Daisy pondered over the doctor\'s counsel. It was friendly; but she hardly thought well advised. He did not know her father and mother so well as she did. Yet she went to find out Logan that afternoon on her return from the drive, and saw the rose-bush laid by the heels; with perhaps just a shadow of hope in her heart that her friend the doctor might mean to put in a plea for her somewhere. The hope faded when she got back to the house, and the doctor was gone, and Mrs. Randolph\'s handsome face looked its usual calm impassiveness. What use to ask her such a thing as leave to go to the cripple\'s cottage? No use at all, Daisy knew. The request alone would probably move displeasure. Every look at her mother\'s face settled this conviction more and more deeply in Daisy\'s mind; and she ended by giving up the subject. There was no hope. She could do nothing for any poor person, she was sure, under her mother\'s permission, beyond carrying soup and jelly in her pony chaise and maybe going in to give it. And that was not much; and there were very few poor people around Melbourne that wanted just that sort of attention.

So Daisy gave up her scheme. Nevertheless next morning it gave her a twinge of heart to see her rose-bush laid by the heels, exactly like her hopes. Daisy stood and looked at it. The sweet half-blown rose at the top of the little tree hung ingloriously over the soil, and yet looked so lovely and smelt so sweet; and Daisy had hoped it might win poor Molly Skelton\'s favour, or at least begin to open a way for it to come in due time.

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

"No."

"Your hands were not strong enough to make the hole deep for it, Miss
Daisy?"

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

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

Daisy wished it was back in its old place again; but she did not like to say so, and she went slowly back to the house. As she mounted the piazza steps she heard her father\'s voice. He was there before the library windows.

"Come here, Daisy. What are you about?" he said drawing her up in his arms.

"Nothing, papa."

"How do you like doing nothing?"

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

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

"I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."

"Did that occupy the whole afternoon?"

"O no, papa."

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

"No sir, not nothing."

"Daisy, I wish you would be a little more frank. Have you any objection to tell me what you were doing?"

"No, papa;—but I did not think it would give you any pleasure. I was only trying to do something."

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

"I must tell you more then, papa." And standing with her arm on her father\'s shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains on the other side of the river, Daisy went on.

"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is a cripple. Papa, her legs and feet are all bent up under her, so that she cannot walk at all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt."

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

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

"Very, I should think."

"But that is not her worst misery. Papa, she is all alone; the neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with her. She is all alone by night and by day; and she is disagreeable in her temper, I believe, and she has nobody to love her and she loves nobody."

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

"What two things, papa?"

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

"Papa—I do not know." Then remembering Juanita, Daisy suddenly added,—"Papa, I should think it must be the worst to love nobody."

"Do you? Pray why?"

"It would not make her happy, I think, to have people love her if she did not love them."

"And you think loving others would be better, without anybody to give love back?"

"I should think it would be very hard!"—said Daisy with a most profound expression of thoughtfulness.

"Well—this poor cripple, I understand, lacks both those conditions of happiness?"

"Yes, papa."

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

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

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

You could only see the faintest expression of pleasure in the line of
Daisy\'s lips; she was looking very sober and a trifle anxious.

"I only thought, papa, I would try if I could not do something to make that poor woman happier."

"What did you try?"

"The first thing was to get her to know me and like me, you know, papa; because she is rather cross and does not like people generally, I believe."

"So you went to see her?"

"I have never spoken much to her, papa. But I went inside of her gate one day, and saw her trying to take care of some poor flowers; so then I thought, maybe, if I took her a nice little rose-bush, she might like it."

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

"No, papa. I did get a rose-bush from Logan and he told me how to plant it; and I was on my way to the cottage and had almost got there; and then I recollected mamma had said I must not speak to anybody without her leave."

"So you came home?"

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

"Have you asked leave of your mother?"

"No, papa,"—said Daisy, in a tone of voice which sufficiently expressed that she did not intend it.

"So my dear little Daisy," said her father drawing his arm round her a little more closely—"you think a rose-bush would serve instead of friends to make this poor creature happy?"

"O no, papa!"

"What was the purpose of it, then?"

"Only—to get her to like me, papa."

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

"Papa, if you lived in such a place, in such a way, wouldn\'t you like to have a friend come and see you sometimes?"

"Certainly!—if you were the friend."

"I thought—by and by—she might learn to like it," Daisy said in the most sedately meek way possible. Her father could not forbear a smile.

"But Daisy, from what you tell me, I am at a loss to understand the part that all this could have had in your happiness."

"O papa—she is so miserable!" was Daisy\'s answer. Mr. Randolph drew her close and kissed her.

"You are not miserable?"

"No, papa—but—"

"But what?"

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

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

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

"Papa, may I shew you something?" said the child with sudden life.

"Anything, Daisy."

She rushed away; was gone a full five minutes; then came softly to Mr.
Randolph\'s shoulder with an open book in her hand. It was Joanna\'s
Bible, for Daisy did not dare bring her own; and it was open at these
words—

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

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

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

"What is right?"

"To do this, papa."

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

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

"Do you suppose this commands us to do in every case what we would like ourselves in the circumstances?"

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

"At that rate, I should have to let you go with your rose-bush," said
Mr. Randolph.

"O papa!" said Daisy, "do you think, if you asked her, mamma would perhaps say I might?"

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

For answer to which, Daisy clasped her arms round his neck and gave him some very earnest caresses, comprised in one great kiss and a clinging of her little head in his neck for the space of half a minute. It meant a great deal; so much that Mr. Randolph was unable for the rest of the day to get rid of a sort of lingering echo of Daisy\'s Bible words; they haunted him, and haunted him with a strange sense of the house being at cross purposes, and Daisy\'s line of life lying quite athwart and contrary to all the rest. "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you;"—who else at Melbourne considered that for one moment?

However, Mr. Randolph had a fresh talk with his wife; the end of which was that he gave Daisy leave to do what she liked in the matter of Molly Skelton; and was rewarded on the spot by seeing the pink tinge which instantly started into the pale cheeks.

No lack of energy had Daisy for the rest of that day. She went off first to see what was the condition of her rose-bush; pretty fair; lying by the heels seemed to agree with it quite well. Then the pony chaise was ordered and a watering pot of water again; much to the boy\'s disgust who was to carry it; and Daisy took her dinner with quiet satisfaction. So soon as the afternoon had become pleasantly cool, Daisy\'s driving gloves and hat went on, the chaise was summoned, and rose-bush and all she set forth on her expedition. Mr. Randolph watched her off, acknowledging that certainly for the present the doctor was right; whether in the future Mrs. Randolph would prove to have been right also, he was disagreeably uncertain. Still, he was not quite sure that he wished Daisy anything other than she was.

Troubled by no fears or prognostications, meanwhile, the pony chaise and its mistress went on their way. No, Daisy had no fears. She did doubt what Molly\'s immediate reception of her advances might be; her first experience bade her doubt; but the spirit of love in her little heart was overcoming; it poured over Molly a flood of sunny affections and purposes, in the warmth and glow of which the poor cripple\'s crabbedness and sourness of manner and temper were quite swallowed up and lost. Daisy drove on, very happy and thankful, till the little hill was gained, and slowly walking up it Loupe stopped, nothing loth, before the gate of Molly Skelton\'s courtyard.

A little bit of hesitation came over Daisy now, not about what was to be done, but how to do it. The cripple was in her flowery bit of ground, grubbing around her balsams as usual. The clear afternoon sunbeams shone all over what seemed to Daisy all distressing together. The ragged balsams—the coarse bloom of prince\'s feather and cockscomb—some straggling tufts of ribband grass and four-o\'clocks and marigolds—and the great sunflower nodding its head on high over all; while weeds were only kept away from the very growth of the flowers and started up everywhere else, and grass grew irregularly where grass should not; and in the midst of it all the poor cripple on her hands and knees in the dirt, more uncared-for, more unseemly and unlovely than her little plot of weeds and flowers. Daisy looked at her, with a new tide of tenderness flowing up in her heart, along with the doubt how her mission should be executed or how it would be received; then she gave up her reins, took the rose-tree in her hands, and softly opened the little wicket gate. She went up the path and stood beside the cripple, who hearing the gate shut had risen from her grubbing in the earth and sat back looking at who was coming. Daisy went on without hesitation now. She had prayed out all her prayer about it before setting out from home.

"I have brought you a rose-bush," she said simply. "Do you like roses? this is very sweet. I thought maybe you would like a rose. Where would you like to have it go?"

The answer was a very strange sort of questioning grunt—inarticulate—nevertheless expressive of rude wonder and incredulity, as far as it expressed anything. And Molly stared.

"Where shall I put this rose-tree?" said Daisy. "Where would it look prettiest? May I put it here, by these balsams?"

No answer in words; but instead of a sign of assent, the cripple after looking a moment longer at Daisy and the rose-tree, put her hand beyond the balsams and grubbed up a tuft of what the country people call "creepin\' Charley;" and then sitting back as before, signified to Daisy by a movement of her hand that the rose-bush might go in that place. That was all Daisy wanted. She fell to work with her trowel, glad enough to be permitted, and dug a hole, with great pains and some trouble; for the soil was hard as soon as she got a little below the surface. But with great diligence Daisy worked and scooped, till by repeated trials she found she had the hole deep enough and large enough; and then she tenderly set the roots of the rose-tree in the prepared place and shook fine soil over them, as Logan had told her; pressing it down from time to time, until the job was finished and the little tree stood securely planted. A great feat accomplished. Daisy stayed not, but ran off to the road for the watering pot, and bringing it with some difficulty to the spot without soiling herself, she gave the rose-bush a thorough watering; watered it till she was sure the refreshment had penetrated down to the very roots. All the while the cripple sat back gazing at her; gazing alternately at the rose-bush and the planting, and at the white delicate frock the child wore and the daintily neat shoes and stockings, and the handsome flat hat with its costly riband. I think the view of these latter things must in some degree have neutralized the effect of the sweet rose looking at her from the top of the little bush; because Molly on the whole was not gracious. Daisy had finished her work and set down her empty watering pot, and was looking with great satisfaction at the little rose-bush; which was somewhat closely neighboured by a ragged bunch of four-o\'clocks on one side and the overgrown balsams on the other; when Molly said suddenly and gruffly,

"Now go \'long!"———

Daisy was startled, and turned to the creature who had spoken to see if she had heard and understood aright. No doubt of it. Molly was not looking at her, but her face was ungenial; and as Daisy hesitated she made a little gesture of dismissal with her hands. Daisy moved a step or two off, afraid of another shower of gravel upon her feet.

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

Molly did not reply yes or no, but she repeated her gesture of dismissal, and Daisy thought it best and wisest to obey. She bid her a sweet "good bye," to which she got no answer, and mounted into her chaise again. There was a little disappointment in her heart; yet when she had time to think it all over she was encouraged too. The rose-tree was fairly planted; that would keep on speaking to Molly without the fear of a rebuff; and somehow Daisy\'s heart was warm towards the gruff old creature. How forlorn she had looked, sitting in the dirt, with her grum face!

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

Seeing that the rose-tree had evidently won favour, Daisy judged she could not do better than attack Molly again on her weak side, which seemed to be the love of the beautiful!—in one line at least. But Daisy was not an impatient child; and she thought it good to see first what sort of treatment the rose-bush got, and not to press Molly too hard. So the next day she carried nothing with her; only went to pay a visit to the garden. Nothing was to be seen but the garden; Molly did not shew herself; and Daisy went in and looked at the rose. Much to her satisfaction, she saw that Molly had quite discarded the great bunch of four-o\'clocks which had given the little rose tree no room on one side; they were actually pulled up and gone; and the rose looked out in fair space and sunshine where its coarse-growing neighbour had threatened to be very much in its way. An excellent sign. Molly clearly approved of the rose. Daisy saw with great pleasure that another bud was getting ready to open and already shewing red between the leaves of its green calyx; and she went home happy.

Next morning she went among the flower beds, and took a very careful survey of all the beauties there to see what best she might take for her next attack upon Molly. The beauties in flower were so very many and so very various and so delicious all to Daisy\'s eye, that she was a good deal puzzled. Red and purple and blue and white and yellow, the beds were gay and glorious. But Daisy reflected that anything which wanted skill in its culture or shelter from severities of season would disappoint Molly, because it would not get from her what would be necessary to its thriving. Some of the flowers in bloom, too, would not bear transplanting. Daisy did not know what to do. She took Logan into her confidence, so far as she could without mentioning names or circumstances.

"Weel, Miss Daisy," said the gardener, "if ye\'re bent on being a Lady Flora to the poor creature, I\'ll tell ye what ye\'ll do—ye\'ll just take her a scarlet geranium."

"A geranium?" said Daisy.

"Ay. Just that."

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

"Any place where it wouldn\'t freeze," said Logan. "You see, it\'ll be in a pot e\'en now, Miss Daisy—and you\'ll keep it in the pot; and the pot you\'ll sink in the ground till frost comes; and when the frost comes, it\'ll just come up as it is and go intil the poor body\'s house, and make a spot of summer for her in her house till summer comes again."

"O Logan, that is an excellent thought!"

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

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

"Ay—if she served it justly."

The only thing now was to choose the geranium. Daisy was some time about it, there were so many to choose from. At last she suited herself with a very splendid new kind called the "Jewess"—a compact little plant with a store of rich purple-red blossoms. Logan murmured as he took up the pot in which it was planted—"Less than the best will never serve ye, Miss Daisy"—but he did not grumble about it after all, and Daisy was content.

She was very content when she had got it in her pony chaise and was driving off, with the magnificent purple-red blossoms at her feet. How exquisitely those delicate peta............