"Well Daisy," said Mr. Randolph that evening, "how do you like your new play that you are all so busy about?"

"I like it pretty well, papa."

"Only pretty well! Is that the most you can say of it? I understood that it was supposed to be an amusement of a much more positive character."

"Papa, it is amusing—but it has its disagreeablenesses."

"Has it? What can they be? Or has everything pleasant its dark side?"

"I don\'t know, papa."

"What makes the shadows in this instance?"

It seemed not just easy for Daisy to tell, for her father saw that she looked puzzled how to answer.

"Papa, I think it is because people do not behave perfectly well."

It was quite impossible for Mr. Randolph to help bursting into a laugh at this; but he put his arms round Daisy and kissed her very affectionately at the same time.

"How does their ill behaviour affect your pleasure, Daisy?"

"Papa—you know I have to play with them."

"Yes, I understand that. What do they do?"

"It isn\'t they, papa. It is only Alexander Fish—or at least it is he most."

"What does he do?"

"Papa—we are in a tableau together."

"Yes. You and he?"

"Yes, papa. And it is very disagreeable."

"Pray how, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, commanding his features with some difficulty. "What is the tableau?"

"Papa, you know the story of Priscilla?"

"I do not think I do. What Priscilla?"

"Priscilla and John Alden. It is in a book of engravings."

"O!—the courtship of Miles Standish?"

"Miles Standish was his friend, papa."

"Yes, I know now. And are you Priscilla?"

"Yes, papa."

"And who is Miles Standish?"

"O, nobody; he is not in the picture; it is John Alden."

"I think I remember. Who is John Alden, then?"

"Papa, they have put Alexander Fish in, because he has long curling hair; but I think Preston\'s hair would do a great deal better."

"Preston is under some obligation to the others, I suppose, because he is manager. But how does Alexander Fish abuse his privileges?"

"Papa," said Daisy unwillingly,—"his face is turned away from the other people, so that nobody can see it but me;—and he winks."

Daisy brought out the last word with an accession of gravity impossible fully to describe. Mr. Randolph\'s mouth twitched; he bent his head down upon Daisy\'s, that she might not see it.

"That is very rude of him, Daisy," he said.

"Papa," said Daisy, who did not relish the subject, and chose a departure,—"what is a Puritan?"

"A Puritan!"

"Yes, papa. What is it? Priscilla was a Puritan."

"That was a name given to a class of people in England a long time ago."

"What did it mean?"

"They were a stiff set of people, Daisy; good enough people in their way, no doubt, but very absurd in it also."

"What did they do, papa?"

"Concluded to do without whatever is graceful and beautiful and pleasant, in dress or arts or manners. The more disagreeable they made life, they thought it was the better."

"Why were they called that name? Were they purer than other people?"

"I believe they thought themselves so."

"I think they look nice in the picture," said Daisy meditatively. "Are there any Puritans now, papa?"

"There are people that are called Puritans. It is a term apt to be applied to people that are stiff in their religion."

"Papa," said Daisy when an interval of five minutes had passed,—"I do not see how people can be stiff in their religion."

"Don\'t you. Why not?"

"Papa, I do not see how it can be stiff, to love God and do what he says."

"No—" said Mr. Randolph; "but people can be stiff in ways of their own devising."

"Ways that are not in the Bible, papa?"

"Well—yes."

"But papa, it cannot be stiff, to do what God says we must do?"

"No,—of course not," said Mr. Randolph getting up.

He left her, and Daisy sat meditating; then with a glad heart ran off and ordered her pony chaise. If tableaux were to be the order of the day every afternoon, she must go to see Molly in the morning. This time she had a good deal to carry and to get ready. Molly was in want of bread. A nice little loaf, fresh baked, was supplied by Joanna, along with some cold rolls.

"She will like those, I dare say," said Daisy. "I dare say she never saw rolls in her life before. Now she wants some meat, Joanna. There was nothing but a little end of cold pork on the dish in her cupboard."

"Why I wonder who cooks for the poor wretch?" said Joanna.

"I think she cooks for herself, because she has a stove, and I saw iron things and pots to cook with. But she can\'t do much, Joanna, and I don\'t believe she knows how."

"Sick, is she too?" said Joanna.

"Sick with rheumatism, so that she did not like to stir."

"I guess I must go take a look at her; but maybe she mightn\'t let me. Well, Miss Daisy, the way will be for you to tell me what she wants, if you can find out. She must have neighbours, though, that take care of her."

"We are her neighbours," said Daisy.

Joanna looked, a look of great complacency and some wonder, at the child; and packed forthwith into Daisy\'s basket the half of a cold chicken and a broken peach pie. A bottle of milk Daisy particularly desired, and a little butter; and she set off at last, happier than a queen—Esther or any other—to go to Molly with her supplies.

She found not much improvement in the state of affairs. Molly was gathered up on her hearth near the stove, in which she had made a fire; but it did not appear, for all that Daisy could see, that anything else had been done or any breakfast eaten that morning. The cripple seemed to be in a down-hearted and hopeless state of mind; and no great wonder.

"Molly, would you like another cup of tea?" said her little friend.

"Yes, it\'s in there. You fix it,"—said the poor woman, pointing as before to the cupboard, and evidently comforted by Daisy\'s presence and proposal. Daisy could hear it in the tone of her voice. So, greatly pleased herself, Daisy went to work in Molly\'s house just as if she was at home. She fetched water in the kettle again and made up the fire. While that was getting ready, she set the table for breakfast. The only table that Molly could use was a piece of board nailed on a chair. On this Daisy put her plate and cup and saucer, and with secret glee arranged the cold chicken and loaf of bread. For the cupboard, as she saw, was as empty as she had found it two days before. What Molly had lived on in the mean time was simply a mystery to Daisy. To be sure, the end of cold pork was gone, the remains of the cake had disappeared, and nothing was left of the peaches but the stones. The tea-kettle did not boil for a time; and Daisy looked uneasily at Molly\'s cup and saucer and plate meanwhile. They had not been washed, Daisy could not guess for how long; certainly no water had touched them since the tea of two nights ago, for the cake crumbs and peach stones told the tale. Daisy looked at them with a great feeling of discomfort. She could not bear to see them so; they ought to be washed; but Daisy disliked the idea of touching them for that purpose more than I can make you understand. In all matters of nicety and cleanliness Daisy was notional; nothing suited her but the most fastidious particularity. It had been a trial to her to bring those unwashed things from the cupboard. Now she sat and looked at them; uneasily debating what she should do. It was not comfortable, that Molly should take her breakfast off them as they were; and Molly was miserable herself and would do nothing to mend matters. And then—"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you,"—As soon as that came fairly into Daisy\'s head, she knew what she ought to be about. Not without an inward sigh, she gathered up the pieces again.

"What you going to do?" said Molly.

"I\'ll bring them back," said Daisy. "I will be ready directly. The water is not boiling yet."

For she saw that Molly was jealously eager for the hoped-for cup of tea. She carried the things out into the shed, and there looked in vain for any dish or vessel to wash them in. How could it be that Molly managed? Daisy was fain to fetch a little bowl of water and wash the crockery with her fingers, and then fetch another bowl of water to rinse it. There was no napkin to be seen. She left the things to drain as they could, and went to the spring to wash her own fingers; rejoicing in the purifying properties of the sweet element. All this took some time, but Daisy carried in her clean dishes with a satisfied heart.

"It\'s bi\'lin\',—" said Molly as soon as she entered.

So the little kettle was. Daisy made tea, and prepared Molly\'s table with a little piece of butter and the bottle of milk. And no little girl making an entertainment for herself with tiny china cups and tea-set, ever had such satisfaction in it. Twenty dinners at home could not have given Daisy so much pleasure, as she had now to see the poor cripple look at her unwonted luxuries and then to see her taste them. Yet Molly said almost nothing; but the grunt of new expression with which she set down the bottle of milk the first time, went all through and through Daisy\'s heart with delight. Molly drank tea and spread her bread with butter, and Daisy noticed her turning over her slice of bread to examine the texture of it; and a quieter, soothed, less miserable look, spread itself over her wrinkled features. They were not wrinkled with age; yet it was a lined and seamed face generally, from the working of unhappy and morose feelings.

"Ain\'t it good!—" was Molly\'s single word of comment as she finished her meal. Then she sat back and watched Daisy putting all the things nicely away. She looked hard at her.

"What you fetch them things here for?" she broke out suddenly. "H—n?"

The grunt with which her question concluded was so earnest in its demand of an answer, that Daisy stopped.

"Why I like to do it, Molly," she said. Then seeing the intent eyes with which the poor creature was examining her, Daisy added,—"I like to do it; because Jesus loves you."

"H—n?"—said Molly, very much at a loss what this might mean, and very eager to know. Daisy stood still, with the bread in her hands.

"Don\'t you know, Molly?" she said. "He does. It is Jesus, that I told you about. He loves you, and he came and died for you, that he might make you good and save you from your sins; and he loves you now, up in heaven."

"What\'s that?" said Molly.

"Heaven? that is where God lives, and the angels, and good people."

"There ain\'t none," said Molly.

"What?"

"There ain\'t no good people."

"O yes, there are. When they are washed in Jesus\' blood, then they are good. He will take away all their sins."

Molly was silent for a moment and Daisy resumed her work of putting things away; but as she took the peach pie in her hands Molly burst out again.

"What you bring them things here for?"

Daisy stopped again.

"I think it is because Jesus is my king," she said, "and I love him. And
I love what he loves, and so I love you, Molly."

Daisy looked very childish and very wise, as she said this; but over Molly\'s face there came a great softening change. The wrinkles seemed to disappear; she gazed at Daisy steadily as if trying to find out what it all meant: and when the eyes presently were cast down, Daisy almost thought there was a little moisture about them. She had no further interruption in her work. The dishes were all put away, and then she brought her book. Daisy had her Bible with her this time, that she might give Molly more than her own words. And Molly she found as ready to listen as could be desired. And she was persistent in desiring to hear only of that incredible Friend of whom Daisy had told her. That name she wanted; wherever that name came in, Molly sat silent and attentive; if the narrative lost it, she immediately quickened Daisy\'s memory to the knowledge of the fact that nothing else would do. At last Daisy proposed that Molly herself should learn to read. Molly stared very hopelessly at first; but after getting more accustomed to the idea and hearing from Daisy that it was by no means an impossible thing, and further that if she could learn to read, the Bible would be forthcoming for her own use, she took up the notion with an eagerness far exceeding all that Daisy had hoped for. She said very little about it; nevertheless it was plain that a root of hope had struck down into the creature\'s heart. Daisy taught her two letters, A and B, and then was obliged to go home.

It was quite time, for little Daisy was tired. She was not accustomed to making fires and boiling kettles, neither to setting tables and washing dishes. Yet it was not merely, nor so much, the bodily exertion she had made, as the mind work. The excitement both of pleasure and responsibility and eager desire. Altogether, Daisy was tired; and sat back in her chaise letting the reins hang languidly in her hands and Loupe go how he would. But Loupe judged it was best to get home and have some refreshment, so he bestirred himself. Daisy had time to lie down a little while before her dinner; nevertheless she was languid and pale, and disposed to take all the rest of the day very quietly.

The rest of the day was of course devoted to the tableaux. The little company had got warmed to the subject pretty well at the first meeting; they all came together this fine afternoon with spirits in tone for business. And Daisy, though she was tired, presently found her own interest drawn in. She was not called upon immediately to take any active part; she perched herself in the corner of a couch and looked on and listened. Thither came Nora Dinwiddie, too much excited to sit down, and stood by Daisy\'s elbow. They had been practising "Alfred in the neat-herd\'s cottage;" Nora had been called upon to be the girl blowing the burnt cakes; she had done it, and everybody had laughed, but the little lady was not pleased.

"I know I look horrid!" she said to Daisy,—"puffing out my cheeks till they are like a pair of soapbubbles!"

"But soapbubbles are not that colour," said Daisy. "Your cheeks didn\'t look like soapbubbles."

"Yes, they did. They looked horrid, I know."

"But the picture is so," urged Daisy quietly. "You want to be like the picture."

"No I don\'t. Not that picture. I would like to be something handsome. I don\'t like that picture."

Daisy was silent, and Nora pouted.

"What are you going to be, Daisy?" said Ella Stanfield.

"I am going to be Priscilla. No, I don\'t know whether I am or not; but I am going to be Fortitude, I believe."

"That\'s pretty," said Ella. "What else? O, you are going to be the angel, aren\'t you? I wonder if that will be pretty. It will be queer. Nora, shall you like to be one of the l............