemed to be gathering. It gave Daisy time to think. She was in a great puzzle. How she could get through the matter without exposing all Ransom\'s behaviour, all at least which went before the blow given to herself, Daisy did not see; she was afraid that truth would force her to bring it all out. And she was very unwilling to do that, because in the first place she had established a full amnesty in her own heart for all that Ransom had done, and wished rather for an opportunity to please than to criminate him; and in the second place, in her inward consciousness she knew that Mrs. Randolph was likely to be displeased with her, in any event. She would certainly, if Daisy were an occasion of bringing Ransom into disgrace; though the child doubted privately whether her word would have weight enough with her mother for that. Ransom also had time to think, and his brow grew gloomy. An investigation is never what a guilty party desires; and judging her by himself, Ransom had reason to dread the chance of retaliation which such a proceeding would give his little sister. So Daisy and Ransom wore thoughtful faces during the rest of breakfast-time; and the result of Ransom\'s reflections was that the investigation would go on most pleasantly without him. He made up his mind to slip away, if he had a chance, and be missing. He had the chance; for Mr. and Mrs. Randolph were engaged with a call of some neighbours immediately after breakfast; all thought of the children\'s affairs seemed to be departed. Ransom waited a safe time, and then departed too, with Preston, on an expedition which would last all the morning. Daisy alone bided the hour, a good deal disturbed in the view of what it might bring.

She was summoned at last to the library. Her father and mother were there alone; but just after Daisy came in she was followed by Dr. Sandford. The doctor came with a message. Mrs. Sandford, his sister, he said, sent by him to beg that Daisy might come to spend the day with Nora Dinwiddie, who much desired her presence. In the event of a favourable answer, the doctor said he would himself drive Daisy over, and would call for that purpose in another hour or two. He delivered his message, and Mrs. Randolph replied at once that Daisy could not go; she could not permit it.

Mr. Randolph saw the flush of hope and disappointment on Daisy\'s face and the witness of another kind in her eyes; though with her characteristic steady self-control she neither moved nor spoke, and suffered the tears to come no farther. Dr. Sandford saw it too, but he said nothing. Mr. Randolph spoke.

"Is that decision on account of Daisy\'s supposed delinquency in that matter?"

"Of course—" Mrs. Randolph answered drily.

"Can you explain it, Daisy?" her father asked, gravely and kindly drawing her up to his side. Daisy struggled with some thought.

"Papa," she said softly, "will mamma be satisfied to punish me and let it go so?"

"Let it go how?"

"Would she be satisfied with this punishment, I mean, and not make me say anything more about it?"

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

"I think I can, papa," Daisy said, but with a troubled unwillingness, her father saw. He saw too that it was not the unwillingness of a troubled conscience.

"Dr. Sandford, if you are willing to take the trouble of stopping without the certainty of taking Daisy back with you, I have some hopes that the result may be satisfactory to all parties."

"Au revoir, then," said the doctor, and he strode off.

"Now, Daisy," said her father, still having his arms about her—"what is it?" Mrs. Randolph stood by the table and looked coldly down at the group. Daisy was under great difficulty; that was plain.

"Papa—I wish Ransom could tell you!"

"Where is the boy?"

Mrs. Randolph rang the bell.

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

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

Daisy certainly looked troubled enough, and timid also; though her meek look at her mother did not plead guilty to this accusation.

"Speak, Daisy; the telling whatever there is to tell must come upon you," her father said. "Your business is to explain the charge Ransom has brought against you."

All Daisy\'s meditations had not brought her to the point of knowing what to say in this conjuncture. She hesitated.

"Speak, Daisy!" her father said peremptorily.

"Papa, they had put me—Elo?se and Theresa Stanfield—they had put me to watch the things."

"What things?"

"The dinner—the things that had been taken out of the hampers and were spread on the tablecloth, where we dined."

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

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

"Oh! Well?—"

"I kept Fido off, but I could not keep Ransom—" Daisy said low. "He was taking things."

"And why should he not?" said Mrs. Randolph coldly. "Why should not Ransom take a sandwich, or a peach, if he wanted one? or anything else, if he was hungry. There was enough provision for everybody."

Daisy looked up at her mother, with a quick refutation of this statement of the case in her mind, but something stayed her lips. Mr. Randolph saw and read the look. He put his arm round Daisy and drew her up to him, speaking with grave decision.

"Daisy, say all you have to say at once—do you hear me? and spare neither for Ransom nor yourself. Tell all there is to be told, without any shuffling."

"Papa, I should not have objected to his having a sandwich—or as many as he liked. I should have thought it was proper. But he took the meringues—and so many that the dish was left very small; and then he carried off Joanna\'s lark pie, the whole of it; and he did not mind what I said; and then, I believe—I suppose that is what Ransom meant—I believe I told him he was worse than Fido."

"Was Ransom offended at that?"

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

"Of course not," said Mrs. Randolph. "Boys never like to be tutored by girls; and Daisy must expect her brother will not like it if she meddles with him; and especially if she addresses such language to him."

"I said only exactly that, mamma."

"Ransom put it differently."

A flush came up all over Daisy\'s face; she looked at her mother appealingly, but said nothing and the next moment her eyes fell.

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

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

"How?"

"Papa!—" said Daisy confounded.

"What did he say to you?"

"He did not say much—" said Daisy.

"Tell me what his answer was?"

"Papa, he struck my ears," said Daisy. A great crimson glow came all over her face, and she hid it in her father\'s breast; like an injured thing running to shelter. Mr. Randolph was lying on a sofa; he folded his arm round Daisy, but spoke never a word. Mrs. Randolph moved impatiently.

"Boys will do such things," she said. "It is very absurd in Daisy to mind it. Boys will do such things—she must learn that it is not her place or business to find fault with her brother. I think she deserved what she got. It will teach her a lesson."

"Boys shall not do such things in my house," said Mr. Randolph in his usual quiet manner.

"As you please!" said the lady in a very dissatisfied way; "but I think it is only what all boys do."

"Felicia, I wish to reverse your decision about this day\'s pleasure. Seeing Daisy has had her lesson, do you not think she might be indulged with the play after it?"

"As you please!" returned the lady very drily.

"Do you want to go, Daisy?"

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

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

"O no, mamma!" Daisy looked up. "He is not coming. He is gone a great way off. I do not suppose he is ever coming here again; and Nora is going away soon."

Mrs. Randolph moved off.

"Felicia—" said her husband. The lady paused. "I intend that Ransom shall have a lesson, too. I shall take away the remaining week of his vacation. To-morrow he goes back to school. I tell you, that you may give the necessary orders."

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

"For what you please. He must learn that such behaviour is not permitted here."

Mrs. Randolph did not share the folly with which she charged Daisy, for she made no answer at all, and only with a slight toss of her haughty head resumed her walk out of the room. Daisy would fain have spoken, but she did not dare; and for some minutes after they were left alone her father and she were profoundly silent. Mr. Randolph revolving the behaviour of Daisy as he now understood it; her willing silence and enforced speech, and the gentleness manifested towards her brother, with the meek obedience rendered to her mother and himself. Perhaps his thoughts went deeper still. While Daisy reflected with sorrow on the state of mind sure to be produced now both in Ransom and Mrs. Randolph towards her. A matter which she could do nothing to help. She did not dare say one word to change her father\'s purpose about Ransom; she knew quite well it would be no use. She stood silent by his sofa, one little hand resting fondly on his shoulder, but profoundly quiet. Then she remembered that she had something else to talk about.

"Papa—" she said wheeling round a little to face him.

"Well, Daisy?"

"Do you feel like talking?"

"Hardly—it is so hot," said Mr. Randolph. "Set open that sash door a little more, Daisy. Now come here. What is it?"

"Shall I wait till another time, papa?"

"No."

He had passed an arm round her, and she stood as before with one hand resting on his shoulder.

"Papa—it was about—what last night you said I might talk to you about."

"I remember. Go on, Daisy."

"Papa," said the child, a little in doubt how to go on—"I want to do what is right."

"There is generally little difficulty in doing that, Daisy."

Daisy thought otherwise!

"Papa, I think mamma does not like me to do what I think is right," she said very low and humbly.

"Your mother is the best judge, Daisy. What are you talking about?"

"That, papa—that you said I might talk to you about."

"What is it? Let us understand one another clearly."

"About—It was only that I liked to pray and give thanks a minute at meal times." Daisy spoke very softly and as if she would fain not have spoken.

"That is a mere indifferent ceremony, Daisy, which some people perform. It is not binding on you, certainly, if your mother has any objection to your doing it."

"But, papa,"—Daisy began eagerly and then checked herself, and went on slowly—"you would not like it if you were to give me anything, and I should not thank you?"

"Cases are not parallel, Daisy."

She wondered in her simplicity why they were not; but her questions had already ventured pretty far; she did not dare count too much upon her father\'s gentleness. She stood looking at him with unsatisfied eyes.

"In one sense we receive everything we have from the bounty of Heaven."

"Yes, papa."

"If your wish were carried out, we should be covering our faces all the time—if that formality is needed in giving thanks."

Daisy had thoughts, but she was afraid to utter them. She looked at Mr.
Randolph with the same unsatisfied eyes.

"Do you see, Daisy?"

"No, papa."

"Don\'t you!" said Mr. Randolph smiling. "Difficulties still unsolved?
Can you state them, Daisy?"

"Papa, you said I might shew you in the Bible things—do you remember?"

"Things? What things?"

"Papa, if I wanted to do things that I thought were right—you promised that if you thought they were in the Bible, I might do as it said."

"Humph!"—said Mr. Randolph, with a very doubtful sort of a grunt, between displeasure at his own word, and annoyance at the trouble it might bring upon him. Nevertheless, he remembered the promise. Daisy went on timidly.

"When you get up—by and by, papa,—may I shew you what is in the
Bible?"

"You need not wait till I get up—shew it to me now."

"I cannot lift that big Bible, papa."

Mr. Randolph rose up from the sofa, went to the shelves where it lay, and brought the great Bible to the library table. Then stood and watched Daisy, who kneeled in a chair by the table and busily turned over the large leaves, her little face very wise and intent, her little hands small to manage the big book before her. Had such a child and such a book anything to do with each other, Mr. Randolph thought? But Daisy presently found her place, and looking up at him drew a little back that her father might see it. He stooped over Daisy and read,

"In everything give thanks."

"Do you see it, papa?"

"Yes."

"Then here is another place—I know where to find it—"

She turned over more leaves, stopped again, and Mr. Randolph stooped and read,—

"Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Mr. Randolph read, and went and threw himself on his sofa again. Daisy came beside him. A wistful earnestness in the one face; a careless sort of embarrassment on the other.

"You are led astray, little Daisy, by a common mistake of ignorant readers. You fancy that these words are to be taken literally—whereas they mean simply that we should cultivate a thankful spirit. That, of course, I agree to."

"But, papa," said Daisy, "is a thankful spirit the same thing quite as giving thanks?"

"It is a much better thing, Daisy, in my opinion."

"But, papa, would not a thankful spirit like to give thanks?"

"I have no objection, Daisy."

The tears came into Daisy\'s eyes. Her mother had.

"Papa—"

"Well? Let us get to the end of this difficulty if we can."

"I am afraid we cannot, papa. Because if you had told me to do a thing so, you would mean it just so, and I should do it."

Mr. Randolph wrapped his arms round Daisy and brought her close to his breast. "Look here, Daisy," said he—"tell me. Do you really try to give thanks everywhere, and for all things, as the word says?"

"I do not try, papa—I like to do it."

"Do you give thanks for everything?"

"I think I do, papa; for everything that gives me pleasure."

"For Mrs. Sandford\'s invitation to-day, for instance?"

"O yes, papa," said Daisy smiling.

He brought the little head down within reach of his lips and kissed it a good many times.

"I wish my little Daisy would not think so much."

"I think only to know what is right to do, papa."

"It is right to mind mamma and me, and let us think for you."

"And the Bible, papa?"

"You are quite growing an old woman a good while before the time."

Daisy kissed him with good child-like kisses, laying her little head in his neck and clasping her arms around him; for all that, her heart was busy yet.

"Papa," she said, "what do you think is right for me to do?"

"Thinking exhausts me, Daisy. It is too hot to-day for such an exercise."

Daisy drew back and looked at him, with one hand resting on his shoulder. She did not dare urge any more in words; her look spoke her anxious, disappointed questioning of her father\'s meaning. Perhaps he did not care to meet such a gaze of inquiry, for he pulled her down again in his arms.

"I do not want you to be an old woman."

"But, papa—that is not the thing."

"I will not have it, Daisy."

"Papa," she said with a small laugh, "what shall I do to help it? I do not know how I came to be an old woman."

"Go off and play with Nora Dinwiddie. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes, papa—except my hat and gloves."

"Do not think anymore to-day. I will think for you by and by. But Daisy, why should you and I set ourselves up to be better than other people?"

"How, papa?"

"Do you know anybody else that lives up to your views on the subject of thanksgiving?"

"O yes, papa."

"Who?"

Daisy softly said, "Juanita does, papa, I think."

"A poor ignorant woman, Daisy, and very likely full of superstitions.
Her race often are."

"What is a superstition, papa?"

"A religious notion which has no foundation in truth."

"Then papa, can it be superstition to do just what God tells us to do?"

"You are too deep for me, Daisy," said Mr. Randolph languidly. "Go and get ready for Dr. Sandford. He will be here presently."

So Daisy went, feeling very uncertain of the result of her talk, but doubtful and discouraged. Mr. Randolph had a book in hand when she returned to the library: she could not speak to him any more; and soon indeed the doctor came, helped her into his gig, and drove off with her.

Now it was pleasant. The fine gravelled roads in the grounds of Melbourne were in beautiful order after the rain; no dust rose yet, and all the trees and flowers were in a refreshed state of life and sweetness. Truly it was a very hot day, but Daisy found nothing amiss. Neither, apparently, did the doctor\'s good horse. He trotted along without seeming to mind the sun; and Daisy in a good deal of glee enjoyed everything. It was private glee—in her own mind; she did not offer any conversation; and the doctor, of Mr. Randolph\'s mind, perhaps, that it was a warm day, threw himself back in his seat and watched her lazily. Daisy on the contrary sat up and looked busily out. They drove in the first place for a good distance through her own home grounds, coming out to the public road by the church where Mr. Pyne preached, and near which the wintergreens grew. It looked beautiful this morning, with its ivy all washed and fresh from the rain. Indeed all nature was in a sort of glittering condition. When they came out on the public way it was still beautiful; no dust, and fields and grass and trees all shining.

The road they travelled now was one scarce known to Daisy; the carriages from Melbourne never went that way; another was always chosen at the beginning of all their excursions whether of business or pleasure. No gentlemen\'s seats were to be seen; an occasional farmhouse stood in the midst of its crops and meadows; and more frequently a yet poorer sort of house stood close by the roadside. The road in this place was sometimes rough, and the doctor\'s good horse left his trot and picked his way slowly along, giving Daisy by this means an opportunity to inspect everything more closely. There was often little pleasure in the inspection. About half a mile from the church, Daisy\'s attention was drawn by one of these poor houses. It was very small, unpainted and dreary-looking, having a narrow courtyard between it and the road. As the gig was very slowly going past, Daisy uttered an exclamation, the first word she had uttered in a long while.

"O Dr. Sandford!—what is that? Something is the matter!"

"No," said the doctor coolly, "nothing is the matter—more than usual."

"But a woman was on her hands and knees on the ground? wasn\'t it a woman?"

"Yes. She cannot move about in any other way. She is a cripple."

"She cannot stand up?" said Daisy, looking distressed and horrified.

"No. She has no use of her lower limbs. She is accustomed, to it, Daisy; she never had the use of them, or never for a very long while."

"Is she old?"

"Pretty old, I fancy. But she does not know her age herself, and nobody else knows it."

"Has she got nice people to take care of her?"

The doctor smiled at the earnest little face. "She has nobody."

"No one to take care of her?" said Daisy.

"No. She lives there alone."

"But, Dr. Sandford, how does she do—how does she manage?"

"In some way that would be difficult for you and me to understand, I suppose—like the ways of the beavers and wasps."

"I can understand those" said Daisy, "they were made to get along as they do; they have got all they want."

Daisy was silent, musing, for a little time; then she broke out again.

"Isn\'t she very miserable, Dr. Sandford?"

"She is a very crabbed old thing, so the inference is fair that she is miserable. In fact, I do not see how she can avoid it."

Daisy pondered perhaps this misery which she could so little imagine; however she let the subject drop as to any more words about it. She was only what the doctor called "quaintly sober," all the rest of the way.

"Why she looks child-like and bright enough now," said Mrs. Sandford, to whom he made the remark. Daisy and Nora were exchanging mutual gratulations. The doctor looked at them.

"At the rate in which she is growing old," said he, "she will have the soul of Methusaleh in a body of twenty years."

"I don\'t believe it," said Mrs. Sandford.

Nora and Daisy had a great day of it. Nothing broke the full flow of business and pleasure during all the long hours; the day was not hot to them, nor the shadows long in coming. Behind the house there was a deep grassy dell through which a brook ran. Over this brook in the dell a great black walnut tree cast its constant flickering shadow; flickering when the wind played in the leaves and branches, although to-day the air was still and sultry, and the leaves and the shadows were still too, and did not move. But there was life enough in the branches of the old walnut, for a large family of grey squirrels had established themselves there. Old and young, large and small; it was impossible to tell, by counting, how many there might be in the family; at least now while they were going in and out and running all over; but Nora said Mrs. Sandford had counted fifteen of them at one time. That was in cold weather, when they had gathered on the piazza to get the nuts she threw to them. This kind of intercourse with society had made the squirrels comparatively tame, so that they had no particular objections to shew themselves to the two children; and when Nora and Daisy kept quiet they had great entertainment in watching the gambols of the pretty grey creatures. One in particular, the mother of the family, Nora said, was bolder or more familiar than the rest; and came often and came pretty near, to look at the children with her bright little eyes, and let them see her beautiful feathery tail and graceful motions. It was a great delight to Daisy. Nora had seen them before, as she said, and did not care quite so much about the sight.

"I wonder what use squirrels are?" said Daisy.

"I guess they are not of any use," said Nora.

"O, I guess everything is of use."

"Why no it isn\'t," said Nora. "Grass is not of any use."

"O Nora! Think—what would the cows and horses do?"

"Well, then, stones are not of any use."

"Yes they are—to build houses—don\'t you know?"

"Houses might be built of wood," said Nora.

"So they might. But then, Nora, wooden houses would not last so long as stone ones."

"Well—people could build new ones."

"But houses might be wanted where there was not wood enough to build them."

"I never saw such a place," said Nora. "I never saw a place where there was not wood enough. And if there is such a place anywhere, people could not live in it, because they would have nothing to make fires with."

Daisy considered.

"But Nora, I think it cannot be so. I guess everything is made for some use. Dr. Sandford told me yesterday what the use is of those queer brown leaves that grow upon rocks—you know—and the use of little mosses, that I never thought before were good for anything. They are to begin to prepare a place on the rocks where things can grow."

"Why, they grow themselves," said Nora.

"Yes, but I mean other things—ferns and flowers and other things."

"Well, what is the use of them?" said Nora.

"O Nora—just think how pretty they are."

"But prettiness isn\'t use."

"I think it is," said Daisy; "and I dare say they have other uses that we do not know. And I think, Nora, that God would not have taken such care to dress up the old rocks if the rocks were no good."

"Did He do it?" said Nora.

"Why, certainly. He did everything, you know."

"Of course; but I thought they just grew," said Nora.

The children were silent a little, watching the squirrels. Daisy began again abruptly.

"Nora, did you ever see that crippled woman that lives on the mill road a little way from our church?"

"Old Molly Skelton, do you mean?"

"I do not know what her name is—she cannot walk; she creeps about as if she had no legs."

"I\'ve seen her. Isn\'t she horrid?"

"Did you ever see her near by?"

"No, I guess I haven\'t. I have heard Duke tell about her."

"What? do tell me."

"O she\'s a horrid old thing—that is all I know."

"How, horrid?"

"Why, she is wicked, and she don\'t know anything. She would hardly listen to Marmaduke when, he wanted to talk to her."

"Has she got a Bible, I wonder?" said Daisy in an awestruck voice.

"She? She can\'t read. She don\'t know anything; and she is as ugly and cross as she can be."

"Was she cross to Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Yes, indeed. He said he never saw such a crabbed old thing. O she\'s horrid. I don\'t like to ride by that way."

The children were called in to dinner, and kept in the house by Mrs. Sandford during the intensest heat of the day. But when the afternoon was cooling off, or at least growing less oppressive, the two children again sought the shade under the walnut tree, where the gurgle of the water over the stones, and the company of the squirrels in the tree, made the place pleasant. And there they sat down in a great state of mutual contentment. Nora\'s feet were swinging about for very jollity. But Daisy sat still. Perhaps she was tired. Nevertheless it could not be that which made her little face by and by take on it as profound an expression as if she had been looking over all Methuselah\'s years.

"Nora—" said Daisy, and stopped.

"What?" said Nora, kicking her heels.

"You know that poor old crippled woman—what did you call her?"

"Molly Skelton?"

"Suppose you were in her place—what do you think you would wish for?"

"In her place!" said Nora. "I should wish for everything."

"Yes, but I mean, things that you could have."

"I should wish some doctor would come and make me straight, the first thing; and then—"

"No, Nora, but I mean, things that might be possible, you know. I do not mean things like a fairy tale."

"I don\'t know," said Nora. "I don\'t believe Molly Skelton wishes for anything."

"But what would you wish for, in her place?"

"I should want to be straight, and stand and go about like other people."

"Yes, Nora, but I say! I mean, what would you wish for that would not be impossible?"

"Why, Daisy, how funny! Let me see. I should wish that somebody would come and be good to me, I think."

"How?"

"O—tell me stories and read to me, and take tea with me—and I don\'t know what!"

"Do you suppose nobody ever does take tea with her?" said Daisy, upon whose fancy a new shadow of wretchedness darkened.

"I guess not," said Nora. "I don\'t believe anybody would. I guess nobody likes her well enough, she is so bad."

"Who gets her tea for her then?"

"Why nobody. She does it herself."

"How can she?"

"I don\'t know. Marmaduke says she keeps her house clean too, though she only goes about on her hands and knees."

"Nora," said Daisy, "that isn\'t like the Bible."

"What isn\'t?"

"Don\'t you remember what the Bible says? that whatever we would like other people to do to us, we should do so to them."

"What do you mean, Daisy?"

"I mean just so."

"But what isn\'t like the Bible?"

"Why—to let that poor old woman go without what we would like if we were in her place."

"Why Daisy! Molly Skelton! The Bible does not mean that we ought to go and make visits to such horrid people as that."

"You said you would like it if you were in her place," observed Daisy, "and I know I should. I thought so when you told me."

"But, Daisy, she is wicked!"

"Well, Jesus loves wicked people," said Daisy calmly. "Maybe she will wear a white robe in heaven, and have a crown of gold upon her head."

"Daisy!—she is wicked," exclaimed Nora indignantly. "Wicked people do not go to heaven."

"Yes, but if Jesus gives them his white robe, they do," said Daisy. "He came to save wicked people."

"I don\'t want to talk any more about Molly Skelton," said Nora. "Look, Daisy!—there\'s the old mother squirrel peeping out of her hole. Do you see? Now she is coming out—see her black eyes! now there\'s her beautiful feather tail!"—

This subject was to the full as interesting to Daisy as it was to her friend; and in watching the grey family in the walnut tree and trying to induce them to come near and get some almonds, the rest of the afternoon flew by. Only the "mother squirrel" could be tempted near; but she, older in experience and wisdom than her young ones, did venture into the neighbourhood of the children, attracted by the nuts they threw down; and getting pretty close to them, before she would venture quite so far as where the nuts lay, she sat down on her haunches to look and see whether all were safe; curling her thick, light plume of a tail up along her back, or whisking it about in various lines of beauty, while her bright little black eyes took all the observations they were equal to. It was unending amusement for the children; and then to see Mrs. Bunny finally seize an almond and spring away with it, was very charming. So the afternoon sped; nor ever brought one moment of weariness, until the summons came to bid the children into the house again to tea.