Title: Daisy's Work - The Third Commandment
Author: Mathews, Joanna H. (Joanna Hooe), 1849-1901
Language: English
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DAISY'S WORK.


[Illustration]

FLOWERETS.

[Illustration]


      *      *      *      *      *      *

Flowerets.

A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS.

BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS,

_Author of the "Bessie Books."_


    I. VIOLET'S IDOL. THE FIRST AND SECOND COMMANDMENTS      $0.75

   II. DAISY'S WORK. THE THIRD COMMANDMENT                    0.75

  III. ROSE'S TEMPTATION. THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT              0.75

   IV. LILY'S LESSON. THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT                   0.75

    V. HYACINTHE AND HER BROTHERS. THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT      0.75

   VI. PINKIE AND THE RABBITS. THE EIGHTH, NINTH, AND
          TENTH COMMANDMENTS                                  0.75

_The set in a neat box, $4.50._


ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,

_New York_.


      *      *      *      *      *      *


[Illustration]



DAISY'S WORK.

The Third Commandment.

by

JOANNA H. MATHEWS,

Author of the "Bessie Books."


    "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain;
    for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his
    name in vain."

    "Let your communication be yea, yea, and nay, nay; for
    whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil."



[Illustration]

New York:
Robert Carter and Brothers,
530, Broadway.
1870.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
Robert Carter and Brothers,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Cambridge:
Press of John Wilson and Son.



[Illustration]

              TO
    _MY DEAR LITTLE COUSIN_,
         LULU CHAUNCEY.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



CONTENTS.


                                      PAGE
       I. THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL        11
      II. A CLUSTER OF DAISIES          35
     III. THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED        63
      IV. DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS      85
       V. DAISY AT STUDY               107
      VI. DAISY A TEACHER              127
     VII. THE SWEARING CLASS           151
    VIII. DAISY'S NAME                 181
      IX. THE LOST FOUND               201

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



DAISY'S WORK.



I.

THE LITTLE FLOWER-GIRL.


THERE stood our Daisy. What a Daisy it was too; what a fair, sweet
floweret; pure and innocent-looking as the blossoms over which she
bent. There she stood beside her basket of flowers, a little spot of
brightness and beauty amidst all the dust and heat and turmoil of the
noisy street, on that warm summer afternoon.

It was a street which ran beside a great railroad depot. Porters,
carmen, and hackmen were calling, shouting, and swearing; passengers
were hurrying by to catch the trains which were starting every few
minutes; carriages driving up with their loads of ladies and children;
and farther down the street were great trucks laden with freight, and
express-wagons filled with baggage, which the railroad porters were
unloading with a great amount of noise and crash; and amongst it all
was Daisy, standing opposite the door of the ladies' entrance.

But not one of all those passers-by knew that she was a "Daisy,"
or that those were her namesakes which she held so lovingly in her
little hands. Now and then one stopped to buy one of the five or ten
cent bouquets, so tastefully arranged, which lay in her basket; and
almost all who did so had a kind word to give the child; for there
was something in her look and air which pleaded for tenderness and
sympathy. It did not seem that this was her proper place; for even
in her homely dress she looked so dainty and delicate, and moved and
spoke so like a little lady, that it was easy to see that she had been
accustomed to a different kind of life. But all who noticed her, or
stopped to buy her flowers, were in such haste that none had time for
more than a passing interest in the child, and contented themselves
with wondering and pitying.

Down the street came a lady with a little girl, the latter skipping and
jumping as she held her mother's hand. No wonder the little one was
happy, and as full of play and merry pranks as any kitten; for she had
been spending such a pleasant day with mamma in the city, and was now
going back with "such lots to tell about and heaps of pretty things" to
her own lovely country home.

"Oh, see, mamma!" she said, as her eye fell upon the other child, "see
those pretty flowers that dear little girl is selling. She is just
about as large as Lola Swan, and _don't_ she look nice and sweet. Won't
you buy some flowers from her, mamma?"

"You have plenty of flowers at home, dear Lily, and we have about as
much as we can carry now," answered her mother.

"Oh, dear mamma, but those little brenkays" (bouquets, Lily meant)
"would take up such a tiny mite of room, and I want you to buy some for
kindness to the little girl. She looks so sorry out of her eyes, mamma."

Moved by the pleadings of her little daughter, Mrs. Ward turned toward
the flower-girl, whom in her hurry she had nearly passed without a
look, and asked the price of her bouquets.

"What a pretty pot of daisies! Can't I have that, mamma?" asked Lily.

But at this the flower-girl drew back and put one hand over the pot of
daisies she held in the other, as if she feared it was to be taken from
her by force.

"I'll ask papa to carry them for me, mamma," said Lily.

"Ho! ho!" said a cheery voice behind her, "so you think papa has
nothing better to do than turn expressman and carry all your traps, do
you? I wonder how many bundles are already waiting in the depot for me
to put safely in the cars;" and turning about Lily saw her father, who
had overtaken his wife and little girl.

"Oh! lots and lots!" said Lily, jumping about with new glee as she saw
him. "We bought something for everybody, papa; and I bought a present
for your birthday to-morrow; but it is a secret. Mamma is going to fill
it with ink and I'll put it on your writing-table 'fore you come down
in the morning; but you won't ask what it is, will you?"

"Not on any account," said Mr. Ward. "But you must make haste and buy
your flowers, or we shall not find good seats in the cars. So you want
these daisies, do you? How much are they, my child?"

But again the flower-girl drew back.

"I couldn't sell them, sir," she said; "at least not now, not if,----"

"Oh! they are for some favorite customer, hey? You see, Lily, you can't
have them. Well, pick out your bouquets; we'll hang them about our
necks if we can't carry them any other way," said Mr. Ward. "This is
the little girl I told you about, my dear," turning to his wife, who
had been looking at the sweet, sad face of the young flower vender.

"What is your name, my child?" asked the lady.

"My name is--they call me Margaret," said the child, with hesitation in
her voice and manner, and a sudden flush breaking over her face.

"There," said Mr. Ward, when, having paid for the flowers which Lily
had chosen, he hurried his wife and daughter away; "there, my dear, I
did not say too much about that child, did I?"

"Why no," said Mrs. Ward, looking back to the small figure beside its
basket of flowers, "there is certainly something very interesting about
her. Her speech and manner, as well as her looks, are strangely refined
and lady-like for one in her position. I wish we had time to talk more
to her."

The flower-girl looked after them and sighed,--a long, weary sigh, as
she watched the frolicsome Lily.

"Most all little girls have their fathers and mothers," she said softly
to herself; "but I don't have either. I wonder why God did take both of
mine away; if He didn't know how lonesome I would be, or why He didn't
take me too. I don't see what good I can be to Him all alone by myself,
except Betty and Jack. But then He knows, and maybe He only wants me to
be patient till He's ready to take me."

[Illustration]

But the wistful eyes brightened again, as, having watched Lily and her
friends disappear within the door of the depot, she turned them the
other way to see if new customers were coming.

"There he comes," she said, as her eye fell upon a tall,
broad-shouldered gentleman coming down the street, "soldier" written in
every line and motion of his figure, from the erect, stately head, down
to the ringing, military tread of his firm foot.

"Good afternoon, little woman," he said, returning with a pleasant
smile her welcoming look; "is my wife's bouquet all ready?"

Taking from the corner of her basket a bouquet somewhat larger than the
rest, and of rather choicer flowers, she held it up to him.

"Thank you, sir," she said, as she received the price; and then, with
rising color, added, "would it be too much trouble to carry this to the
lady?"

"Too much trouble? No! How much is it?" he said, putting his hand again
into his pocket.

"Oh! sir, I didn't mean that. I didn't want to sell it, but to give
it to you, if you would take it to the lady you buy flowers for every
day. I want to send it to her because you are so kind to me, and
because--because you put me in mind of--of somebody."

"That is it, is it?" said the gentleman. "Well, I can't refuse such
a pretty gift, so prettily offered. And who do I put you in mind of,
pray?"

"Of my papa, sir. You do look like him."

"Humph!" said the gentleman, not much pleased at the idea that he was
like the father of this little poor child, above her station though she
looked. "And these are daisies, hey? My wife will like them."

"General, do you mean to miss the train?" said an acquaintance, as he
passed.

"Not with my own consent, certainly," said the gentleman. "I shall
thank you for the lady to-morrow, my little girl."

But as he turned to go, his foot slipped upon a piece of orange-peel,
thrown down by some careless person, and he had nearly fallen. He would
have been down altogether but for his little companion; but as he
involuntarily put out his hand, she caught it; and that support, frail
and slight as it was, was sufficient to steady him.

Kind of heart, noble and generous though he was, the soldier was
hasty-tempered and quick, and an oath--a fearful oath--burst from his
lips.

"Ah, you were my good angel. You have saved me from a bad fall," he
said almost in the same breath, but in a very different tone and
manner, as he turned to the child.

His good angel! Ah, yes! More than he knew, his good angel. Those
little hands should from this time hold him from falling into the sin
of which he had just been guilty.

Years ago General Forster would have been shocked at the thought of
letting such words escape his lips, though even then he was none too
reverent or careful in speaking of sacred persons or things; but in
the bustle and excitement of war he had, alas! like many another brave
man, allowed himself to fall into the habit of taking God's holy
name in vain. But careless though he might be before men in moments
of forgetfulness, or when his hasty temper got the better of him, he
seldom or never suffered himself to use such words before women or
children; why, you shall learn.

"Why, have I hurt you?" he asked, seeing with surprise her startled and
troubled face.

"No, sir, oh! no," she answered, catching her breath, "but, but"--

"Well, but what?"

"But I am so sorry;" and that she was so was proved, as she covered her
face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Sorry for what?" he asked.

She gave him no answer, but shrank a little away.

"Sorry for what?" he repeated, as if determined to know; and the tone
of command, which seemed to say he was used to instant obedience,
forced her to speak, whether she would or no.

"Sorry for those words you said, sir," she sobbed.

"Those words? What words?" But his question answered itself as it
was spoken; for his wicked words, which but for this would have been
forgotten the next instant, came back to him, and he stood rebuked
before this poor little flower-girl. He repented already; but repented
only because he had distressed this simple child, in whom he took so
much interest, not yet because he had grieved and offended the Holy One
whose name he had profaned.

Still he was vexed too.

"Why, you don't mean to say," he said rather impatiently, "that you
never hear such words as those, standing here as you do, half the day,
with those rough men and boys about you?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" she said, plaintively. "I do hear such words, often,
often. I try not to; but I can't help it, you see; and it makes me so
sorry. But I thought those poor men and boys could not know how to
read, and had never been taught better, or perhaps they did not know
what God had said in His commandments. But I did not think gentlemen
said such things; and I liked you _so_ much."

And did she like him less now? He, the _gentleman_, the rich man, felt
that he could not wish to lose the respect and liking of this little
child whom he thought so far beneath him, and he was ashamed and sorry.
He knew that it was not impertinence, but only her innocent simplicity
and truthfulness, which had caused her to say what she did. But to know
that he was in the wrong and to acknowledge it, were one and the same
thing with this true-hearted man.

"You are right, Margaret," he said, forgetting how fast the moments
were flying. "_Gentlemen_ should not say such things, especially before
ladies and children. It is bad manners; but I forgot myself just then."

She took her hands from her face and looked up at him. There was an
unspoken question in the clear, earnest eyes, and it was plain that she
was not yet satisfied.

"Well," he said smiling at her, "what troubles you still? Let me have
it all."

"I was only thinking what difference could it make, sir."

"What difference could what make?"

"Whether it was ladies and children who heard it, sir," she answered
timidly. "God hears it all the same, doesn't He? And it can't make any
difference to Him who else hears it."

She looked up as she spoke at the blue sky overhead, and the look and
the words brought to him a sudden sense of God's constant presence and
nearness. He had known it well enough before,--that the Almighty Eye
saw him always; that the Almighty Ear heard him always; but he had
never felt it as he did now. The gentle, timid reproof had gone far
deeper than the little giver had intended, and her hearer felt ashamed
that he had confessed to her that he would pay a respect to a woman or
child which he did not feel it needful to pay to his Maker. He could
make her no answer.

"_You_ behind time, General?" said the voice of another friend as he
hurried past; and the scream of the warning whistle told the gentleman
that he had no time to lose.

"I'll see you to-morrow. Good-by, my child. God bless you," he said
hurriedly, and rushed away.

But just in time; he was the last passenger, and stepped upon the
platform of a car as the train was put in motion. The jar threw him
once more a little off his balance, and he caught by the rail to save
himself, while again hasty, profane words rose to his lips.

But they did not pass them. What though no human ear should hear; "God
heard them all the same," and they were checked before even the summer
wind could catch them; and in their place the angels carried up the
heart-breathed prayer, "God keep me from them in time to come."

His next neighbor in the cars thought General Forster remarkably silent
and unsociable that afternoon. He would not talk, but buried himself
behind his newspaper. If the neighbor had looked closer he would have
seen that the General's eyes were fixed, not on the paper held before
his face, but on the little pot of daisies which rested on his knee.
And over the delicate pink and white blossoms was breathed a vow,--a
vow registered in heaven and faithfully kept on earth.



[Illustration]



A CLUSTER OF DAISIES.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



II.

A CLUSTER OF DAISIES.


"WHAT are you thinking of, Frank?" said Mrs. Forster, looking at her
husband as he stood leaning against the casing of the window, gazing
thoughtfully out at the lovely garden beyond.

"Of a bad habit of mine," he answered.

"You have none; at least none that I cannot put up with," she said
playfully.

"That's not the question, dear Gertrude," he returned gravely. "It is
whether my Maker can put up with it, and I believe that He cannot,
since he has said He 'will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name
in vain.'"

Mrs. Forster colored as she bent her head over the sleeping baby on her
lap.

"You did not know, perhaps," her husband said, after a minute's
silence, "that I was ever guilty of this--sin?"

"I did know it, Frank; at least I have heard you now and then, when you
were speaking to your dogs and horses, or even when you were a little
impatient with the men. But you did not mean me to hear such words; and
I noticed you never used them in my presence."

"No," he said a little sadly: "I would not speak in my wife's presence
words which were not fit for her to hear; but I forgot an ear still
purer, which I was insulting and defying. That is the second thrust I
have had to-day, Gertrude, which has made me feel that I have treated
the Almighty with less of reverence and respect than I would show to
some of my fellow-creatures. Let me tell you of the innocent lesson I
received from the little flower-girl, who sent the daisies to you."

And sitting down beside her, he told her of the teaching which had come
to him from the little wayside blossom; to whose lonely, thirsting
heart his few kind words and smiles had been as drops of dew from
heaven.

But even while they talked of her and her pretty lady-like ways and
sayings, which seemed so far above her station, they did not know
she was a "Daisy," and that those were her namesakes over which Mrs.
Forster bent, dropping happy tears and kisses on them, mingled with
many a blessing on the little giver.

Plucking one of the flowers from the stem, she opened her baby's tiny
hand and placed it within it. The fairy fingers closed around it,
clasping it tight, while the unconscious little one slept on.

"Her name is Gertrude, but we'll call her Daisy, Frank, as soon as she
is old enough to be called any thing but baby," said the young mother,
"and her pretty pet name may serve as a reminder of this day's lesson,
if ever it should be forgotten."

"You think I may need it," said her husband, smiling. "I trust not; for
the sin, to say nothing of the vulgarity, of taking God's name in vain,
has been set forth so plainly by my innocent little teacher, that I
must have a short memory, indeed, if I failed to remember her lesson.
She thought _gentlemen_ must know better."

"But, dear," said the lady, "you said you would inquire about this
child, and see if we could not be of some use to her."

"So I did," he answered; "and so I will, and should have done long
since; but day after day I have let business or pleasure keep me till
I had but just time to catch the train, and none to bestow on the
poor little creature who seems to have been so grateful for the few
kind words I have given her. You think I am rather fanciful about
this child, I know, Gertrude; but I am convinced that some of her few
years must have been spent among different people than those by whom
she is now surrounded. Nor am I the only one of her customers who has
noticed the grace of her speech and manners, so uncommon in a child
of her class. Ward, and others beside, have seen it; but like myself
have never made it their business to see after her. However, to-morrow
afternoon, I shall make it a point to be at the depot in time to have a
talk with her. I wonder if the woman who keeps the fruit-stall at the
corner, and whose child I believe she is, would give her up and let her
go to school."

He was as good as his word; and more than an hour earlier than usual,
our little flower-girl saw "her gentleman" coming down the street
towards the depot. It was an eager, wistful little face, with some
questioning fear in it, that she raised to him, for she was anxious
lest she should have offended her kind friend, as she had learned to
think him, by her plain speech of the day before.

She had scarcely meant to speak so plainly; the words had seemed to
escape her without her intending it, and, it was true, had been drawn
forth by the gentleman's own questions; but when she remembered them
afterwards she feared that he would think her rude and disrespectful.

She need not have been afraid. His eye and voice were even kinder than
usual as he came near to her, and he laid his hand gently on her head,
saying,--

"Well, my little woman! and how does the world go with you to-day? The
lady told me to thank you very much for the daisies."

The young face brightened.

"Did she like them, sir?"

"Very much indeed,--all the more because she has a little one at home
whom she is going to call 'Daisy' after your pretty flowers."

"Is she your little girl, sir?"

"Yes, she is a mite of a Daisy, but a very precious one," he answered;
then looking into the flushed face, with its soft, shining eyes and
parted lips, he added, "You are a Daisy yourself."

The flowers she held dropped at her feet unheeded as she clasped both
hands upon her breast, and with quick-coming breath and filling eyes,
asked eagerly, "How _did_ you know it, sir? how did you know it?"

"Know what, my child? What troubles you?"

"How did you know I was Daisy?" she almost gasped.

"I did not know it," he answered in surprise. "Is your name Daisy? I
thought it was Margaret."

"They call me Margaret, sir,--Betty and Jack; but Daisy is my _own_,
_own_ name, that papa and mamma called me," she answered, recovering
herself a little.

"And where are your papa and mamma?" he asked. "I thought the woman who
keeps the fruit-stall at the corner was your mother."

"Oh, no, sir!" she said. "She is only Betty. She is very good to me,
but she is not mamma. Mamma was a lady," she added, with simple,
childish dignity, which told that she was a lady herself.

"But _where_ are your father and mother?" he repeated, with fresh
interest in the child.

"Mamma is drowned, sir; and we could never find papa," she answered,
with such pathos in her tones.

"Come into the depot with me," said General Forster: "I want to talk to
you."

She obeyed, and, taking up her basket, followed him into the
waiting-room, where, heedless of the many curious eyes around, he made
her sit down beside him, and drew from her her sad, simple story:--how
long, long ago she had lived with papa and mamma and her little brother
and baby sister in their own lovely home, far away from here; where it
was, she did not know, but in quite a different place from the great
bustling city which she had never seen till she came here with Betty
and Jack; how she had left home with mamma and the baby on a great
ship, where to go she could not remember; how Betty was on board, and
mamma had been kind to her; how a dreadful storm had come and there was
great confusion and terror; and then it seemed as if she went to sleep
for a long, long time, and knew nothing more till she found herself
living with Betty and Jack in their poor home far up in the city.

They had been very good to her, nursing and caring for her during the
many months she had been weak and ailing; and now that she was stronger
and better, she tried to help them all she could, keeping the two small
rooms tidy, while Betty was away attending to her stall; and in the
afternoon selling the flowers which Jack raised in his little garden,
and she arranged in tasteful bouquets. And, lastly, she told how from
the very first time she had seen General Forster, she thought he
"looked so like papa" that she felt as if she must love him, and was so
happy when he stopped to buy flowers of her and spoke kindly to her.

The story was told with a straightforward and simple pathos, which went
right to the listener's heart, and left him no doubt of its truth. But
the child could tell nothing of her own name or her parents', save that
she was always called "Daisy" at home, and that she had never since
heard the familiar name until to-day, when she thought this stranger
had given it to her. Betty and Jack always called her "Margaret;" and
Betty thought she knew mamma's name, but she did not. But she loved
daisies dearly for the sake of their name, which had been her own; and
she had raised and tended with loving care the little plant she had
given to "my gentleman" as a token of gratitude for his kindness, and
because he was "so like papa."

Having learned all that he could from the child herself, the gentleman
went to the fruit-woman on the corner.

"So," he said, "the little girl whom you call Margaret is not your own
daughter?"

"Indade, no, sir," answered Betty; "niver a daughter of me own have
I barrin' Jack, and he's not me own at all, but jist me sister's son
what died, lavin' him a babby on me hands. More betoken that it's not
a little lady like her that the likes of me would be raisin', unless
she'd none of her own to do it."

"Will you tell me how that came about?"

Betty told the story in her turn, in as plain and simple a manner as
the child's, though in language far different.

Her husband had been steward on a sailing vessel running between New
Orleans and New York; and about three years ago, she, being sick and
ordered change of air, had been allowed to go with him for the voyage.
But it made her worse instead of better; and on the return trip she
would have died, Betty declared, if it had not been for the kindness
and tender nursing of a lady, "Margaret's" mother. This lady--"her name
had been Saacyfut, she believed, but maybe she disremembered intirely,
for Marga_ret_ said it was not"--was on her way to New York with her
little girl who was sick, a baby, and a French nurse; but her home was
neither there nor in New Orleans,--at least so the child afterwards
said.

Her own account of the storm was the same as the child's; but while the
recollection of the little one could go no further, Betty remembered
only too well the horrors of that day.

When it was found that the ship must sink, and that all on board must
leave her, there had been, as the little girl said, great confusion.
How it was, Betty could not exactly tell; she had been placed in one
boat, the French nurse, with the child in her arms, beside her; and the
lady was about to follow with the infant, when a spar fell, striking
the Frenchwoman on the head and killing her instantly, knocking
overboard one of the three sailors who were in the boat,--while at the
same time the boat was parted from the ship and at the mercy of the
raging waves. In vain did the two sailors who were left try to regain
the ship: they were swept further and further away, and soon lost sight
of the vessel. They drifted about all night, and the next morning were
taken up by a fishing-smack which brought them to New York.

Fright and exposure and other hardships, while they seemed to have
cured Betty, were too much for the poor little girl, and a long and
terrible illness followed: after which she lay for months, too weak to
move or speak, and appearing to have lost all memory and sense. And
when at last she grew better and stronger, and reason and recollection
came back, she could not tell the name of her parents or her home.

"Marga_ret_ Saacyfut," Betty persisted in saying the French nurse had
called her little charge, "Mamsell Marga_ret_," "and if the lady's name
wasn't Saacyfut it was mightily nigh to it."

"Marguerite" had been the French woman's name for "Daisy:" that the
General saw plainly enough, but he could make nothing of the surname.

"But did you not seek for the child's friends, Betty?" he asked.

"'Deed did I, sir," she answered. "Didn't I even ad_ver_tise her, an'
how she was to be heerd of, but all to no good. An' I writ to New
Orleans to them what owned the ship, but they were that oncivil they
niver answered, not they. An' it took a hape of money, sir, to be
payin' the paper, an' me such hard work to get along, an' Marga_ret_ on
me hands, an' I had to be done with it. For ye see me man was gone wid
the ship, an' niver heerd of along wid the rest to this day; an' I had
to use up the bit he'd put by in the savin's bank till the child was
mendin' enough for me to lave her wid Jack."

"It was a very generous thing for you to burden yourself with the care
of her," said General Forster.

"Burden is it, sir? Niver a burden was she, the swate lamb, not even
when the sense had left her. An' that was what the neighbors was always
a sayin', and why didn't I put her in the hospital. An' why would I do
that after the mother of her savin' me from a buryin' in the say, which
I niver could abide. For sure if it hadn't been for the lady I'd 'a
died on the ould ship, and they'd 'a chucked me overboard widout sayin'
by your lave; and sure I'd niver have got over such a buryin' as that
all the days of me life. And would I be turnin' out her child afther
that? An' isn't she payin' me for it now, an' 'arnin' her livin,' an'
mine too? She an' Jack tends the bit of a garden, an' arternoons she
comes down an' sells her flowers, an' where'd be the heart to refuse
her wid her pretty ways and nice manners; a lady every inch of her,
like her mother before her."

And thrusting her head out from her stall, Betty gazed down the street
with admiring affection on her young _protégée_.

"Och! but she's the jewel of a child," she went on; "and it is
surprisin' how me and Jack is improved and become ginteel all along of
her. Ye see, sir, I did use to say a hape of words that maybe wer'n't
jist so; not that I meant 'em for swearin', but it was jist a way of
spakin'. But after Marga_ret_ began to mend and get about, ye would
have thought she was kilt intirely if I let one out of me mouth. So
seein' how it hurted her, I jist minded what I was about, an' Jack the
same, for he was a boy that swore awful, poor fellow; he'd been left to
himself, and how was he to know better? At first him and me minded our
tongues, for that the child shouldn't be hurted; but by and by didn't
she make it plain to us that it was the great Lord himself what we was
offendin', and knowin' she'd been tached better nor me, I jist heeded
her. And now, sir, them words that I never thought no harm of and used
to come so aisy, I jist leave them out of me spache widout troublin';
and a deal better it sounds, and widout doubt more plasin' to Him
that's above. And Jack the same mostly, though he does let one slip now
and agin. So ye see, sir, it's not a burden she is at all, at all, but
jist a little bit of light and comfort to the house that houlds her."

Glad to find a listener in a "gintleman the likes of him," Betty had
talked away to the gentlemen, so taken up with her story, that she paid
little heed to the business of her stall. She made wrong change more
than once, gave quarts instead of pints, oranges in place of apples,
and peanuts for sugar-plums, and provoked some impatient customers not
a little; while one wicked boy, seeing her attention was taken up with
something else, ran off without paying for the pop-corn he asked for,
and was not called back.

But Betty lost nothing by the time and thought she had given to the
gentleman, or the interest she had shown in her young charge, as she
found when she looked at the number upon the note he slipped into her
hand when he left her: a note which the warm-hearted Irishwoman laid by
"to buy that new gown and pair of shoes Margaret needed so bad."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



III.

THE DAISY TRANSPLANTED.


"BETTY," said General Forster, stopping the next morning at the
fruit-woman's stall, "could you make up your mind to give up that
little girl if you were sure it was for her good?"

Betty sighed and shook her head mournfully as she answered,--

"I've always looked to give her up, sir, if them Saacyfuts, or whatever
their name'll be, turned up, and if it was for her good, sorra a word
would they hear out of me, though I won't say but it would go hard with
me and Jack. But ye'll not be tellin' me ye've been findin' her friends
since last night, sir?"

"Not the people she belongs to, certainly, Betty; but I have found
those who will be friends to her, and provide for her, if you will
consent. She should go to school and be well taught: do you not think
so?"

"Indade, an' there's none knows that better nor meself, sir. An' is it
yerself that's the friend ye're spakin' of?" and Betty gave a searching
look into the gentleman's face.

He smiled. "Yes," he said: "I would like to put her to school and take
care of her. She seems a sweet child, and a good one. And you see,
Betty, I have it in my power to do more to find her friends than you
are able to do, and we may trace them yet. If we never find them, I
will promise to provide for her as long as it may be necessary. Are you
willing?"

Betty again stared into the face of her questioner as if she would look
him through.

"I'm sinsible of your kindness, sir," she answered; "but ye see I'm
in a way risponsible for the child, not to say that she is as dear to
me as me own flesh and blood, and I'd say 'yis,' and thank ye kindly,
but--ye'll excuse me plain spakin'--ye're a stranger to me, and I
couldn't be partin' wid Marga_ret_ widout I was certified as to yer
ka_rac_ter. For if I didn't think she'd be brought up right, niver
a foot should she stir to go wid ye. I seen Miss Gertrude Allston a
walkin' wid ye once last summer, sir, jist after I set up me stand
here, but she niver heeded me wid her swate face. But I used to be
laundress in her mother's house afore I was married, and a swate child
was Miss Gertrude and a good as ye're sayin' of Marga_ret_, and she'll
niver go far wrong, I'll answer for it. So, if ye'll jist bring me a
line from her and she says ye're all right, I'll not say ye nay."

General Forster laughed heartily, not one whit offended at Betty's
"plain spakin'."

"Miss Gertrude Allston, as you call her, will give me all the lines you
want, Betty; and she thought me right enough to marry me. She is my
wife,--Mrs. Forster."

"An' is it so, sir?" said Betty, dropping the rosy-cheeked apple she
was polishing, and gazing at the gentleman with a mixture of curiosity
and admiration that was droll to see. "Well, but ye're in luck; and
if it's Miss Gertrude that has the managin' of ye, that's ka_rac_ter
enough of itself, an' I'll say take the child an' my blessin' on all
of yees. But when she gets among yer fine folks, ye'll not let her be
forgettin' the woman what cared for her when there was none else to do
it: will ye, sir? An' ye'll be lettin' me see her once in a while?"

There is no need to say that this was readily promised, and the General
went on to tell Betty what plans he and his wife had for Daisy. She
was to be taken for a while to his home, where Mrs. Forster would
provide her with proper clothing; and then send her to Miss Collins'
boarding-school to be taught and trained in a way to satisfy her
friends if they should ever find her, or that she might one day be able
to earn her own living, if it should be needful.

"An' I'm glad she should have the bringin' up of a lady which is what I
couldn't give her," said Betty, with another sigh, for it went to her
heart to part with her darling; "but ye'll not be able to make her more
of a lady nor she is now; no, not if ye dress her in gould and jewels,
an' silks an' satins. Niver a rough word nor way has she with her, if
she has been with me and Jack more nor two year, nor ye couldn't find a
purtier behaved child in all the land."

An hour or two later, Betty, having found a friend to "mind" her stall
for her, guided General Forster to the tiny house in the suburbs of the
city where she lived with Daisy and Jack.

The two children were out in the little garden gathering the flowers
which were to be tied up in bouquets for Daisy's afternoon sale; and
great was their surprise, when the sound of the gate-latch causing them
to look up, they saw Betty coming home at this unusual hour of the day,
and the gentleman with her. Their business was soon told; but although
Daisy flushed and smiled with astonishment and delight when she heard
what the "gentleman who looked so like papa" meant to do for her, the
little face soon shadowed over again, and she shook her head gently but
firmly when she was asked if she would go.

"An' why for no, dear?" asked Betty. "Sure ye'd niver be for throwin'
away a chance the likes of that, not to spake of it's bein' ongrateful
to the gintleman's kindness, an' he no more nor less than the husband
of Miss Gertrude."

But Daisy shook her head again; and then first begging the gentleman's
pardon, as a polite little girl should do, stepped up to her faithful
friend, and putting her arms about her neck whispered something in her
ear.

The tears she had before with trouble kept back now started to Betty's
eyes.

"Och, an' is it that, honey?" she said in her broadest brogue, "an'
ye'll not let that be thrubblin' yer dear heart. What a tinder,
grateful little sowl it is! Ye see, sir," she went on, turning to the
General, while she smoothed with her loving hand the little head which
lay upon her breast, "ye see, sir, it's just as I tellt ye. She's a
lady, every inch of her, an' has feelin's that's jist oncommon. An'
there's a matter of back rint jew, it's more'n a year, though me
landlord he's as good as gould, an' a bill at the poticary's, an'
little scores at the baker's an' grocers what I niver got paid off yet,
not since the child was sick an' I couldn't rightly make things go; an'
she says she won't be lavin' us now that she can turn a penny wid her
posies an' help along."

Drawing the child to him, General Forster whispered to her in his
turn, promising that the "back rint" and other "scores" should be paid
off without delay if she would but come with him; and Daisy, feeling
herself nearer home and friends than she had ever done since the
dreadful day of the shipwreck, when she was parted from "mamma," put
her hand trustingly in his to be led where he would.

But the parting went hard. Daisy could not leave those who had been
so kind, and shared their little all with her, without many a bitter
tear. Betty kissed her and clung to her and called down all heaven's
blessings on her head; and Jack hung over the gate, uttering frantic
howls as he watched the sobbing child led away by her new protector.
Not one thought gave Jack to his fourteen years; not one to the
"fellers from beyant the lot," who, drawn by his cries, came flocking
to see what ailed him who was all their terror and admiration: their
admiration, because he was bigger, stronger, braver than any other boy
of his age among their crew; their terror, because of late he allowed
no bad word to be used in his presence, banishing all who offended
in that way from their games, choosing as his favorites and chief
companions those who were most careful not to take God's name in vain.
So cursing and swearing had come to be much less frequent than of old
among the lanes and lots lying around the humble house where the little
Daisy had bloomed and grown during the last two years, dropping upon
the path which God had chosen for her good seed of which she knew not
herself.

Betty went back to her stand with a heavy heart, knowing that when
she went home that night she should miss the sweet little face which
had brightened and cheered her after many a hard day's work; but she
was half-consoled for her own loss when she saw Daisy coming down the
street holding General Forster's hand. For the General's first care had
been to take the little girl to a place where children's clothes could
be had ready-made; and where he had her fitted out, as Betty said, "as
nice as a new pin and as became the little lady she was by right."

But Daisy was as much a lady in the coarse but clean calico frock
and patched shoes she had worn yesterday, as she was now in the nice
clothes provided for her by General Forster; for it was the sweet
manners and pretty ways she had never lost which made her so, and the
new garments covered as warm and loving a little heart as the old
ones had done. And so Betty found, and knew that pride would have no
place there, when, as she reached the stand, Daisy drew her hand from
the gentleman's, and running behind the stall as she had many a time
done when she was eager to show Betty what a good afternoon's sale she
had made with her flowers, threw her arms about her neck and kissed
her again and again as lovingly as she had done when she had no other
friend in the world.

Gentle Mrs. Forster gave Daisy a warm welcome to her new home; and the
manner in which the child fell at once into the ways and habits of
those about her plainly showed that they were not new to her, but that
she had at some time been well accustomed to a different life than that
she had led for the last two years.

She had ways of her own, too, that were very charming: a pretty, dainty
grace in her behavior and speech; a thoughtfulness and care for others,
surprising in any child of her age,--for Daisy could not be more than
eight years old,--and particularly so for one who had had little
teaching for some time. It was easy to see that Daisy had received
careful training at one time, and that the lessons then learned had
taken deep root and were not yet forgotten in spite of the long
separation from her home and friends.

It had been intended, as General Forster told Betty, to send the little
girl to boarding-school at Miss Collins'; but she soon grew so closely
to the hearts of her new friends that they felt as if they could not
bear to part with her; and it was at last settled that her home was to
be with them for the present, at least, and that she should only go
to Miss Collins for the morning, as most of the other little girls in
Glenwood did.

Mrs. Forster could not bear to send from her this loving child, whose
greatest happiness seemed to be in making others happy, and she grew
every day more and more interesting as the familiar objects and customs
about her called up past recollections of the home and parents she
had lost. She would watch the General for hours at a time, as he sat
reading or writing, or follow him with wistful eyes as he mounted his
horse and rode down the broad avenue "just like papa;" would hang over
the lesser Daisy as she lay sleeping, "'cause she looks just as our
baby at home used to," and delighted to wait upon her and Mrs. Forster
in a dainty, neat-handed manner, which showed that such loving service
came quite naturally to her.

She never called the infant "baby," as the rest of the family did.
With her it was always "little Daisy." She seemed to love the pretty
name, either given to herself or another; and all the variety of choice
flowers with which General Forster's garden was filled could not win
her chief affection from her old favorite daisies, "'cause mamma loved
them so and named me after them."

But though she remembered so much, the child could not recall the name
of her parents, or where they had lived. Their name "was not what Betty
called it," she was sure; but none the less had it passed from her mind.

"Francine," the French bonne, used to call mamma "Madame," and herself
"Mademoiselle Marguerite;" but when she was asked what other people
used to call mamma and papa, the little face grew clouded and pained
with the effort to remember; and when name after name was mentioned to
her, she shook her head at each one.

The General tried by every means in his power to discover the friends
who must still be mourning the loss of their sweet little daisy
blossom, but all in vain; and as week after week went by, he and his
wife decided that they could not send her forth from their own roof
unless her relations came to claim her. She was an added ray of light
where all had been brightness and sunshine before,--a lovely, precious
little flower, lending new fragrance and beauty to the home where she
blossomed.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



IV.

DAISY'S SISTER FLOWERETS.


"GOODNESS gracious! mercy _me_!"

"I didn't mean to, Susy; 'pon my word and honor I didn't; just as sure
as I'm alive."

Such were the words uttered by two different little voices which our
Daisy heard, as holding by General Forster's hand, she reached the gate
of Miss Collins' garden on the first morning of her going to school in
Glenwood.

Now would it not have been thought that some terrible misfortune must
have called forth that exclamation from the first young speaker; or
that the second thought herself accused of some dreadful crime, and
that she must prove her innocence at once by all the strong words she
could think of, if she would escape severe punishment?

And what was this mighty matter?

Why, just this.

Susy Edwards and several of her schoolmates were "making a land of
Egypt." For of late the geography lesson of the young class had been
upon that country, and they had been much interested in the pictures
of the pyramids and Sphinx. And Susy, who "liked to make her knowledge
of use in her plays," and who was considered by the other children to
have a great genius in that way, had proposed that they should turn a
portion of their play-ground into Egypt. This was thought a capital
plan, and the recess of the day before had been employed in this
way,--the little planners and builders leaving it with great regret,
and returning to it before school-time that morning with fresh pleasure
and some new ideas.

The gravel walk was supposed to be the desert; the trough which led the
waste water from the spring, the River Nile; while a jointed wooden
doll, cruelly deprived for the purpose of all its limbs, had half of
its remainder buried in the gravel, to represent the Sphinx. Any number
of pyramids, four or five inches high, had been built out of pebbles,
and several were still going up.

And Lily Ward, the pet and darling of the school, the youngest child,
and till that day the newest scholar there, had brought that morning a
tiny doll's bath-tub, with a doll to match lying in it, saying it was
to be "Moses in the bulrushes, for it couldn't be a real land of Egypt
without a Moses."

Lily's idea was received with great applause and admiration, and she
felt rather proud of it herself when she heard it so much praised.

But a difficulty arose. The little tub did duty for the ark of
bulrushes most beautifully, it was "so real and so cunning;" and never
was a meeker baby than the one which lay so quietly within it. But he
must be hidden, and nothing could be found to answer for flags. The
grass about the mock River Nile was quite too short for that purpose,
trampled on as it was through each day's playtime by at least twenty
pairs of little feet; and the willow twigs which Lola Swan planted
would not stand up straight enough to make a shade for the ark.

"There isn't time to plant them deep enough," said Lola; "the
school-bell will ring in a few moments, and then we'll have to leave
it."

"And the sun will go and come round here before recess," said Lily, in
a tone of distress, "and Moses will be all sunburned. Besides, it isn't
a bit real: they never leave babies lying out in the sun."

"Put him out on the grass and turn the ark upside-down over him till we
come out again," said Susy.

But Lily scouted the idea of having her Moses treated in this way; and
all began at once to deepen the holes for the willow twigs before the
bell should ring.

But suddenly a bright thought struck Lily.

"Let's play Moses' mother and Miriam put a pyramid over him," she said.
"We could do that pretty quick, and it will be nice and shady for him,
and very real too, 'cause they did have pyramids in Egypt."

All agreed readily, for this was thought an excellent arrangement, and
they fell to work as fast as possible; while Bessie Norton whispered to
Violet Swan, "What a smart child Lily is, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Violet, in the same tone, "very; and I expect when she is
grown up she will do something very remarkable."

"What?" asked Susy Edwards, who heard them.

"Be a genius, I expect," answered Violet, solemnly.

"Oh, how nice!" said Bessie, who had not the least idea what genius
meant, but did not like to say so.

The pyramid over the sleeping Moses was nearly completed, the little
builders expecting each moment to hear the bell, when Lola Swan, coming
with a fresh supply of pebbles, tripped over a stick which lay upon the
grass, and, trying to recover herself, let her load fall around and
upon the half-built pyramid, knocking down half a dozen or so of the
stones which composed it. Not much harm was done, but Susy immediately
exclaimed,--

"Goodness gracious! mercy me!" and Lola answered as you have heard in
the words which met Daisy's ear as she and General Forster entered the
garden.

The click of the gate-latch caused all the children to look up, and
Moses and the pyramids were for the moment forgotten at the sight of
the new scholar.

"Why! there's Daisy Forster," said Lily, for Daisy was now known by
this name.

"I wonder if she's coming here to school," said another; and that
question was speedily answered, as, stopping by the little group, the
General, whom all knew and liked, said, "Here's a new schoolmate for
you. Will you be kind to her, and make her feel at home?"

"Yes, sir, we will; and I'll take care of her," said Lily, scrambling
to her feet and taking Daisy's hand in a patronizing manner. "She won't
feel much strange after one day, 'cause we'll all be good to her, and
she shall help us make our land of Egypt."

"Ah! that is what you are doing, is it?" said the General.

"Yes, sir," answered Lily; "we're just putting a pyramid over Moses in
the bulrushes, 'cause we hav'n't time to fix so many bulrushes till
recess. And part of it is knocked down. Lola did it, but she didn't
mean to, and if you peep in there between those stones you can see
a little bit of the ark and Moses' dear little china arm poking up.
Please to peek, sir."

The General did as he was requested, saying that he saw Moses quite
plainly.

"It isn't much matter if we do have to leave him now," said Lily; "he's
pretty nicely covered up."

"I think so," said the General, gravely; "and if I were Moses, with a
pyramid being built over me, I think I should prefer to have a small
breathing-hole left."

"Why, so he would," said Lily; "and now we can leave him nicely fixed,
and play he's very comfortable in his pyramid, even if it's not quite
done."

Lily being satisfied with the fate of Moses, all the rest were so; and
the bell now ringing, the little group turned towards the house. Daisy
wondering, as well she might, that a matter which was so easily settled
should call for such violent expressions of distress and alarm as she
had heard from two of the little girls.

"Why, Miss Collins," said General Forster, as that lady met them at the
door, "what a bouquet of flowers you have here! A Rose, a Violet, a
Daisy, and a Lily; as choice a nosegay as one could wish for."

"And the Lily is going to take care of the Daisy, and make her feel
to home, Miss Collins," said Lily, who still held Daisy's hand. "The
General said I could."

"No, he didn't," said Susy.

"Yes, he _did_, 'pon my word he did; least I said I would do it, and he
didn't say I couldn't: did you, sir?" said Lily, throwing back her head
to look up at the General's tall figure.

"And that comes to the same thing, does it, Lily?" he said, laughing;
"well, I suppose it does; and I promise you shall look after Daisy till
she feels no longer a stranger among you."

"She knows me, and Loly and Violet, as well as any thing," said Lily;
for the little girls had met several times before, and Lily felt
herself and the two Swans to be on rather intimate terms with Daisy
Forster.

"All right, then. I leave her to you. Good-morning, Miss Collins," and
with a bow to the lady, with whom he had before made all the necessary
arrangements for Daisy, a pleasant nod for the little ones, and a kiss
for Daisy, he went away.

Daisy felt rather lonely when he was gone, in spite of Miss Collins'
kind look, Lily's tight clasp of the hand, and Violet's, "We have real
nice times in school. Don't be afraid." For she was far more shy with
children than she was with grown people, probably because she had never
had any companions of her own age; and the number of young faces, most
of them strange, about her, made her long to be back again at Mrs.
Forster's side. And they all looked at her a good deal, for her story
was well known among them, and she was an object of great curiosity.

Lily observed this, as she took her seat with Daisy beside her, and
thought she must speak up for her charge.

"Miss Collins," she said, "please to make a rule."

"Well," said Miss Collins, smiling; for Lily was constantly asking for
new rules concerning things which did not suit her. She had begun with
this more than a year ago when she was only a visitor at the school;
and she was even now not a regular scholar, but only coming for a few
weeks. For her papa and mamma had gone on a journey, and Lily, being
lonely at home when Ella and the boys were at school, it had been
arranged that she was to go with Ella in the morning. So she was rather
a privileged person, and spoke her mind freely concerning that which
did not please her, which the other children thought rather a joke, and
were generally ready enough to fall in with Lily's rules. So now they
all listened.

"Please to make a rule that nobody must stare, ma'am," said Lily: "it
makes people feel so to be stared at,"--and Lily put up both hands to
her cheeks,--"specially if they are new."

"Very true," answered Miss Collins: "let us all try to remember the
Golden Rule, and then we shall neither stare nor do any thing else to
hurt another's feelings."

Then she struck the little bell which stood upon her table, and all
knew the school had begun, and they must be quiet.

Next calling Bessie Norton to her, Miss Collins gave her a number of
Bibles, and the little girl handed one to each of her classmates. Then
Miss Collins read a verse aloud, and the children followed, each in her
turn.

"Minnie Grey may take the Bibles," said Miss Collins when this was done.

Minnie rose, and went from one to another collecting the Bibles. But
instead of taking as many as she could conveniently carry at one time,
giving them to Miss Collins, and coming back for the rest, she went on
piling one on top of another, till one arm was quite full, when she
came to Daisy and held out her other hand for her book. As she did so,
the top one of the pile fell to the floor. Minnie stooped for it, and
down went two or three more.

"Oh! bother the old things," said Minnie, in a low voice, but very
impatiently.

Daisy had stooped to help her pick up the Bibles, but the glow her
cheeks wore when she raised her head again was not all owing to that.

Bother the old things! What old things? Why, the Bibles, God's own Holy
Word.

Daisy was very much shocked, and she looked up at Miss Collins,
expecting to hear her reprove such _wicked words_, _she_ thought them.

But Miss Collins had not heard Minnie's exclamation, though the noise
of the falling books had called her attention that way, and she said,--

"Minnie, my dear, you are careless with those Bibles: do you forget
whose books they are?"

"I don't care," muttered Minnie, but not so that the lady could hear.
Daisy heard again; and the thought passed through her mind, "What a
wicked little girl Minnie must be!"

And yet Daisy was mistaken. If she had asked Minnie's parents,
teacher, or playmates, they would all have told her that Minnie was
an uncommonly good and pleasant little girl; truthful, obedient,
industrious, and generous and obliging towards others. She had no
thought now that she was breaking one of God's commandments; and she
would have been both offended and grieved, if she had known what was
in Daisy's mind, believing herself, as she did, to be innocent of any
wrong.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



DAISY AT STUDY.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



V.

DAISY AT STUDY.


DAISY was soon at home with her schoolmates, and a great favorite among
them.

It was not strange that they liked and were interested in her. She was
such a gentle, modest, amiable little girl; watching and joining in the
games and lessons of the others with a kind of innocent wonder which
amused and touched them all. For Daisy was not at all accustomed to be
with children of her own age, and their ways were all new to her.

And of course she was behind all the rest in her studies. She could
not even read as well as Lily Ward; and had to begin with the simplest
lessons, such as Lily and two or three of the very youngest children
learned. At first this troubled her, and she feared the rest of the
class would laugh at her.

But she soon found she need not have been afraid of that, for the rule
of Miss Collins' infant class was the law of kindness; and any one of
the little girls would have thought it almost a crime to laugh or mock
at Daisy, for that which was her misfortune and not her fault.

They might now and then fall out a little among themselves, for they
were by no means perfect children; sometimes there would be some
selfishness shown, or even a few angry words pass from one to another;
but, on the whole, they agreed about as well as any twenty little
girls could be expected to do; and not one among them would have had
the heart purposely to do an unkind thing to another. Least of all to
Daisy Forster, whom they all looked upon with a kind of tender pity and
interest, because of her sad and romantic history; and who was at once
taken up by both teacher and scholars as a sort of twin pet with Lily,
for whom allowances were to be made, and who was to be encouraged and
aided as much as possible.

So Daisy found plenty of helpers, who, so far from laughing at her
mistakes and backwardness, were rather inclined to think her quick and
industrious, as indeed she was, trying hard to make up for lost time,
and "catch up" with those of her own age.

She was almost too eager about this, and had to be checked now and
then, for since the long illness which had followed the shipwreck,
Daisy had never been strong; and too much fatigue or study, or even
too much play, would make her nervous and sick, and her little head
would become confused and ache. So now and then Mrs. Forster would have
to take the books from her, and forbid more study, sending her out to
play, or to work in the plot of ground which had been given her for a
garden of her own.

She was not always pleased at this, and sometimes would be rather
fretful and impatient. But Mrs. Forster soon found a way to put a stop
to this.

One afternoon she found the little girl bending over her slate with
flushed and heated cheeks, anxious eyes, and trembling hands.

"Daisy," she said, quietly, "what are you doing? Miss Collins has not
given you lessons out of school, has she?"

"No, ma'am," said Daisy; "but I asked Ella Ward to set me a whole lot
of sums so that I could do them at home, and I can't make this one come
right. I know it is not right, 'cause Ella put the answers on the other
side of the slate, and mine won't come the same, all I can do."

Mrs. Forster took the slate from her hand.

"This sum is too hard for you, Daisy," she said: "you do not know
enough arithmetic for this."

"It is not any harder than the sums Lola and Violet and the other
girls as large as I am do," answered Daisy, looking ready to burst out
crying; "and I have to do arithmetic with the very little ones, like
Lily, and it makes me ashamed; so I want to go on all I can. _Please_
give me the slate again, Aunt Gertrude," she added, as Mrs. Forster
laid it beyond her reach.

"No, dear. I do not wish you to study out of school. I am glad you want
to improve, but you have as much to do there as is good for you; and at
home I want you to have rest and play. You are improving quite as fast
as could be expected, and for a time you must be content to go on with
those who are younger than yourself."

"But it makes me ashamed," pleaded Daisy, again.

"There is no reason for that," said Mrs. Forster, patting the hot cheek
she raised towards her. "The other children do not laugh at you and
make you uncomfortable, do they?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," said Daisy; "they are all so good to me, and when they
can't help seeing what a dunce I am" (here Daisy's tears overflowed),
"they always say kind things about how I never went to school before,
and how my own dear mamma was drowned, and there was nobody to teach me
till I came to you."

"You are not a dunce, dear," said the lady. "A child who idles away
her time when she should be studying, and does not care whether or no
she learns as much as is fit for her, is a dunce: not a little girl
who really wishes to be industrious, but does not know quite as much
as others of her own age only because God has not given her the same
advantages in time past. No one will think my Daisy a dunce. Now, we
must have no more studying at home, no more lessons than those Miss
Collins sets you."

Daisy did not look satisfied: on the contrary, she even pouted a little.

"Daisy," said Mrs. Forster, "suppose Uncle Frank were to give you some
beautiful and costly thing which would be of great use to you in time
to come if you took good care of it, say a watch: what would you do
with it?"

"Why! I _would_ take great care, oh! such care of it," said Daisy,
opening her eyes in some surprise at the question. She did not see what
that could have to do with her studies.

"I'd wind it up every night, and try to keep it right and safe every
way I could. But I don't know if I am quite large enough to have a
watch of my own, or take care of it; maybe the best way would be to ask
you or Uncle Frank to keep it for me till I was older."

"And suppose for a while he gave you no key to this watch, but let it
run down and be quiet?"

"I'd just put it away till he gave me a key, and be patient about it,"
said Daisy, wondering more and more.

"And if, by and by, when he gave you this key, you should go on winding
and winding the watch farther and faster than it was right for it to
go, till the wheels and springs were all spoiled and out of order,
would Uncle Frank think you cared much for his gift?"

"Why, no, Aunt Gertrude; and he wouldn't think I cared much for him,
either, to use his pretty present so."

"You are right, dear. And now I want my own little Daisy to see how it
is with herself. God has given to you a young mind, bright and quick
enough; but, for a while, He did not choose that it should do much
work. But now He has given you the key by which you may wind it and set
it to work; and if you use it without proper care, and so as to hurt
and wear out this precious gift, would it not seem as if you cared very
little about it, and did not respect and honor the Giver?"

"Yes'm," answered Daisy, beginning to see what Mrs. Forster meant; "but
I never thought about that."

"I believe I never thought about it before, dear," said Mrs. Forster,
smiling. "I am not afraid to praise you, Daisy; and I may safely say
that I have never seen any little child who showed such true honor and
reverence for her Maker, and all which belongs to Him. You must have
been well taught, my child; and to know and remember such lessons is
worth all the book learning in the world."

Daisy was pleased, as she always was when any one spoke to her of her
long-lost home, or praised the teaching she had received from those
who had loved and cared for her there. And from this time there was no
further trouble about the lessons; for it was enough for Daisy to know
that she was misusing any one of God's good gifts, to make her change
her ways. Many a lesson might have been learned, and, indeed, had been
learned, by those older and wiser than herself, from the loving care
and respect paid by this little one to her Creator's name, and to all
the works of His hand.

And it was a great trouble to her to hear the careless way in which
many of her schoolmates used sacred names and things. They did not
mean any harm; they did not think it any sin; but every day Daisy was
shocked and distressed by hearing such words as "mercy," "gracious,"
"goodness," and "good heavens," and the like, from the lips of the
other children, as they were about their play and study. It had
become a habit with nearly all in the school; one caught it from
another almost without knowing it; even Lily Ward, who once thought
the clergyman "preached a sermon at her" because she said "hush up,"
now and then followed the example of the others when any thing vexed
or surprised her. A few weeks at school had accustomed Lily to the
constant use of expressions which a year ago she would have considered
"real naughty words."

The older girls in Miss Sarah Collins' room had fallen into this bad
habit as much, if not more, than the little ones of the infant class.

And it was not only this carelessness of speech in which they were
all, large and small, to blame; but it seemed to Daisy so strange that
they could handle and treat the Bible, God's holy Word, with so little
reverence and respect, knocking it about among their other books as
if it were no better than these last, even using it, sometimes, for
purposes to which no book, even the most common one, should be put.

Daisy wondered that Miss Collins did not teach them better; but
either she did not notice all this, or she did not think it of much
consequence; certain it is that she did not check them, and the evil
seemed to Daisy to grow worse from day to day.

At first she did not like to speak herself. You may wonder that this
was so, since she had not feared to speak so plainly to General
Forster, who was a grown gentleman, so much older than herself; but she
had done that almost without knowing what she was saying, for, as you
know, his profane words had startled her so that he was surprised, and
he had almost forced her to tell him what had disturbed her.

And here she was with every thing strange around her, school,
schoolmates, and teacher all new to her; so it is not astonishing that
she was rather shy and felt afraid to interfere with the others, or to
tell them that she thought they were doing wrong.

But by and by there came a day when she could no longer hold her peace.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



DAISY A TEACHER.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



VI.

DAISY A TEACHER.


ONE morning just after school commenced, a heavy shower came up; and
when it was time for the recess, which was always given to the infant
class at eleven o'clock, the ground was still so wet that the little
ones were forced to find amusement within doors or upon the piazza.

"What shall we play?" asked Rosie Pierson.

"Lady Queen Fair," said Bessie Norton: "we'll go out on the piazza and
play it."

[Illustration]

"Yes," said Violet; "and Lily shall be Lady Queen Fair, and we'll dress
her up a little. Miss Emily," as a third Miss Collins, who gave music
lessons to the girls, passed by, "may we have a rose to put in Lily's
hair for Lady Fair?"

The young lady smiled, stopped and pulled a couple of roses from the
vine which wound itself around one of the pillars of the piazza, and
gave them to Violet, then passed on.

Time had been when Violet would have hoped, perhaps would have asked
to be Lady Fair herself, and been sulky and displeased if the other
children had not agreed; but now she was very different, and more apt
to prefer another before herself.

The roses were soon arranged, the one in the hair, the other in the
bosom of the little Lady Queen, who took her dignities in the calmest
manner. Meanwhile some of the other children were drawing forward one
of the rustic chairs with which the piazza was furnished, to serve as a
throne.

But the little queen, like many another royal lady before her, found
her throne by no means an easy one.

"Ow!" she said, rubbing her little round white shoulders where she had
scratched them against the rough bark of the twisted boughs which made
the back of the chair, "ow! this is not nice at all, or comfortal. My
feet don't come to the floor, and if I lean back I'm all scratched. I'd
rather be a queen without a throne."

"Oh, no! You must have a throne," said Susy Edwards. "Queens have to."

"I don't see why," said Lily, rather pettishly; for she did not feel
very well that morning, and that and the close heat of the day made her
more fretful than usual. "I should think queens could do just as they
have a mind to and make their subjiks do it too; and I don't see what
they have to have their skin all scraped up for if they don't want to;"
and Lily twisted her head to give an aggrieved look at the little fat
shoulder with that red mark upon it.

"I'll fix you," said Lola. "I'll put Miss Collins' footstool under your
feet and you shall have the big cushion behind you. Some one bring the
cushion while I carry the stool."

The footstool was brought in a moment; but the cushion was not to be
found.

"The big girls had it yesterday," said Fanny Satterlee. "I saw them
with it in their recess when I was going home. There comes Cora Prime
now; let's ask her. Cora, what did the big girls do with that cushion
yesterday when they had done with it?"

"The Lord knows; I don't," said Cora, playfully tapping Fanny on the
head with the roll of music in her hand.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lily.

Daisy did not speak; but as Cora's eye happened to fall upon her, her
face said as much as Lily's "Oh!"

"What's the matter with you two?" asked Cora, looking from one to the
other of the little girls, but still good-natured.

"You oughtn't to say that," said Lily.

"Ought not to say what?"

"The Lord knows," answered Lily.

"Well, don't He know?" asked Cora.

"No," said Lily, doubtfully, "I guess not. I don't believe He'd bother
Himself with knowing about a worn-out old cushion what has a hole in
the cover, and such things."

"Yes, He does, too," said Cora, laughing; "are not the very hairs of
our head numbered?"

"Now, I _know_ you ought to be 'shamed," said Lily. "You're talking
Bible; and that is not right, is it, Daisy?"

"No," said Daisy, as boldly as Lily herself could have done, for
quoting Scripture in a careless manner was also a habit of many in the
school.

"You two saucy monkeys! correcting your elders," said Cora, much
amused. "I heard you both talking Bible to Miss Collins this morning
with all the rest of your class."

"We were only saying what we learned in Sunday school yesterday," said
Lily. "That's not the same thing. I _know_ it's not right to talk Bible
that kind of a way. Papa says so, and he tells us not to do it."

"Your papa's saying so does not make a thing right or wrong," said Cora.

"Yes, it does, too!" said Lily. "My papa knows a whole lot, and he
wouldn't tell a story for any thing. Cora, you'd better go to your
music lesson: I 'speck Miss Emily wants you."

"Oh, you are very considerate for Miss Emily, all at once," said Cora,
more amused than ever; "but you haven't told me why I shouldn't say,
The Lord knows, when He does know."

Lily looked at Daisy, who stood by the arm of her chair, for help. The
little one felt that Cora was wrong, but she did not exactly know how
to answer, and she had noticed how careful Daisy was to honor the name
of God.

"Is it not taking the name of God in vain?" said Daisy.

"Upon my word!" said Cora. "Do you mean to call that swearing?"

"Well, yes," said Lily, taking up the word, "a kind of baby swearing, I
s'pose; but you know it's not very good of you, Cora."

"Everybody says such things: they don't mean any thing," said Cora.

"Not _everybody_," answered Lily. "Daisy don't."

"Then Daisy's uncommonly good," said Cora.

"Yes, she is," replied Lily; "and I s'pose _everybody_ ought to be
uncommonly good and never say them."

Cora laughed again.

"Everybody must mind their p's and q's before you: mustn't they, Lily?"
and away she ran to her music lesson.

"Here's the cushion," said Rosie Pierson, running out from the
school-room. "I found it in the closet under the shelf where those
careless big girls left it, I s'pose."

The cushion was put behind Lily's shoulders, but still the little queen
fidgeted on her throne and declared she was not yet "comfortal."

"'Cause if I lean back against the cushion my feet won't touch the
stool," she said.

"We'll put something else on the stool to make it higher," said Nettie
Prime, who was trying to arrange Lily satisfactorily: "what shall we
take? Oh, I know. Daisy, run and bring the big Bible off Miss Collins'
table for Lily to put her feet on."

Daisy, who made a motion to start forward as Nettie began to speak,
stood still when she heard what she called for.

"Make haste," said the latter, impatiently: "we won't have a bit of
time to play."

Daisy did not move, but stood with rising color, trying to make up her
mind to speak.

"Oh! you disobliging thing!" said Violet, and she ran for the book.

"Oh! don't," said Daisy, as Violet came back and stooped to put the
Bible on the footstool; "I didn't mean to be disobliging, but we ought
not to use the Bible to play with."

"Pooh!" said Violet: "Lily's little feet won't hurt it. It's all worn
out, any way. The cover is real shabby."

"I didn't mean that," answered Daisy; "I meant because it is God's
book, and we ought to treat it very carefully."

"Oh, fiddle! How awfully particular you are, Daisy!" said Minnie Grey.
"Why, girls, do you know, the other day, when I was playing paper-dolls
with her and I turned up a Bible to make the side of a house, she took
it away, and when I put it back again 'cause it stood up better than
the other books, she said she wouldn't play if I did so with the Bible."

"I s'pose Daisy would call that 'taking God's name in vain,'" said
another, half reproachfully; "wouldn't you, Daisy?"

"I think it is something the same," answered Daisy, feeling as if
all the others were finding fault with her and thinking her "awfully
particular," a crime which no little girl likes to have laid to her
charge.

"I don't see how," said Lola. "I know we ought not to play with the
Bible; but I don't see how it is taking God's name in vain."

"But the Bible is God's book, and He told it to the men who wrote it,
and His name is in it a great many times," said Daisy, "and I think it
seems like taking it in vain to play with it or to put things upon it,
or to knock it about like our other school-books. And it is not right
to say 'the Lord knows,' and 'mercy,' and 'gracious,' and such words,
when we are just playing, or when we are provoked."

"What is the harm?" asked Rosie. "Mercy and gracious are not God's
name."

"Well, no," said Daisy, slowly, not exactly knowing how to explain
herself. "And maybe I make a mistake; but it does seem to me as if it
was a kind of--of--"

"Of little swearing, as Lily says," said Lola.

"Yes," said Daisy. "Rosie thinks it is no harm; but even if it is not
much harm, I don't see what is the good of it. We can talk just as well
without saying such words."

"I guess they are pretty wicked," said Lily. "The day mamma went away,
I said 'good heavens,' and she said 'Lily! Lily!' very quick, like she
does when I do something very naughty, and she asked me where I learned
that; and I told her Elly said it. I didn't mean to tell a tale about
Elly; but mamma looked sorry, and she told me never to say it again. I
guess 'mercy' is 'most the same, and I guess I won't say it any more;
and, Daisy, if I hear the other girls say those words, I'll help you
correct 'em."

Lily promised this with an air of such grave importance that the other
children laughed. Not in the least abashed, Lily went on,--

"Papa's coming home day after to-morrow, and I'll ask him to tell me a
whole lot about God's name, and why it is wrong to say those things;
and then I'll tell all you girls. But I'm not coming to school any more
when mamma comes home; so you'll have to come to my house, and I'll
have a swearing class, and teach you all about it."

Lily's words might have been taken with a different meaning from that
which she intended to give them; but the other children understood her,
and that was enough.

"But, Daisy," said Lola, "how do you know so much about these things
when you don't know a great deal about every-day lessons, and have had
no one to teach you for so long?"

"I don't know," said Daisy. "I think my own mamma who was drowned used
to teach me in the home I used to have;" and the dreamy look came into
her eyes which they always wore when she spoke of her far-away home and
those she had loved there. "I think I've forgotten a good many things,"
she added; "but you know I couldn't forget what mamma taught me about
Jesus and what He wanted us to do if we loved Him. And I think if we do
love Him we won't say words about His name, His heaven, or any thing
that is His, that are not very good and gentle, and that we are very
sure He would like us to say."

"But you are so _very_ particular, Daisy," said Minnie; "I think you
are most _too_ particular."

"I didn't think we could be too particular about doing what Jesus
likes," said Daisy.

The other children had all gathered about Daisy, and were listening
with interest to what she said. Perhaps they heard her with more
patience than they would have given to any one else; for Daisy was a
kind of mystery to them, and they looked upon her as a sort of fairy
or princess in disguise, and would not have been at all surprised to
hear the most extravagant stories about her, for she was "just like a
story-book child." Lily had said so one day when she was speaking of
her at home.

"No," said Lola, thoughtfully; "but it does not seem as if such little
things could be wrong. I know it can't be right to play with the
Bible or say its words just when we are joking or for our own common
talk; but I don't see the harm of saying 'goodness,' or 'mercy,' or
'heavens,' or those words which you never will say, Daisy; they are not
God's name, and I don't see how it is taking it in vain to say them."

Daisy looked thoughtful. She felt she was right, and wanted to explain
herself; but she was rather shy and could not find words to do so.

But Lily, whom shyness never troubled, came to her aid.

"Never mind," she said: "I'll ask papa just as soon as he comes home,
and he'll tell us all about it; and if he says it is naughty, why, it
is, and we won't do it; and if he says it's good enough, why, we will.
That's the way to fix it."

Here the bell rang.

"There, now," said Susy Edwards, "we have to go in, and we've wasted
all our time talking, and never had a bit of good of our recess."

But I think Susy was mistaken, and that they had one and all gained
more good from their talk than they could have done from any amount
of play; for it had set more than one young mind thinking; and from
this day, even the most careless among them would check herself when
she found she was on the point of using these words which had grown
so common among them, more from want of thought than from any wish or
temptation to do wrong.



[Illustration]



THE SWEARING CLASS.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



VII.

THE SWEARING CLASS.


WHEN Lily's papa and mamma came home, she was so glad to see them, and
there was so much to hear and to talk about, that she quite forgot her
purpose of asking her father to teach her about the third commandment.
Besides, she no longer went to school now that her mother was at home,
but had her lesson each day with her as she had done before Mrs. Ward
went on her journey; and so she was not as apt to hear or to say those
careless words which Daisy Forster had said it was not right to use.

But it was at last brought to her mind one evening as the family all
sat at the tea-table.

"Mamma," said Ella, "will you let Lily and me have a tea-party
to-morrow? I want to ask half a dozen of our girls, and I suppose Lily
would like to have a few of the little ones at the same time."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Ward, "you may each ask six of your most intimate
friends."

"Can Walter and I ask some of the fellows?" said Ned.

"Oh, mercy! no," said Ella: "we don't want any boys. It is not to be a
regular party, Ned. I just want the girls to spend the afternoon and
drink tea; and it makes more fuss to have boys too."

"Goodness me! You needn't get into such a way about it," said Ned.

"Children," said Lily, her brother's and sister's words bringing back
to her what Daisy had said, "children, you needn't either of you swear
about it."

Lily's efforts to keep the family straight were generally considered
as a good joke, and her reproofs and advice received with a laugh; but
this plain speaking was rather _too_ much for either Ella or Ned, and
the former exclaimed,--

"Well, who is swearing, I'd like to know?"

"And who gave you leave to correct your elders?" said Ned.

"Nobody: I just took it," said unabashed Lily; and then, turning to her
father, she exclaimed, "Papa, I b'lieve the girls in our school are
pretty heathen, and don't know enough about the comman'ments. So I told
them we'd have a swearing class, and I'd ask you to teach it, 'cause
I s'pose you know a good deal about swearing; and this will be a good
chance when they come to-morrow."

This speech turned the vexation of Ella and Ned into amusement, and
they laughed with the others.

"I don't think your playmates will thank you for asking them here to
take tea and then bringing them up for a lecture from me, my pet," said
Mr. Ward.

"Yes: they will, papa. They want to know about it, and I think we'd
better make a swearing party of this. I b'lieve it would do those big
girls good too. They swear, oh, dreadfully! and they don't seem to
think they do, least Cora don't. Mamma, let's make a rule we won't have
any swearing in this house: won't you?"

"Certainly," said mamma, smiling; "and I think we must find out what
_swearing_ is, and be careful not to break the rule."

"If one is going to call 'goodness' and 'mercy,' and such things,
swearing, one might as well give up talking altogether," said Ella.

"Perhaps not exactly swearing," said her father; "but the use of them
is a bad habit, and one that I have noticed is quite too frequent among
all the young people of this place. It is growing stronger too, as all
such habits do, and going from bad to worse. But I must go out now, and
have not time to talk to you about it. If Lily can persuade her little
friends to take the 'swearing class,' as part of their afternoon's
entertainment to-morrow, well and good; if not, we will have a little
private talk among ourselves some other time."

Ella was not at all pleased by Lily's proposal; and hoping that it
would pass from the child's mind before the afternoon, she was careful
not to make her remember it by the use of any such words as had called
forth Lily's reproof.

This had very nearly proved successful; and in the excitement of
arranging her baby-house, setting out the new tea-set mamma had brought
her, and dressing the doll which had been papa's present, Lily had
almost forgotten her plan for mingling wholesome instruction with the
amusement provided for her young friends.

There were Lola and Violet Swan, Daisy Forster, Rosie Pierson, Minnie
Grey, and Bessie Norton; and they were all having a real good time
sitting around a small table and playing tea out of the new china set,
when Minnie said,--

"I have a secret to tell all of you, if you'll promise never to tell."

"I won't," said Violet.

"On your sacred word and honor?" said Minnie.

"On my sacred word and honor," repeated Violet.

"And you, Rosie?" asked Minnie.

"On my word and honor," said Rosie.

"Sacred?" said Minnie.

"Sacred. Sacred word and honor," was Rosie's answer.

Lily repeated the words as desired, and next came Daisy's turn.

"I won't tell," she said, when Minnie looked at her.

"On your sacred word and honor?" asked Minnie.

"I promise I won't tell, Minnie."

"But you must say on your word and honor."

"I can't," said Daisy.

"Then I shan't tell you; and you're real mean, Daisy Forster," said
Minnie. "Why won't you say so?"

"I don't see why I need, and I don't know if it is quite right,"
answered Daisy, coloring.

"Oh, Daisy Forster, what a girl you are!" said Rosie.

"Well," said Lily, "there's nothing left, 'cept these two caramels.
Daisy, you eat up this; and, Bessie, you eat up the other. Now
the tea-party is all done, and we'll go and ask papa about that
comman'ment. He's been playing croquet with the big girls, but they
seem to be resting now."

Lily was right. Mr. Ward had been persuaded to make the eighth in a
game of croquet, for he was a great favorite with all the young people
in Glenwood, and his presence never put any check upon their games or
pleasure parties.

But the afternoon proved rather warm for exercise, even the gentle one
of bewitching croquet; and, after a long game was finished, the whole
party were ready to agree to Ella's proposal that they should take a
rest, and send to the house for some cooling drink.

So Mr. Ward was at liberty to attend to Lily, when she came rushing up
to him, followed, rather more slowly, by the rest of the children.

"Papa," she said, throwing herself across his knee, as he sat upon
the green mound which was raised about the foot of one of the fine
elm-trees which shaded the croquet-ground, "papa, Daisy says we
oughtn't to say upon our words and honors! Oughtn't we? And will you
teach us about taking God's name in vain now? It's the _singalest_
circumstance, but I went and forgot all about the swearing class, till
Daisy said that."

"A very singular circumstance, certainly;" said Mr. Ward, lifting Lily
to a seat upon his knee, and smiling, while the other girls laughed at
her speech. "I am quite willing to have a little talk with you all on
this subject; but tell me first what you want to know."

"Daisy is so awfully particular, Mr. Ward," said Minnie, in an
aggrieved tone. "She won't let us say any thing; at least, she says
every thing is 'wrong.'"

"Every thing?" said Mr. Ward: "that is bad. Does Daisy want you all to
keep silence? That _must_ spoil your play."

"Oh, no!" said Minnie, "not that; but she says such lots of things are
wrong to say. Why, sir, she won't say 'upon her word and honor,' 'cause
she don't think it is right."

"Why do you want her to say it?" asked Mr. Ward.

"I was just going to tell them all a great secret, and I wanted her to
promise, on her sacred word and honor, she would never tell; and she
wouldn't do it."

"So Daisy is apt to break her promises, is she?" said the gentleman,
with a smile at Daisy, which told very plainly that he was only joking.

"Oh, no, sir!" said Minnie. "Indeed she is not. Daisy always tells the
truth, and never does what she says she won't; at least, we never knew
her to do it: did we, girls?"

A chorus of young voices was raised in Daisy's favor.

"And yet you cannot trust her unless she swears to what she promises,"
said Mr. Ward.

"Swears, sir!" said Minnie. "I'm sure I don't want her to swear! 'Word
and honor' are not bad words, are they?"

"Not in themselves, certainly;" answered Mr. Ward. "Many a thing which
is good in itself when properly used, becomes bad and hurtful if put to
a wrong purpose. Now to swear is to say, by some word or person which
you consider holy and sacred, that you will or will not do, that you
have or have not done, a certain thing. Suppose some man were accused
of a crime, and that the judge were about to try him, and punish him if
he were guilty, and it was thought that I knew whether or no the man
had done that of which he was accused. So I am called to the court,
and there made to promise that I will tell the truth, and nothing but
the truth; and to make sure of this I am made to lay my hand on the
Bible,--God's holy word,--and call upon Him, to hear me tell what I
know. And this is considered a very solemn thing, even by many who
have little care or respect for God in other ways; and it is called
swearing, or taking the oath."

"They ought to be 'shamed of theirselves," said Lily, indignantly;
"they ought to know you would never tell a story, papa. And to go and
make you swear too! I wouldn't do it if I was you; but I'd tell 'em the
third comman'ment, and run away fast from them."

"But if this is done in the fear of God, and as a sort of prayer that
He will hear and help us to tell that which is true, it is not taking
His name in vain, Lily," said Mr. Ward; "and to do it falsely is
considered even by men to be a great crime. This is called perjury;
and if any one is found guilty of it, he is severely punished by the
law. Now it may be wise, and even necessary, for a man to take an
oath at such a time as this, when the very life of another may depend
on whether he tells the truth or no; but it can hardly be necessary
for one little girl at play with another to make her promise sure by
swearing to it. For to say 'by your sacred word and honor' is neither
more nor less than a sort of swearing or taking an oath that what you
say is true."

"Then we'll make a rule not to say it any more," said Lily. "We
didn't know it was naughty before, papa. But please tell us now about
other words. Daisy says we mustn't say 'mercy,' and 'gracious,' and
'heavens,' and maybe we mustn't; but why is that swearing? Swearing is
taking God's name in vain, and how do such words take His name in vain
if we don't speak it? And she thinks playing with the Bible, or saying
its words when we are playing or just talking common talk, is taking
God's name in vain, too. Is it?"

"I will tell you," said Mr. Ward. "Suppose, Lily, that some great king
or queen, or the president of our own country, were to come here; would
you not wish to be particularly polite and respectful to them, both in
your manner and way of speaking?"

"Um-m-m, I don't know," answered Lily, doubtfully; "not partic'lar. I
guess I'd just as lieve be saucy to them as to any one else."

Mr. Ward saw this would not do, at least, not for Lily: he must go
higher than earthly rulers.

"Suppose, then," he said, "that Jesus should come down here among us,
so that we could see Him with our eyes, walking and talking with us,
what would you all do?"

"I'd fall down and worship Him," said Minnie.

"I'd listen to every word He said, and never speak one myself for fear
I should miss one," said Daisy; "and then I'd remember them all the
days of my life."

"Dear child!" said Mr. Ward, laying his hand fondly on hers: "I believe
you do treasure your Lord's words and try to live according to them."

"I'd ask Him to put His hand on my head and bless me just as He did
those other little children when He was on earth before," said Lola,
softly.

"So would I. And I'd be glad there were no disciples to forbid us to
come to Him," said Lily. "I s'pose they thought Jesus wouldn't care
about children; but He did, didn't He? And you wouldn't think so, papa,
would you?" and the little child laid her hand lovingly against her
father's cheek. "I'd keep very close to Him all the time He was here,
and take fast hold of His hand, only I wouldn't be troublesome, but
just keep as still as a mouse; and I'd give Him every thing of mine
that He wanted."

"So you would all show your love and reverence for Him by every means
in your power," said Mr. Ward, "trying not to grieve or offend Him
by treating His name or His presence with the least carelessness or
disrespect, but letting Him see that you honored the one and were
blessed by the other: is it not so?"

"Yes, sir," came from the older as well as the younger children.

"And if, after He had gone away, He should send you each a letter,
telling you what He wanted you to do, how you were to love and serve
Him, and in which you would find all the advice, help, and comfort you
might need at any time,--how would you treat that letter?"

"I'd keep it all my life, and take such good care of it," said Rosie.

"I'd read it, and read it, and read it; and kiss it, and kiss it, and
kiss it," said Lily, "and then I'd put it in my bosom, and keep it, oh!
so carefully."

"And so would I, and I, and I," said the rest, satisfied to have Lily
for spokeswoman.

"And if you saw any one misusing that letter, how would you feel?"
asked Mr. Ward.

"I'd be very provoked with them," answered Lily, "and I think I
wouldn't love them any more, 'cept it was you, papa, or mamma, or Elly,
or any one of my own that I _have_ to love; and then I'd cry, and ask
you not to serve my Jesus' letter so."

"You mean the Bible is Jesus' letter to us: don't you, sir?" asked
Daisy.

"Yes; and, dear children, our Lord's presence is here among us as much
as if He were in man's form which He once wore on earth. His ear is as
quick to hear our words of love and praise, or those of carelessness
and disrespect, as it was then; His eye as ready to see the use we make
of the precious Word He has given us. But we forget this when we use
His book more carelessly than we would any gift from an earthly friend,
or when we take His name lightly or without thought upon our lips. To
do this is to take it in vain, and it displeases Him."

"But, Mr. Ward," said Minnie, "it is not cursing and swearing to say
'mercy,' and 'gracious,' and 'good Lord,' and such things, is it?"

"Not cursing, certainly: that is to use God's name profanely, or to
call on Him to destroy us or other people; and this is a most terrible
sin. But, Minnie, the use of such words in play or thoughtlessness is a
bad habit, and leads to worse. Suppose a man breaks open a bank here,
and takes all the money from it: that is stealing, is it not?"

"Why, yes, sir," answered Minnie.

"And suppose you take a sugar-plum belonging to your sister: it is a
very small thing compared to the money taken from the bank, but is it
not stealing, all the same?"

"Yes, sir; and if I was to be so bad as to take Julia's sugar-plums,
I'm afraid I'd maybe steal something worse some time."

"Just so," said the gentleman; "and now you see why it is not wise or
right to make use of such expressions. It is, as Lily says, a kind of
little swearing, and may lead to worse. Besides, it is very useless.
You can surely believe one another,--unless, indeed, it is some false
and deceitful child,--without saying 'upon your sacred word and honor,'
'as sure as you live,' 'Heaven knows,' and so forth. And there is so
little temptation to fall into this sin that it seems strange it should
be so common. There is nothing to be gained by it, even of this world's
good,--no pleasure, no profit. It is only an idle, useless habit,
most displeasing and vexing to the holy ear of Him whose commandment
we break without thought or care. Goodness and mercy and graciousness
belong to the Almighty; and so, too, we must take heed that we do not
speak of what belongs to Him in an irreverent, careless way. And now I
think we have had enough talk on this subject for this afternoon. You
did not ask your friends here that I might lecture them."

"Oh, yes! I did, papa," said Lily; "for we all deserved it very much,
'specially the big girls. But, papa, do you believe the Lord troubles
Himself to know where the girls put an old, worn-out cushion, and such
things; and if He does, ought we to say He does?"

"God knows every thing, Lily; even the smallest trifle is seen by Him;
but it is very wrong to say, in a heedless way, 'the Lord knows,' for
I suppose that is what you mean. And this very thought, that His eye
and His ear are always with us, noticing every word and look, knowing
the very feelings of our hearts, should make us all the more careful
how we use His holy name. I am glad this question has come up among
you; for heedlessness in using God's name, and other sacred words, in
quoting Scripture,--talking Bible, my Lily calls it,--and other such
habits, were becoming too common, I fear, among all the young people
in Glenwood; and we older ones too, I believe, fall too often into the
custom. We have, too many of us, constant need of the prayer, 'Set a
watch, O Lord, upon my mouth; keep the door of my lips.'"

"It is Daisy's doing, sir, that we have come to think of this," said
honest Cora. "I, for one, have been very thoughtless about offending
God in this way, and have set a bad example to the rest. I believe the
little ones have caught it from us larger girls, and we have to thank
Daisy that she has taught us a better lesson."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



DAISY'S NAME.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



VIII.

DAISY'S NAME.


"INDADE, now, and hasn't me words come true, sir? For wasn't I afther
tellin' ye she was as nate a little lady as iver stepped in two shoes?"
said Betty Macarthy, as she stood with her arms akimbo, her head on one
side, and her honest face one broad glow of delight and satisfaction,
gazing at the dainty-looking little creature who stood before her, her
young face bright with as much pleasure as Betty's own.

For Daisy's old friend had come to live at Mrs. Forster's; and this was
the way it had been brought about.

The lady had wanted a laundress; and, thinking that Betty, who had once
held that post in her father's family, might know of one, had begged
the General to ask her.

No sooner had he put the question than Betty eagerly answered she
should be only too glad of the place herself; for she was tired of her
present position, and a countrywoman of her own was ready to take it
off her hands, stock, fixtures, goodwill, and all. "For her heart was
sore for the child," Betty said, and to be where she could see her
every day, and to live once more with "Miss Gertrude," would be almost
as much happiness as she could wish for; and then she would try to put
Jack out with some gardener to learn his trade, for which he had always
had a turn.

So the General, having talked the matter over with his wife, and
mindful of the generous care and kindness shown to their Daisy by these
poor people, not only told Betty she should come to live with them, but
also put Jack under his own gardener, though there was really no need
of any more hands about the place.

Thus did the "bread cast upon the waters" by this kind-hearted
Irishwoman, come back to her, blessed sevenfold.

Nothing was told to Daisy of this arrangement till one afternoon, when
the General had returned from the city, Mrs. Forster said to her, "I am
going to speak to the new laundress and gardener's boy. Come with me,
Daisy;" and half wondering, the little girl obeyed.

But her surprise soon changed into delight and gratitude when she saw
who the new domestics were; for, in spite of all the pleasure she felt
in her new way of life, Daisy's loving little heart often longed for
the old friends who had been so good to her in her time of need, and
she wanted not only to see them, but to share some of her many comforts
with them.

So you may know how glad she was when her eye fell upon the two figures
standing by the back door, and she knew that they had been brought to
live in the same place with her.

With an excitement very unusual in her, she flew at Betty, and,
throwing both arms about her neck, covered her broad, smiling face with
warm kisses. Betty returned them with a will, holding her fast in both
arms; and then, putting her from her and looking at her from head to
foot, put on an air of strong approval, and spoke to the General in the
words you have read at the beginning of this chapter.

"An' isn't it fit for a princess, she is?" she continued, quite unable
to keep back her admiration and pleasure at the child's improved
appearance. "Isn't it fit for a princess she is; and Saacyfuts or no
Saacyfuts, isn't it a right her own folks would have to the name if
they found her now? Sure I'd be saacy meself to have the ownin' of a
child like that. An' her not a bit spoiled, but just as lovin' and
free-like as when she had none but me an' Jack."

Then Daisy was told she might take Betty and Jack away and show them
the neat little wash-house, shaded by a fine clump of trees, with its
nice bleaching and drying ground beyond, its laundry on the first
floor, and two small bedrooms above, where they were to sleep. Betty
was enchanted, and expressed over and over again her satisfaction at
the change in her life. It was far better, she thought, to stand at the
wash-tub or ironing-table, breathing the sweet country air, with all
its pleasant sights and sounds about her, than to do the same at her
stall in the hot, dusty, crowded city.

As for Jack, when he saw the splendid garden, when Daisy had led
them there, and knew it was to be his privilege to work among those
lovely flowers, he could not contain himself, but shouted and shouted,
turned somersault after somersault, till recalled to himself by
Betty's reminder that he must "remember that Margaret--she begged
her pardon,--Miss Daisy--was a little lady now, and he must mind his
manners before her."

But Daisy was so like her old self, so free from any pride or
haughtiness in her new position, that Jack found it hard to remember
she was any other than the little waif whom he had pitied and petted
for so long; and his "manners" were brought to his mind with much more
force by the sight of the gray-haired old Scotch gardener under whom he
was to work, and before whom his gambols ceased at once.

Meanwhile General and Mrs. Forster were talking on a very interesting
subject, for Betty's words about Daisy's lost friends had given the
lady a new idea.

"Frank," she said to her husband, "did you notice what Betty said about
Daisy's friends?"

"Yes," he answered. "I hope she won't turn Daisy's head and make her
vain with her praise and flattery."

"I'm not afraid," said his wife. "Daisy has a right to her name, the
modest, unaffected little girl; and she has too much sense to be
spoiled by what she looks upon only as the overflowing of Betty's
affection. But don't you know that the Irish often say _saacy_ when
they mean proud?"

"Oh, yes. I have often noticed it in people of Betty's class," answered
the General; "but what has that to do with Daisy's friends?"

"Is it not possible that their name is Proudfoot or Proudfit, and that
'Saacyfut' is Betty's way of calling it?"

The General laughed heartily.

"Hardly, I think," he said; "and yet--I do not know. It may be. But it
never struck me. It took a woman's wit to think of that."

"We will ask Daisy when she comes," said Mrs. Forster. "If Proudfoot
_was_ their name, she must remember it when she hears it spoken, I
think. She can hardly have forgotten it so entirely that she would not
recognize it. And then, if it should be so, it will be a help to find
her friends." Mrs. Forster spoke the last words more slowly.

"Yes," said her husband, giving words to the thought which had made her
half unwilling to utter them; "and if found, we must give up our Daisy."

"But we must not seek them the less for that," she said, "or I shall
feel as if we had found some lovely jewel that we were striving to
hide from the rightful owner. I know what terrible longings must fill
her mother's heart;" and a tear dropped from Mrs. Forster's eye on her
baby's face, as she clasped it more tenderly than ever in her arms.

"Daisy," said the General that evening, as the little girl stood by his
knee, "did you ever hear the name of Proudfoot?"

Daisy started, drew a quick, gasping breath, and suddenly threw herself
into his arms.

"That is it!" she cried, in a rapid, excited manner, "that is it! That
is my name, that is what they called papa and mamma. I never heard it
since; but I know it now. I am Daisy Proudfoot, I am, I am!"

It was some time before the child's excitement could be calmed; but
there was no farther knowledge to be gained from her. Proudfoot was her
name, of that she was quite sure; and the recollection of it at this
late hour seemed to fill her with a kind of tremulous happiness; but
still she could not tell where she belonged.

Betty too, when she was asked if Proudfoot was the name of Daisy's
mother, answered,--

"Sure, an' it was, ma'am. Didn't I say so all along, only she was
always gainsayin' it?"[A]

The matter was settled; and General Forster, loath as he was to part
with Daisy, feeling that he must leave no stone unturned to trace her
friends, again put advertisements in the papers, saying, that if any
family of the name of Proudfoot had had a child supposed to be lost at
sea, they might hear of her at such and such a place.

Daisy was not told of this; she was contented and happy in her new home
and among her new friends, and it was not thought best to disturb her
mind with fresh hopes of finding those who might never come to claim
her.

But although she was still called Daisy Forster by all in Glenwood, it
was a satisfaction to herself and to the kind friends who had taken her
up and cared for her, to know the name which rightly belonged to her.

However, days and weeks and months went by, and still no one came to
seek the Daisy blossom which had been transplanted to such pleasant
soil. And there it grew and flourished, and did its Master's work;
proving how much even such a simple floweret can do by its own modest
example and teaching to win others to honor Him.

It was surprising to see how much her schoolmates thought of her
opinion; how they profited by the simple lesson she had taught them,
and tried to break themselves of the foolish and sinful habit into
which nearly all of them had fallen, of using sacred names and things
in such a heedless, unthinking manner.

It was not only the very little girls, but the older ones also, and
even Miss Collins herself, who learned from our Daisy to set a watch
upon their lips, and to remember whose ear was ever present, hearing
each thoughtless word which dishonored Him or that which especially
belonged to Him.

Perhaps they gave more heed to Daisy's words than they would have
done to those of any other one of their number. There was such a
half-mystery about her, and their thoughts were so tender towards her,
that they checked their heedless speech for her sake at first; then, as
they learned to think more about it, for a better and higher reason,
till at last the bad habit was broken up; and if, by chance, such a
word as "mercy," "heavens," "good Lord," or the like, came from the
lips of any child, the surprised and reproving looks of her companions
told her of her fault, and punished her sufficiently.

And the good influence spread far and wide. Since the little ones were
so careful, their parents and older friends felt that they, too, must
take heed lest they offended in this way; and so it came to pass that
among the families of Glenwood God's name and word came to be held in
such true reverence and honor as had never been before.

And so nearly a year passed by, and brought the Daisy and her
sister-flowerets to another spring.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] If this is considered far-fetched, the writer can only say that
Betty's rendering of the name of Proudfoot was actually given by a
domestic in her own family, and occasioned considerable bewilderment,
till the quick wit of one of its members solved the riddle.



[Illustration]



THE LOST FOUND.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]



IX.

THE LOST FOUND.


"IS that you, Daisy?"

"Yes, sir. Is that you, Uncle Frank?" answered Daisy, playfully.

"Well, I thought it was this morning when I went to town; but I am
doubtful of it now."

"Why?" asked Daisy, laughing, as she reached up on tiptoe to offer the
kiss with which she always welcomed her uncle on his return from the
city.

"Baby Daisy is not doubtful, at least," said Mrs. Forster, coming
forward, and putting her little daughter, all crows and smiles, in her
father's arms. "Let her pull your hair a little to convince you of the
fact."

"It will be difficult," said the General. "There was a man in the cars
so like me, face, height, and figure, that some of my friends were
taking him for me; others accusing me of having a brother whom I have
never owned. He sat two or three seats in front of me, and I could not
help being amused. Ward came in, nodded familiarly to my double, with,
"How are you, General?" passed on to me, stopped, and looked from one
to the other with a mixture of surprise and curiosity that was droll;
then asked for information which I could not give him. It was the same
with many others. I hope the stranger will keep himself out of mischief
while he is in Glenwood, or I may be held responsible for his wrong
doings."

"Did he come to Glenwood?" asked Daisy.

"Yes: I left him standing on the platform at the station, and I hardly
knew whether my own carriage belonged to him or to me. However, he made
no claim as I stepped into it."

"Who was he?" asked Mrs. Forster. "Did not you find out?"

"No. No one could tell me, and I could not go and ask the man who he
was, merely for the reason that he resembled me so much. There, there,
little woman," as the baby gave a vigorous pull at his hair. "I've
had enough of mamma's proofs, and am satisfied that no other man than
Frank Forster would submit to such usage at these tiny hands. I rather
imagine this stranger came up to look at Beechgrove, which is to let,
as I heard him asking the railway porter in which direction it lay, and
where the agent was to be found."

A fortnight went by, and nothing more was seen of the stranger who
looked so like General Forster; nor after that evening did the General
or his wife think of him.

Not so Daisy. She thought often of him with a kind of half wish that
she might see him; why she scarcely knew herself, but she never spoke
of it. She was rather a shy, quiet child, keeping her ideas and wishes
pretty much to herself, unless they were drawn out by some one whom she
loved or trusted; and neither the General nor Mrs. Forster suspected
what was working in her mind.

Her idea, too, that the General looked so like her own papa, they
regarded only as a childish fancy, ready to see a likeness between
the two she most admired and loved in all the world. And they never
imagined how the child was dreaming and wondering over this unseen
stranger who had had such a passing interest for them.

Meanwhile, it became certain that Beechgrove, as the place was called,
was taken; for the placards advertising it to rent were taken down, and
the house was going through a thorough cleaning.

But the General and his wife, being people who never gossiped or
concerned themselves about their neighbors' affairs, did not trouble
themselves in the matter. And those who were curious and asked
questions received no satisfaction from old Dr. Harding, who had charge
of the property.

All Miss Collins' young scholars, however, thought themselves very much
concerned in the letting of Beechgrove, and with good reason. For a
large aviary belonged to the place, containing many rare and beautiful
birds, and the former owner, who was fond of children, often used to
invite the young people of Glenwood to see these birds, and to amuse
themselves in other ways about his grounds. But since Dr. Harding had
had the care of the place, not a child had been suffered to come within
sight or hearing of the aviary, which had a new charm for them since it
was a forbidden pleasure.

So the new occupants of Beechgrove, and the question as to whether
they were likely to recover their old privileges there or no, had been
a subject of great interest to our young friends, and they were very
anxious for information on the matter.

One morning when Daisy came to school, she found the rest of the
class grouped about Mattie Prime and Rosie Pierson, who lived beyond
Beechgrove, and had to pass it on their way to Miss Collins'.

"The new people have gone to Beechgrove," said Violet Swan, when Daisy
asked what they were talking about; "and Mattie and Rosie saw a little
girl there this morning. We are glad there is a child there, because
maybe having her will make the papa good to other children, and he will
let us go in and see the birds because of her."

"She's a very little thing," said Rosie. "She can't speak plain. Such a
crooked tongue."

"But she's very cunning," said Mattie. "We were going past the gate and
she called out to us, 'Itty dirls, itty dirls;' and when we stopped she
put her face through the rails to kiss us, and handed us some flowers
she had. She was real sweet."

"What is her name?" asked Daisy.

"We asked her, but we could not make out what she said. Mamy Modwit it
sounded like; but she did speak so crooked," said Mattie.

"Do you know," said Rosie, "I think she looked like Daisy. Don't you,
Mattie?"

"Why, so she does," said Mattie. "Isn't that funny? Only Daisy's eyes
always look sorry except when she is laughing or speaking, and that
little girl's were so full of mischief and laughing."

"How big was she?" asked Lola.

"Oh, about as large as your sister Bertie. Not near old enough to come
to school."

"I s'pose there are no other children but her," said Fanny Delisle.
"Willie saw the family come yesterday; and he said there were only the
lady and gentleman, and the little girl and servants. If there are no
children as old as us, maybe it won't come into their heads to let us
see the aviary again."

This short conversation put an end to the half hope, half wish, that
had been in Daisy's heart. Even supposing the stranger who looked so
like General Forster were the gentleman who had taken Beechgrove, he
could be nothing to her (not until now had she said even to herself
that she had hoped it might be so), for the family did not answer to
her own. She had papa and mamma, little brother Theodore, and a baby
sister, a very little baby; and only this child of three years old or
more seemed to belong to the new-comers; and she had no sister so old.

Daisy reasoned this all out for herself with a sad, disappointed little
heart, forgetting that time had not stood still with her own family any
more than it had with her, and that changes might have come to them as
well as to herself.

This was on Friday, and nothing more was seen or heard of the strangers
by Daisy or her playmates, till Sunday came. But then such a strange
and happy thing came to pass, and in such a wonderful way. "Just like a
book thing," Lily Ward afterwards said.

It was the loveliest of Sabbath days, and every thing seemed to feel it.

"What day is it, Bertie?" asked Mr. Swan, as his youngest daughter
stood on the piazza steps ready for church.

"Jesus' happy Sunday," answered the little one; "and, oh, didn't He
mate a nice one!"

Other people than Bertie thought so; a nice one indeed.

It was the softest, sweetest, warmest of May Sundays. A busy little
breeze, carrying with it the perfume of the apple-blossoms over which
it had passed, stole in at the open windows of the church, and wandered
around among aisles, pillars, and pews, now fluttering the leaves of
a book, now toying with a ribbon, now tossing a curl upon some sunny
head, now fanning some cheek flushed with a walk in the almost summer
heat. A robin, saucy birdie, swung himself lightly to and fro on the
branch of one of the fine old elms outside the church-door, and poured
forth his hymn of praise; while from far and near came the answering
notes of his mates; and mingling with his song were heard the voices of
the children in the Sunday school beyond, as they sang the closing hymn.

Then they came trooping in gently, and with soft footsteps, as became
the house of God (honoring His name and His word had taught them also
to honor the place where He was worshipped), and took their places
beside their parents and friends.

Watching them from one of the pews which ran by the side of the pulpit,
were a pair of roguish, dancing eyes, which Rosie Pierson and Mattie
Prime recognized at once. They were those of the little girl who had
peeped at them through the railing of the Beechgrove grounds. Now they
were peeping over the top of the pew-door as she stood at its foot,
her hands crossed upon it, her chin resting upon them. What a bright,
merry, laughing face it was, and how like Daisy's! General and Mrs.
Forster had noticed it from their seat, which commanded a full view of
that of the strangers.

Beside the little girl sat a gentleman, half turned from the
congregation, his face partly shaded by his hand; but there could be no
doubt that he was the man who was so like the General. Mrs. Forster saw
the likeness at once, even in the turn and shape of his head. Beyond
him was a lady in deep mourning, closely veiled.

"Frank must find out who they are," said Mrs. Forster to herself. "That
child is so like Daisy. Can it be--oh, can it be?" Then she tried to
collect her thoughts and bring them back to the service of Him whom she
had come to worship.

Daisy came in a little behind the rest of the infant class (she had
lingered for a word with her teacher), and took her seat. Almost
immediately her eye fell on the new-comers to Glenwood. Mrs. Forster
saw her start, flush all over, neck and face, and press her small hands
tightly together, as if trying to keep back some exclamation which rose
to her lips.

With a beating heart the child watched the strangers, striving in vain
to get a better view of the face of the gentleman, gazing from him to
the veiled lady, and then at the little girl.

The bell ceased tolling, the congregation were gathered, the hour of
service had come, and the clergyman rose in the pulpit.

But at that moment the lady drew aside her veil; and ere Dr. Parker had
opened his lips, a little voice rang through the still church.

"Mamma! Oh, my own mamma!"

How much was in those few words! What a tale they told! What a world of
longing, of love, of joy, they held!

The stranger lady--ah! no stranger was she to our Daisy--started to her
feet, stretched out her hands, then with a little cry sank fainting
into the arms of the gentleman who had also suddenly arisen.

She was carried out; General and Mrs. Forster following with the
excited, trembling Daisy; and so the father and mother found the
long-lost child.

Who could describe it? Who could find words for the joy, the wonder,
the gratitude of those concerned; who tell the sympathy which filled
the hearts of all in that congregation, which dimmed their eyes with
tears, and filled their hearts with adoration, as, before another word
of the morning service was begun, the beloved minister called on all
to render thanks for the great and signal mercy just shown to those
long-parted parents and their little one!

And now there is little more to tell. Only how Daisy's mamma, and
the little sister whom she remembered only as a tiny baby, had been
rescued from the sinking ship with some of the other passengers; how,
having been unable to trace their lost treasure, and believing that the
boat, with all whom it contained, had gone down in the deep waters,
the parents had gone abroad, where they had remained till a few months
before this time, and so had never seen the advertisements which might
have told them she was still living: all this was soon explained.

And then Daisy must tell her story, and Betty must come in to help her
out where memory failed and the past was a blank, because of that long,
wasting illness. And how Betty laughed and cried by turns, and would
hear of no praise or thanks for what she had done, declaring that "Miss
Daisy had done her and Jack far more good nor she resaved, taching them
to mind their tongues afore God Almighty."

And though General and Mrs. Forster must now give up, to her rightful
owners, the darling of whom they had grown so fond, yet they did not
have to part with her altogether; for she was so near to them that they
saw her every day; indeed, the two families became almost as one, and
Daisy felt as if she had two homes.

The little brother, whom Daisy remembered so well, had gone to a home
beyond the sky, but a few weeks before her father and mother came to
Glenwood.

And so the Daisy blossom, which had been parted from its parent stem
and cast by the wayside, where stranger hands had gathered and lovingly
tended it, was planted once more in the soil where it belonged, after
it had done the Master's work, and scattered the good seed which budded
for His glory; proving well, that those who "honor" the Lord He will
"delight to honor."


[Illustration]

    Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Daisy's Work - The Third Commandment" ***

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