"Bravo, Theresa! capital!" said Preston.

"Hamilton, can you act up to that?" said Mrs. Sandford.

"Wait till I get my robes on, ma'am. I can make believe a great deal easier when I am under the persuasion that it is not me—Hamilton Rush."

"I'd like to see Frederica do as well as that," said Alexander Fish, in a fit of brotherly concern.

"Let us try her—" said good-natured Mrs. Sandford. Mrs. Sandford certainly was good-natured, for she had all the dressing to do. She did it well, and very patiently.

"There," said Nora, when Ella had left the couch to go to her sister,—"that is what I like. Didn't she look beautiful, Daisy?"

"Her dress looked beautiful—" said Daisy.

"Well, of course; and that made her look beautiful. Daisy, I wish I could have a nice part. I would like to be the queen in that fainting picture."

"You are going to be in that picture."

"But, I mean, I would like to be the queen. She will have the best dress, won't she?"

"I suppose she will be the most dressed," said Daisy.

"I don't want to be one of the women—I want to be the queen. Hamilton Rush said I would be the best one for it, because she was a Jewess; and I am the only one that has got black eyes and hair."

"But her eyes will not be seen," said Daisy. "She is fainting. When people faint, they keep their eyes shut."

"Yes, but I am the only one that has got black hair. That will shew. Her hair ought to be black."

"Why will not other hair do just as well?" said Daisy.

"Why, because she was a Jewess."

"Do Jewesses always have black hair?"

"Of course they ought to have black hair," said Nora; "or Hamilton Rush would not have said that. And my hair is black."

Daisy was silent. She said nothing to this proposition. The children were both silenced for a little while the practising for "Marie Antoinette" was going on. The principal part in this was taken by Frederica, who was the beauty of the company. A few touches of Mrs. Sandford's skilful hands transformed her appearance wonderfully. She put on an old-fashioned straight gown, which hung in limp folds around her; and Mrs. Sandford arranged a white handkerchief over her breast, tying it in the very same careless loose knot represented in the picture; but her management of Frederica's hair was the best thing. Its soft fair luxuriance was, no one could tell how, made to assume the half dressed, half undressed air of the head in Delaroche's picture; and Frederica looked the part well.

"She should throw her head a little more back,"—whispered Hamilton Rush to the manager;—"her head or her shoulders. She is not quite indignant enough."

"That handkerchief in her hand is not right—" said Preston in a responding whisper. "You see to it—while I get into disguise."

"That handkerchief, Mrs. Sandford—" Hamilton, said softly.

"Yes. Frederica, your hand with the pocket-handkerchief,—it is not quite the thing."

"Why not?"

"You hold it like a New York lady."

"How should I hold it?"

"Like a French queen, whose Austrian fingers may hold anything any way." This was Hamilton's dictum.

"But how do I hold it?"

"You have picked it up in the middle, and shew all the flower work in the corners."

"You hold it too daintily, Frederica," said Theresa. "You must grasp it—grasp it loosely—but as the distinguished critic who has last spoken has observed."

Frederica dropped her handkerchief, and picked it up again exactly as she had it before.

"Try again—" said Mrs. Sandford. "Grasp it, as Theresa says. Never mind how you are taking it up."

"Must I throw it down again?"

"If you please."

"Take it up any way but in the middle," said Hamilton.

Down went the handkerchief on a chair, and then Frederica's fingers took it up, delicately, and with a little shake displayed as before what Hamilton called the flowers in the corners. It was the same thing. They all smiled.

"She can't hold a handkerchief any but the one way—I don't believe," said her brother Alexander.

"Isn't it right?" said Frederica.

"Perfect, I presume, for Madison Square or Fifth Avenue—but not exactly for a revolutionary tribunal," said Hamilton.

"What is the difference?"

"Ah, that is exactly what it is so hard to get at. Hello! Preston—is it Preston? Can't be better, Preston. Admirable! admirable!"

"Well, Preston, I do not know you!" said Mrs. Sandford.

Was it Preston? Daisy could hardly believe her ears. Her eyes certainly-told her another story. Was it Preston? in the guise and with the face of an extremely ugly old woman—vicious and malignant,—who taking post near the deposed queen, peered into her face with spiteful curiosity and exultation. Not a trace of likeness to Preston could Daisy see. She half rose up to look at him in her astonishment. But the voice soon declared that it was no other than her cousin.

"Come,"—said he, while they were all shouting,—"fall in. You Hamilton,—and Theresa,—come and take your positions."

Hamilton, with a glance at the picture, went behind Preston; and putting on a savage expression, thrust his clenched fist out threateningly towards the dignified figure of Frederica; while Theresa, stealing up into the group, put her hands upon a chair back to steady herself and bent towards the queen a look of mournful sympathy and reverence, that in the veritable scene and time represented would undoubtedly have cost the young lady her life. The performers were good; the picture was admirable. There was hardly anybody left to look when George Linwood and Alexander had taken post as the queen's guards; and to say truth they did not in their present state of undisguised individuality add much to the effect; but Mrs. Sandford declared the tableau was very fine, and could be made perfect.

The question of Cinderella came up then; and there was a good deal of talk. Finally it was decided that little Ella should be Cinderella, and Eloise the fairy godmother, and Jane Linwood and Nora the wicked sisters. A little practising was tried, to get them in order. Then Esther was called for. Daisy submitted.

Hamilton Rush was made magnificent and kingly by a superb velvet mantle and turbaned crown—the latter not perfect, but improvised for the occasion. For a sceptre he held out a long wooden ruler this time; but Preston promised a better one should be provided. The wooden ruler was certainly not quite in keeping with the king's state, or the queen's. Daisy was robed in a white satin dress of her mother's; much too long, of course, but that added to the rich effect; it lay in folds upon the floor. Her head was covered with a rose-coloured silken scarf wound artistically round it and the ends floating away; and upon this drapery diamonds were bound, that sparkled very regally over Daisy's forehead. But this was only the beginning. A zone of brilliants at her waist made the white satin dazzling and gathered its folds together; bracelets of every colour and of great beauty loaded Daisy's little arms; till she was, what Mrs. Sandford had said Esther must be, a spot of brilliancy. Her two maids, Nora and Jane Linwood, at this time were not robed in any other than their ordinary attire; perhaps that was one reason why their maintenance of their characters was not quite so perfect as that of the principal two. Hamilton stretched forward his wooden sceptre to the queen with benignant haste and dignity. Daisy, only too glad to shrink away, closed her eyes and lay back in the arms of her attendants in a manner that was really very satisfactory. But the attendants themselves were not in order.

"Jane, you must not laugh—" said her brother.

"I ain't laughing!"

"Yes, but you were."

"The queen is fainting, you know," said Mrs. Sandford. "You are one of her maids, and you are very much distressed about it."

"I am not distressed a bit. I don't care."

"Nora, do not forget that you are another attendant. Your business is with your mistress. You must be looking into her face, to see if she is really faint or if you can perceive signs of mending. You must look very anxious."

But Nora looked very cross; and as Jane persisted in giggling, the success of that picture was not quite excellent this time.

"Nora is the most like a Jewess—" Theresa remarked.

"O, Nora will make a very good maid of honour by and by," Mrs. Sandford replied.

But Nora had her own thoughts.

"Daisy, how shall I be dressed?" she inquired, when Daisy was disrobed of her magnificence and at leisure to talk.

"I don't know. O, in some nice way," said Daisy, getting into her corner of the couch again.

"Yes, but shall I—shall Jane and I have bracelets, and a girdle, and something on our heads too?"

"No, I suppose not. The queen of course is most dressed, Nora; you know she must be."

"I should like to have one dress," said Nora. "I am not anything at all. All the fun is in the dress. You are to have four dresses."

"Well, so are you to have four."

"No, I am not. What four?"

"This one, you know; and Red Riding-hood—and the Princes in the Tower—and Cinderella."

"I am to be only one of the ugly sisters in Cinderella—I don't believe aunt Frances will give her much of a dress; and I hate Red Riding-hood; and the Princes in the Tower are not to be dressed at all. They are covered up with the bed-clothes."

"Nora," said Daisy softly,—"would you like to be dressed as John Alden?"

"As what?" said Nora, in no very accommodating tone of voice.

"John Alden—that Puritan picture, you know, with the spinning wheel. I am to be Priscilla."

"A boy! Do you think I would be dressed like a boy?" cried Nora in dudgeon. And Daisy thought she would not, if the question were asked her; and had nothing more to answer.

So the practising went on, with good success on the whole. The little company met every other day; and dresses were making, and postures were studied, and costumes were considered and re-considered. Portia and Bassanio got to be perfect. So did Alfred in the neat-herd's cottage—very nearly. Nora, however she grumbled, blew her cakes energetically; Preston and Eloise made a capital old man and woman, she with a mutch cap and he with a bundle of sticks on his head; while Alexander Fish with his long hair and rather handsome face sat very well at the table hearing his rebuke for letting the cakes burn. Alexander was to have a six-foot bow in hand, which he and Hamilton were getting ready: and meanwhile practised with an umbrella. But the tableau was very good. Most of the others went very well. Still Daisy was greatly tried by John Alden's behaviour, and continued to look so severe in the picture as to draw out shouts of approving laughter from the company, who did not know that Alexander Fish was to be thanked for it. And Nora was difficult to train in Queen Esther. She wore obstinately a look of displeased concern for herself, and no concern at all for her fainting mistress. Which on the whole rather impaired the unity of the action, and the harmony of the general effect.

"How is your task proceeding?" Mrs. Randolph asked one evening when Mrs. Sandford was staying to tea.

"Excellently well. We shall make a good thing, I confidently expect."

"Hamilton is a good actor," said Preston.

"And Master Gary also," said Mrs. Sandford. "Your old French wife is perfect, Preston."

"Much obliged, ma'am."

"Not to me. My dressing has nothing to do with that. But Preston, what shall we do with Frederica's handkerchief? She can not hold it—right."

"Like a queen—" said Preston. "I do not know—unless we could scare her out of her propriety. A good fright would do it, I think. But then the expression would not suit. How is the Game, Mrs. Sandford?"

"Perfect! admirable! You and Hamilton do it excellently—and Daisy is a veritable angel."

"How does she like it all?" Mrs. Randolph inquired.

"Aunt Felicia, she is as much engaged as anybody."

"And plays as well," added Mrs. Sandford.

"She has found out to-day, aunt Felicia," Preston went on, speaking rather low, "that she ought to have a string of red stones round her head instead of white ones."

Mrs. Randolph smiled.

"She was quite right," said Mrs. Sandford. "It was a matter of colour, and she was quite right. She was dressed for Queen Esther, and I made her look at herself to take the effect; and she suggested, very modestly, that stones of some colour would do better than diamonds round her head. So I substituted some very magnificent rubies of yours, Mrs. Randolph; quite to Daisy's justification."

"Doesn't she make a magnificent little 'Fortitude,' though!" said Eloise.

"The angel will be the best," said Mrs. Sandford. "She looks so naturally troubled. But we have got a good band of workers. Theresa Stanfield is very clever."

"It will do Daisy a world of good," said Mrs. Gary.



CHAPTER XVI.

All this while Daisy's days were divided. Silks and jewels and pictures and practising, in one part; in the other part, the old cripple Molly Skelton, and her basket of bread and fruit, and her reading in the Bible. For Daisy attended as regularly to the one as to the other set of interests, and more frequently; for the practising party met only three times a week, but Daisy went to Molly every day.

Molly was not sick now. Daisy's good offices in the material line were confined to supplying her with nice bread and butter and fruit and milk, with many varieties beside. But in that day or two of rheumatic pains, when Molly had been waited upon by the dainty little handmaiden who came in spotless frocks and trim little black shoes to make her fire and prepare her tea, Daisy's tenderness and care had completely won Molly's heart. She was a real angel in that poor house; no vision of one. Molly welcomed her so, looked at her so, and would perhaps have obeyed her as readily. But Daisy offered no words that required obedience, except those she read out of the Book; and Molly listened to them as if it had been the voice of an angel. She was learning to read herself; really learning: making advances every day that shewed diligent interest; and the interest was fed by those words she daily listened to out of the same book. Daisy had got a large-print Testament for her at Crum Elbow; and a new life had begun for the cripple. The rose-bush and the geranium flourished brilliantly, for the frosts had not come yet; and they were a good setting forth of how things were going in the house.

One lovely October afternoon, when air and sky were a breath and vision of delight, after a morning spent in dressing and practising, Daisy went to Molly. She went directly after luncheon. She had given Molly her lesson; and then Daisy sat with a sober little face, her finger between the leaves of the Bible, before beginning her accustomed reading. Molly eyed her wistfully.

"About the crowns and the white dresses," she suggested.

"Shall I read about those?" said Daisy. And Molly nodded. And with her little face exceedingly grave and humble, Daisy read the seventh chapter of the Revelation, and then the twenty-first chapter, and the twenty-second; and then she sat with her finger between the leaves as before, looking out of the window.

"Will they all be sealed?" said Molly, breaking the silence.

"Yes."

"What is that?"

"I don't know exactly. It will be a mark of all the people that love Jesus."

"A mark in their foreheads?"

"Yes, it says so."

"What mark?"

"I don't know, Molly; it says, 'His name shall be in their foreheads.'" And Daisy's eyes became full of tears.

"How will that be?"

"I don't know, Molly; it don't tell. I suppose that everybody that looks at them will know in a minute that they belong to Jesus."

Daisy's hand went up and brushed across her eyes; and then did it again.

"Do they belong to him?" asked Molly.

"O yes! Here it is—don't you remember?—'they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'"

"So they are white, then?" said Molly.

"Yes. And his mark is on them."

"I wish," said the cripple slowly and thoughtfully,—"I wish 'twas on me. I do!"

I do not think Daisy could speak at this. She shut her book and got up and looked at Molly, who had put her head down on her folded arms; and then she opened Molly's Testament and pressed her arm to make her look. Still Daisy did not speak; she had laid her finger under some of the words she had been reading; but when Molly raised her head she remembered the sense of them could not be taken by the poor woman's eyes. So Daisy read them, looking with great tenderness in the cripple's face—

"'I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely.' That is what it says, Molly."

"Who says?"

"Why Jesus says it. He came and died to buy the life for us—and now he will give it to us, he says, if we want it."

"What life?" said Molly vaguely.

"Why that, Molly; that which you were wishing for. He will forgive us, and make us good, and set his mark upon us; and then we shall wear those robes that are made white in his blood, and be with him in heaven. And that is life."

"You and me?" said Molly.

"O yes! Molly—anybody. It says 'whosoever is athirst.'"

"Where's the words?" said Molly.

Daisy shewed her; and Molly made a deep mark in the paper under them with her nail; so deep as to signify that she meant to have them for present study or future reference or both. Then, as Molly seemed to have said her say, Daisy said no more and went away.

It was still not late in the afternoon; and Daisy drove on, past the Melbourne gates, and turned the corner into the road which led to Crum Elbow. The air was as clear as October could have it; and soft, neither warm nor cold; and the roads were perfect; and here and there a few yellow and red maple leaves, and in many places a brown stubble field, told that autumn was come. It was as pleasant a day for drive as could possibly be; and yet Daisy's face was more intent upon her pony's ears than upon any other visible thing. She drove on towards Crum Elbow, but before she reached it she turned another corner, and drew up before Juanita's house.

It was not the first visit she had made here since going home; though Daisy had in truth not come often nor stayed long. All the more glad were Juanita and she to see each other now. Daisy took off her flat and sat down on the old chintz couch, with a face of content. Yet it was grave content; not joyous at all. So Juanita's keen eyes saw, through all the talking which went on. Daisy and she had a great deal to say to each other; and among other things the story of Molly came in and was enlarged upon; though Daisy left most of her own doings to be guessed at. She did not tell them more than she could well help. However, talk went on a good while, and still when it paused Daisy's face looked thoughtful and careful. So Juanita saw.

"Is my love quite well?"

"O yes, Juanita. I am quite well. I think I am getting strong, a little."

Juanita's thanksgiving was earnest. Daisy looked very sober.

"Juanita, I have been wanting to talk to you."

Now they had been talking a good deal; but this, the black woman saw, was not what Daisy meant.

"What is it, my love?"

"I don't know, Juanita. I think I am puzzled."

The fine face of Mrs. Benoit looked gravely attentive, and a little anxiously watchful of Daisy's.

"The best way will be to tell you. Juanita, they are—I mean, we are—playing pictures at home."

"What is that, Miss Daisy?"

"Why, they take pictures—pictures in books, you know—and dress up people like the people in the pictures, and make them stand so or sit so, and look so, as the people in the pictures do; and so they make a picture of living people."

"Yes, Miss Daisy."

"They are playing pictures at home. I mean, we are. Mamma is going to give a great party next week; and the pictures are to be all made and shewn at the party. There are twelve pictures; and they will be part of the entertainment. There is to be a gauze stretched over the door of the library, and the pictures are to be seen behind the gauze."

"And does Miss Daisy like the play?" the black woman inquired, not lightly.

"Yes, Juanita—I like some things about it. It is very amusing. There are some things I do not like."

"Did Miss Daisy wish to talk to me about those things she not like?"

"I don't, know, Juanita—no, I think not. Not about those things. But I do not exactly know about myself."

"What Miss Daisy not know about herself?"

"I do not know exactly—whether it is right."

"Whether what be right, my love?"

Daisy was silent at first, and looked puzzled.

"Juanita—I mean—I don't know whether I am right."

"Will my love tell what she mean?"

"It is hard, Juanita. But—I don't think I am quite right. I want you to tell me what to do."

Daisy's little face looked perplexed and wise. And sorry.

"What troubles my love?"

"I do not know how it was, Juanita—I did not care at all about it at first; and then I began to care about it a little—and now—"

"What does my love care about?"

"About being dressed, Juanita; and wearing mamma's jewels, and looking like a picture."

"Will Miss Daisy tell Juanita better what she mean?"

"Why, you know, Juanita," said the child wistfully, "they dress up the people to look like the pictures; and they have put me in some very pretty pictures; and in one I am to be beautifully dressed to look like Queen Esther—with mamma's jewels all over me. And there is another little girl who would like to have that part,—and I do not want to give it to her."

Juanita sat silent, looking grave and anxious. Her lips moved, but she said nothing that could be heard.

"And Juanita," the child went on—"I think, somehow, I like to look better than other people,—and to have handsomer dresses than other people,—in the pictures, you know."

Still Juanita was silent.

"Is it right, Juanita?"

"Miss Daisy pardon me. Who Miss Daisy think be so pleased to see her in the beautiful dress in the picture?"

"Juanita—it was not that I meant. I was not thinking so much of that. Mamma would like it, I suppose, and papa;—but I like it myself."

Juanita was silent again.

"Is it right, Juanita?"

"Why do Miss Daisy think it not right?"

Daisy looked undecided and perplexed.

"Juanita—I wasn't quite sure."

"Miss Daisy like to play in these pictures?"

"Yes, Juanita—and I like—Juanita, I like it!"

"And another little girl, Miss Daisy say, like it too?"

"Yes, I think they all do. But there is a little girl that wants to take my part."

"And who Miss Daisy want to please?"

Daisy hesitated, and her eyes reddened; she sat a minute still; then looked up very wistfully.

"Juanita, I think I want to please myself."

"Jesus please not himself"—said the black woman.

Daisy made no answer to that. She bent over and hid her little head in Mrs. Benoit's lap. And tears undoubtedly came, though they were quiet tears. The black woman's hand went tenderly over the little round head.

"And he say to his lambs—'Follow me.'"

"Juanita"—Daisy spoke without raising her head—"I want to please him most."

"How Miss Daisy think she do that?"

Daisy's tears now, for some reason, came evidently, and abundantly. She wept more freely in Juanita's lap than she would have done before father or mother. The black woman let her alone, and there was silent counsel-taking between Daisy and her tears for some time.

"Speak to me, Juanita"—she said at last.

"What my love want me to say?"

"It has been all wrong, hasn't it, Juanita? O have I, Juanita?"

"What, my love?"

"I know I have," said Daisy. "I knew it was not right before."

There was yet again a silence; a tearful silence on one part. Then Daisy raised her head, looking very meek.

"Juanita, what ought I to do?"

"What my love said," the black woman replied very tenderly. "Please the Lord."

"Yes; but I mean, how shall I do that?"

"Jesus please not himself; and he say, 'Follow me.'"

"Juanita, I believe I began to want to please myself very soon after all this picture work and dressing began."

"Then it not please the Lord," said Juanita decidedly.

"I know," said Daisy; "and it has been growing worse and worse. But Juanita, I shall have to finish the play now—I cannot help it. How shall I keep good? Can I?"

"My love knows the Good Shepherd carry his lamb in his bosom, if she let him. He is called Jesus, for he save his people from their sins."

Daisy's face was very lowly; and very touching was the way she bent her little head and passed her hand across her eyes. It was the gesture of penitent gentleness.

"Tell me some more, Juanita."

"Let the Lord speak," said the black woman turning over her well used Bible. "See, Miss Daisy—'Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own—'"

"I was puffed up," said Daisy, "because I was to wear those beautiful things. I will let Nora wear them. I was seeking my own, all the time, Juanita. I didn't know it."

"See, Miss Daisy—'That women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broidered hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.'"

"Is there any harm in those pretty things, Juanita? They are so pretty!"

"I don't know, Miss Daisy; the Lord say he not pleased with them; and the Lord knows."

"I suppose," said Daisy——but what Daisy supposed was never told. It was lost in thought.

"My love see here what please the Lord—'the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.'"

Daisy lifted her little face and kissed the fine olive cheek of her friend.

"I know now, Juanita," she said with her accustomed placidness. "I didn't know what was the matter with me. I shall have to play in the pictures—I cannot help it now—but I will let Nora be Queen Esther."

It was quite late by this time and Daisy after a little more talk went home; a talk which filled the child's heart with comfort. Daisy went home quite herself again, and looked as happy and busy as a bee when she got there.

"Daisy! what late doings!" exclaimed her father. "Out all the afternoon and practising all the morning—Where have you been?"

"I have been visiting, papa."

"Pray whom?"

"Molly, papa—and Juanita," Daisy said, not very willingly, for Mrs. Randolph was within hearing.

"A happy selection!" said she. "Go and get ready for dinner, Daisy."

"Have you been all the afternoon at those two places, Daisy?" asked her father, within whose arms she stood.

"Yes, papa."

He let her go; and a significant look passed between him and his wife.

"A little too much of a good thing," said Mr. Randolph.

"It will be too much, soon," the lady answered.

Nevertheless Daisy for the present was safe, thanks to her friend Dr. Sandford; and she passed on up stairs with a spirit as light as a bird. And after she was dressed, till it was time for her to go in to the dinner-table, all that while a little figure was kneeling at the open window and a little round head was bowed upon the sill. And after that, there was no cloud upon Daisy's face at all.

In the drawing-room, when they were taking tea, Daisy carried her cup of milk and cake to a chair close by Preston.

"Well, Daisy, what now?"

"I want to talk to you about the pictures, Preston."

"We did finely to-day, Daisy! If only I could get the cramp out of Frederica's fingers."

"Cramp!" said Daisy.

"Yes. She picks up that handkerchief of hers as if her hand was a bird's claw. I can't get a blue jay or a canary out of my head when I see her. Did you ever see a bird scratch its eye with its claw, Daisy?"

"Yes."

"Well, that is what she puts me in mind of. That handkerchief kills Marie Antoinette, dead. And she won't take advice—or she can't. It is a pity you hadn't it to do; you would hold it right queenly. You do Esther capitally. I don't believe a Northern girl can manage that sort of thing."

Daisy sipped her milk and eat crumbs of cake for a minute without making any answer.

"Preston, I am going to let Nora be Queen Esther."

"What!" said Preston.

"I am going to let Nora be Queen Esther."

"Nora! Not if I know it," said Preston.

"Yes, but I am. I would like it better. And Nora would like to be Queen Esther, I know."

"I dare say she would! Like it! Of course. No, Daisy; Queen Esther is yours and nobody's else. What has put that into your head?"

"Preston, I think Nora would like it; and you know, they said she was most like a Jewess of all of us; I think it would be proper to give it to her."

"I shall not do it. We will be improper for once."

"But I am going to do it, Preston."

"Daisy, you have not liberty. I am the manager. What has come over you? You played Esther beautifully only this morning. What is the matter?"

"I have been thinking about it," said Daisy; "and I have concluded I would rather give it to Nora."

Preston was abundantly vexed, for he knew by the signs that Daisy had made up her mind; and he was beginning to know that his little cousin was exceedingly hard to move when once she was fully set on a thing. He debated within himself an appeal to authority; but on the whole dismissed that thought. It was best not to disgust Daisy with the whole affair; and he hoped coaxing might yet do the work. But Daisy was too quick for him.

"Nora," she said at the next meeting, "if you like, I will change with you in the fainting picture. You shall be the queen, and I will be one of the women."

"Shall I be the queen?" said Nora.

"Yes, if you like."

"But why don't you want to do it?"

"I would rather you would, if you like it."

"Well, I'll do it," said Nora; "but Daisy, shall I have all the dress you were going to wear?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Because, if I don't, I won't. I must have just exactly what you were going to wear."

"Why you will of course, I suppose," said Daisy, a good deal astonished.

"Every bit," said Nora. "Shall I have that same white satin gown?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Of course you will. It is only you and I that change; not the dress."

"And shall I have the ornaments too?"

"Just the same, I suppose; unless Mrs. Sandford thinks that something else will look better."

"I won't have anything else. I want that same splendid necklace for my girdle—shall I?"

"I suppose so, Nora."

"You say 'I suppose so' to everything. I want to know. Shall I have that same pink silk thing over my hair?"

"That scarf? yes."

"And the red necklace on it? and the bracelets? and the gold and diamonds round my neck? I won't be Esther if I don't have the dress."

"I suppose you will have the dress," said Daisy; "of course you will. But if you say you do not want to be Esther, they will make me do it."

A hint that closed Nora's mouth. She did not say she did not want to be Esther. Mrs. Sandford was astonished at the change of performers; but Daisy's resignation was so simply made and naturally, and Nora's acceptance was so manifestly glad, that nobody could very well offer any hindrance. The change was made; but Preston would not suffer Daisy to be one of the attendants. He left her out of the picture altogether and put Jane Linwood in Nora's vacated place. Daisy was content; and now the practising and the arrangements went on prospering.

There was a good deal of preparation to be made, besides what the mantua-maker could do. Mr. Stilton was called into the library for a great consultation; and then he went to work. The library was the place chosen for the tableaux; the spectators to be gathered into the drawing-room, and the pictures displayed just within the wide door of communication between the two rooms. On the library side of this door Mr. Stilton laid down a platform, slightly raised and covered with green baize cloth, and behind the platform a frame-work was raised and hung with green baize to serve as a proper background for the pictures. A flower stand was brought in from the greenhouse and placed at one side, out of sight from the drawing-room; for the purpose, as Preston informed Daisy, of holding the lights. All these details were under his management, and he managed, Daisy thought, very ably indeed. Meantime the dresses were got ready. Fortitude's helmet was constructed of pasteboard and gilt paper; and Nora said it looked just as if it were solid gold. The crown of Ahasuerus, and Alfred's six-foot bow were also made; and a beautiful old brown spinning wheel was brought from Mrs. Sandford's house for Priscilla. Priscilla's brown dress was put together, and her white vandyke starched. And the various mantles and robes of velvet and silk which were to be used, were in some way accommodated to the needs of the young wearers. All was done well, and Preston was satisfied; except with Daisy.

Not that Daisy did not enter into the amusement of what was going forward; for perhaps nobody took so much real share in it. Even Mr. Stilton's operations interested her. But she was not engrossed at all. She was not different from her usual self. All the glory of the tableaux had not dazzled her, so far as Preston could see. And daily, every morning, she stepped into that little pony chaise with a basket and drove off—Preston was at the pains to find out—to spend a couple of hours with Molly Skelton. Preston sighed with impatience. And then in the very act of dressing and practising for the pictures, Daisy was provokingly cool and disengaged. She did her part very well, but seemed just as much interested in other people's parts and as much pleased with other people's adornment. Queen Esther in particular was Daisy's care, since she had given up the character; and without putting herself forward she had once or twice made a suggestion to Mrs. Sandford, of something that she either thought would please Nora or that she felt called for by her own tastes; and in each case Mrs. Sandford declared the suggestion had been an improvement.

But with a pleasure much greater and keener, Daisy had seen the pot containing the 'Jewess' geranium taken up out of the ground, and set, with all the glory of its purple-red blossoms, in Molly's poor little room. There it stood, on a deal table, a spot of beauty and refinement, all alone to witness for the existence of such things on the earth. And heeded by Molly as well as by Daisy. Daisy knew that. And all the pleasure of all the tableaux put together could give nothing to Daisy equal to her joy when Molly first began to read. That day, when letters began really to be put together into words to Molly's comprehension, Daisy came home a proud child. Or rather, for pride is a bad word, she came home with a heart swelling with hope and exultation; hope and exultation that looked forward confidently to the glory to be revealed.



CHAPTER XVII.

The great day came, and the evening of the day; and June dressed Daisy for the party. This was a simple dressing, however, of a white cambrick frock; no finery, seeing that Daisy was to put on and off various things in the course of the evening. But Daisy felt a little afraid of herself. The perfected arrangements and preparations of the last few days had, she feared, got into her head a little; and when June had done and was sent away, Daisy kneeled down by her bedside and prayed a good while that God would help her not to please herself and keep her from caring about dress and appearance and people's flatteries. And then she got up and looked very wistfully at some words of the Lord Jesus which Juanita had shewed her first and which she found marked by Mr. Dinwiddie's pencil. "The Father hath not left me alone; for I do always those things that please him."

Daisy was beginning to learn, that to please God, is not always to seek one's own gratification or that of the world. She looked steadily at the words of that Friend in heaven whom she loved and wished to obey; and then it seemed to Daisy that she cared nothing at all about anything but pleasing him.

"Miss Daisy—" said June,—"Miss Nora is come."

Away went Daisy, with a bound, to the dressing-room; and carried Nora off, as soon as she was unwrapped from her mufflings, to see the preparations in the library.

"What is all that for?" said Nora.

"O, that is to shew the pictures nicely. They will look a great deal better than if all the room and the books could be seen behind them."

"Why?"

"I suppose they will look more like pictures. By and by all those lights on the stand will be lighted. And we shall dress in the library, you know,—nobody will be in it,—and in the room on the other side of the hall. All the things are brought down there."

"Daisy," said Nora looking at the imposing green baize screen, "aren't you afraid?"

"Are you?" said Daisy.

"Yes—I am afraid I shall not do something right, or laugh, or something."

"O, but you must not laugh. That would spoil the picture. And Mrs. Sandford and Preston will make everything else right. Come and see the crown for Ahasuerus!"

So they ran across the hall to the room of fancy dresses. Here Ella presently joined them with her sister, and indeed so many others of the performers that Preston ordered them all out. He was afraid of mischief, he said. They trooped back to the library.

"When are they going to begin?" said Nora.

"I don't know. O, by and by. I suppose we shall have tea and coffee first. People at a party must get through that."

To await this proceeding, and indeed to share in it, the little company adjourned to the drawing-room. It was filling fast. All the neighbourhood had been asked, and all the neighbourhood were very glad to come, and here they were, pouring in. Now the neighbourhood meant all the nice people within ten miles south and within ten miles north; and all that could be found short of some seven or eight miles east. There was one family that had even come from the other side of the river. And all these people made Melbourne House pretty full. Happily it was a very fine night.

Daisy was standing by the table, for the little folks had tea at a table, looking with a face of innocent pleasure at the scene and the gathering groups of people, when a hand laid gentle hold of her and she found herself drawn within the doctor's arm and brought up to his side. Her face brightened.

"What is going on, Daisy?"

"Preston has been getting up some tableaux, Dr. Sandford, to be done by the young people."

"Are you one of the young people?"

"They have got me in," said Daisy.

"Misled by your appearance? What are you going to play, Daisy?"

Daisy ran off to a table and brought him a little bill of the performances. The doctor ran his eye over it.

"I shall know what it means, I suppose, when I see the pictures. What is this 'Game of Life?'"

"It is Retsch's engraving," Daisy answered, as sedately as if she had been forty years old.

"Retsch! yes, I know him—but what does the thing mean?"

"It is supposed to be the devil playing with a young man—for his soul," Daisy said very gravely.

"Who plays the devil?"

"Preston does."

"And who is to be the angel?"

"I am to be the angel," said Daisy.

"Very judicious. How do you like this new play, Daisy?"

"It is very amusing. I like to see the pictures."

"Not to be in them?"

"I think not, Dr. Sandford."

"Daisy, what else are you doing, besides playing tableaux, all these days?"

"I drive about a good deal," said Daisy. Then looking up at her friend with an entirely new expression, a light shining in her eye and a subdued sweetness coming into her smile, she added—

"Molly is learning to read, Dr. Sandford."

"Molly!" said the doctor.

"Yes. You advised me to ask leave to go to see her, and I did, and I got it."

Daisy's words were a little undertone; the look that went with them the doctor never forgot as long as he lived. His questions about the festivities she had answered with a placid, pleased face; pleased that he should ask her; but a soft irradiation of joy had beamed upon the fact that the poor cripple was making a great step upwards in the scale of human life. The doctor had not forgotten his share in the permission Daisy had received, which he thought he saw she suspected. Unconsciously his arm closed upon the little figure it held and brought her nearer to him; but his questions were somehow stopped. And Daisy offered no more; she stood quite still, till a movement at the table seemed to call for her. She put her hand upon the doctor's arm, as a sign that it must hold her no longer, and sprang away.

And soon now all the young people went back again to the library. Mrs. Sandford came with them to serve in her arduous capacity of dresser. June attended to give her help.

"Now what are we going to do?" whispered Nora in breathless excitement. "What is to be the first picture? O Daisy, I wish you would get them to have my picture last of all."

"Why, Nora?"

"O because. I think it ought to come last. Aren't you afraid? Whew! lam."

"No, I don't think I am."

"But won't you want to laugh?"

"Why?" Daisy. "No, I do not think I shall want to laugh."

"I shall be too frightened to laugh," said Jane Linwood.

"I don't see, Daisy, how you will manage those queer wings of yours," Nora resumed.

"I have not got to manage them at all. I have only to keep still."

"I can't think how they will look," said Nora. "They don't seem to me much like wings. I think they will look very funny."

"Hush, children—run away; you are not wanted here. Go into the drawing-room—and I will ring this hand bell when I want you."

"What comes first, aunt Sandford?"

"Run away! you will see."

So the younger ones repaired to the drawing-room, for what seemed a weary time of waiting. Nora expressed her entire disapprobation of being shut out from all the fun of the dressing; she wanted to see that. She then declared that it would be impossible to shew all the twelve pictures that evening, if it took so long to get ready for one. However, the time was past at length; the signal was given; the lights in the drawing-room were put down, till the room was very shadowy indeed; and then, amid the breathless hush of expectation, the curtain that hung over the doorway of the library was drawn back.

The children thought it was fairy-land.

Frederica Fish sat there facing the company, quaintly dressed in antique costume; and before her knelt on one knee two grand-looking personages, very richly attired, presenting a gilt crown upon a satin cushion. Lady Jane Grey and the lords who came to offer her the kingdom The draperies were exceedingly well executed and did Mrs. Sandford great credit. They were the picture.

"Isn't she beau-tiful!" Nora exclaimed under her breath.

"Isn't it like a picture!" said Daisy.

"How funnily those boys kneel and twist themselves round!" said Jane. "Who are they?"

"Daisy, wouldn't you like to be dressed every day like that?" said Nora.

"I don't think it would be convenient," said Daisy. "I think a white frock is nicer."

"O but it makes people look so handsome! Frederica looks like—she is a real beauty! I should like to be dressed so. Daisy, don't you suppose queens and ladies, like those in the pictures, are always dressed so?"

"I suppose they put on nightgowns when they go to bed," said Ella Stanfield soberly. "They can't always be dressed so."

"O but, I mean, when they are up. And I dare say they wear beautiful nightgowns—Daisy, don't you think they do? I dare say they have splendid lace and ribands; and you can make a white dress very handsome, if you put plenty of lace and ribands."

"O it's gone!" exclaimed Jane and Ella. The curtain had fallen. The company clapped their hands and cheered.

"What's that for?" said Nora.

"That means that they like it, I suppose," said Daisy. "You will have to go now, Nora, I know. Little Red Riding-Hood comes next. Come—we'll all go."

"Horrid Little Red Riding-Hood!" said Nora. "I hate that picture!"

"Why do you hate it?"

"Because!—It is nothing but a red hood."

Mrs. Sandford's bell sounded.

"O Daisy!" said Nora as they went, "won't you get them to leave Esther to the last? They will do whatever you ask them. Do!"

"Why, Nora?"

"O because!—"

What Nora's "because" meant, Daisy did not know; that it had reference to some supposed advantage of place, was pretty certain. Daisy stood thinking about it while she saw Nora dressed, and then ran into the drawing-room to take the effect of the tableau. The curtain was withdrawn; Daisy was astonished; she had no idea that Nora could be so changed by a little arrangement of lights and dress. The picture was exceeding pretty. Nora's black hair and bright cheeks peeped out from under the shadowing red cardinal, which draped her arms also—Mrs. Sandford had mysteriously managed it. She had got over her hatred of the part, for she looked pleased and pleasant; and the little basket in her hand and the short petticoat and neat little feet completed a tidy Red Riding-Hood. The applause was loud. "Lovely!" the ladies said. "What a sweet little thing! how beautiful she looks!" Nora did not smile, for that would have hurt her picture; but she stood with swelling complacency and unchanging red cheeks as long as the company were pleased to look at her.

"Who is that, Daisy?" asked her father, near whom Daisy had stationed herself.

"It is Nora Dinwiddie, papa."

"She is a pretty little girl. When does your turn come?"

"I do not know, papa."

"Not know! Why I thought all this was your affair."

"O no, papa; it is Preston's affair."

Off ran Daisy however when the curtain fell, or rather when it was drawn, to see the getting ready of the next tableau. There was something of a tableau on hand already. June stood holding up a small featherbed, and two little figures in white nightgowns were flying round, looking and laughing at two exceedingly fierce, bearded, moustached, black-browed individuals, on whose heads Mrs. Sandford was setting some odd-looking hats.

"Who are those, Nora?" said Daisy to Little Red Riding-Hood.

"Daisy, did you like it? did I stand well?"

"Yes, I liked it very much; it was nice. Nora, who are those two?"

"Why one of 'em is Preston—I don't know who the other is. Daisy, did you ask about Esther?"

Could it be possible that Preston had so transformed himself? Daisy could hardly see that it was he. His fellow she did not recognize at all. It was big George Linwood.

"Now are the little princes ready?" said Preston. "Because we will finish up this business."

"O you won't let the featherbed come down on us?" cried Jane Linwood.

"If you don't be quiet and keep still, I will," said Preston. "Let only your eye wink or your mouth move to smile—and you are an unlucky prince! I am a man without mercy."

"And I am another," said George. "I say, old fellow, I suppose I'm all right for that French pikeman now, hey? After this smothering business is attended to."

"You think the trade is the thing, and the costume a matter of indifference?" said Preston. "In the matter of morals I dare say you are right;—in tableaux before spectators it's not exactly so. Here June—hand on your big pillow there—"

Mrs. Sandford was laughing at him, and in fact there was a good deal of hilarity and some romping before the actors in the tableau could be settled in their places.

"Don't keep us long," said Preston. "I never knew before what an uninteresting thing a featherbed is—when you are obliged to hold it in your arms. Everything in its place, I find. I used to have a good opinion of them."

Daisy ran back to the drawing-room, and was utterly struck with wonder at the picture over which all this fun had been held. It was beautiful, she thought. The two children lay so naturally asleep, one little bare foot peeping out from under the coverings; and the grim faces that scowled at them over the featherbed with those strange hats overshadowing, made such a contrast; and they were all so breathlessly still, and the lights and shadows were so good; Daisy was disposed to give her verdict that there never was a play like this play. The "Princes in the Tower" was greatly applauded.

"Have you asked about my picture?" said Nora, who stood beside Daisy.

"No, I have not had a chance."

"Do, Daisy! I want that to be the last."

Daisy thought she was unreasonable. Why should Nora have the best place, if it was the best. She was not pleased with her.

The next picture was Marie Antoinette; and that drew down the house. Frederica Fish had nothing to do but to stand as she was put, and Mrs. Sandford had seen to it that she stood right; another person might have done more in the picture, but that was all that could be got from Frederica. Her face was coldly impassive; she could come no nearer to the expression of the indignant queen. But Preston's old woman, and Theresa's pretty young French girl; one looking as he had said, with eyes of coarse fury, the other all melting with tenderness and reverent sympathy; they were so excellent that the company were delighted. Frederica's handkerchief, it is true, hung daintily in her fingers, shewing all the four embroidered corners; Mrs. Sandford had not seen it till it was just too late; and Preston declared afterwards the "fury" in his face was real and not feigned as he glared at her. But the company overlooked the handkerchief in favour of the other parts of the picture; and its success was perfect.

"Alfred in the neat-herd's cottage" followed next, and would have been as good; only that Nora, whose business it was to blow her cheeks into a full moon condition over the burnt cakes, would not keep her gravity; but the full cheeks gave way every now and then in a broad grin which quite destroyed the effect. Preston could not see this, but Daisy took her friend to task after it was over. Nora declared she could not help it.

"You don't know how it felt, Daisy, to keep my cheeks puffed out in that way. I couldn't do it; and whenever I let them go, then I couldn't help laughing. O, Daisy! is my picture to be the last?"

"I will see, as soon as I can, Nora." Daisy said gravely. It was her own turn now, and while Mrs. Sandford was dressing her she had no very good chance to speak of Esther. How wonderfully Mrs. Sandford arranged the folds of one or two long scarfs, to imitate Sir Joshua Reynolds' draperies. Preston declared it was beautiful, and so did Hamilton Rush; and when the little helmet with its plumes was set on Daisy's head, Mrs. Sandford smiled and Preston clapped his hands. They had still a little trouble to get Dolce into position. Dolce was to enact the lion, emblem of courage and strength, lying at Fortitude's feet. He was a sensible dog, but knowing nothing about playing pictures, naturally, did not immediately understand why it should be required of him to lie down there, on that platform of green baize, with his nose on his paws. However, more sensible than some animals of higher order are apt to be, he submitted patiently to the duty of obedience where he did not understand; and laid down accordingly his shaggy length at Daisy's feet.

The curtain was drawn aside, and the company shouted with delight. No picture had been so good yet as this one. The little grave figure, the helmet with its nodding plumes in mock stateliness; the attitude, one finger just resting on the pedestal of the broken column, (an ottoman did duty for it) as if to shew that Fortitude stood alone, and the shaggy St. Bernard at her feet, all made in truth an extremely pretty spectacle. You could see the faintest tinge of a smile of pleasure on the lips of both Mr. and Mrs. Randolph; they were silent, but all the rest of the people cheered and openly declared their delight. Daisy stood like a rock. Her mouth never gave way; not even when Dolce, conceiving that all this cheering called upon him to do something, rose up and looking right into Daisy's face wagged his tail in the blandest manner of congratulation. Daisy did not wince; and an energetic "Down, Dolce, down!"—brought the St. Bernard to his position again, in the very meekness of strength; and then the people clapped for Daisy and the dog together. At last the curtain fell.



"Well, that will do," said Mrs. Sandford.

"Dolce—you rascal!" said Preston, as the great creature was now wagging his tail in honour of his master,—"how came you to forget your business in that style, sir?"

"I do not think it really hindered the effect at all, Preston," said Mrs. Sandford. "Daisy kept her countenance so well."

"Yes,—if Fortitude had smiled!—" said Theresa, "Mrs. Sandford, is it out of character for Fortitude to smile?"

"It would be out of character for Portia, just at this crisis—so take care of her."

"What made them make such a great noise, Daisy?" said Nora while Daisy was getting undressed.

"I suppose they liked the picture," said Daisy.

"But they made a great deal more noise than they did for anybody else," said Nora.

"I suppose they liked the picture better than they liked any of the others," said Ella Stanfield. "I know they did, for I was in the other room. Come, let's go see this picture!"

"Not you, Daisy," said Mrs. Sandford as the children were running off—"I want you. Priscilla comes next."

So Daisy had to stay and be dressed for Priscilla. She missed Portia and Bassanio. It was not much missed, for her little heart began to be beating with excitement; and she wished very much that Priscilla might be as much liked as Fortitude. The dressing was an easy matter, for the costume had been prepared for her and a gown and vandyke made on purpose. Would Alexander dare to wink this time, she wondered? And then she remembered, to her great joy, that he could not; because his face would be in full view of the people behind the scenes in the library. The little brown spinning-wheel was brought on the platform; a heap of flax at which Priscilla is supposed to have been working, was piled together in front of it; and she and Alexander took their places. The curtain was drawn aside, and a cry of pleasure from the company testified to the picturesque prettiness of the representation. It was according to the fact, that Priscilla should be looking in John Alden's face; it was just at the moment when she is supposed to be rebuking him for bringing to her his friend's suit and petition. Thinking herself safe, and wishing to have the picture as good as possible, Daisy had ventured to direct her eyes upon the face of Alexander Fish, who personified the Puritan suitor. To her horror, Alexander, wholly untouched by the poetry of the occasion and unawed by its hazards, dared to execute a succession of most barefaced and disagreeable winks right at Priscilla's eyes. Poor Daisy could not stand this. Forgetting her character and the picture and everything, her eyes went down; her eyelids drooped over them; and the expression of grave displeasure would have done for a yet more dissatisfied mood of mind than Priscilla is supposed to have known at the time. The company could not stand this, either; and there burst out a hearty chorus of laughter and cheers together, which greatly mortified Daisy. The curtain was drawn, and she had to face the laughing comments of the people in the library. They were unmerciful, she thought. Daisy grew very pink in the face.

Cinderella was the next picture, in which she had also to play. Dresses were changed in haste; but meanwhile Daisy began to think about herself. Was she all right? Mortified at the breaking of her picture; angry at Alexander; eager to get back praise enough to make amends for this loss;—whom was little Daisy trying to please? Where was the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit now? was it on?

They had after all given her place in the Cinderella tableau; she was one of the two wicked sisters; and she looked dissatisfied enough for the character. She wanted to get away to be alone for two minutes; but she had this part to fill first. It is very hard to play when one's heart is heavy. Daisy could not go on so. She could not bear it. Without waiting till June could undress her, she slipped away, the moment the curtain was drawn, and ran across the hall to the dressing room. People were coming and going everywhere; and Daisy went out upon the piazza. There, in a dark spot, she kneeled down and prayed; that this terrible spirit of pleasing herself might be put away from her. She had but a minute; she knew she must be back again immediately; but she knew too it takes but a minute for ever so little a prayer to go all the way to heaven; and the answer does not take any longer to come, if it pleases God. Daisy was very much in earnest, and quite well knew all that. She went back to the library feeling humbled and ashamed, but quiet. The library was all in commotion.

Nora was begging that Esther might be put off till the last. Mrs. Sandford and Preston objected. They chose that it should come next.

"Here is Priscilla," said Hamilton Rush,—"I beg pardon! it is Cinderella's wicked sister—I don't know what her name was. Let us have your vote, my angel; I will address you in your prospective character; will you put on your wings at once? Or shall we get done with the terrestrial first? What do you say?—I hope you are going to make Miss Stanfield the queen, Mrs. Sandford; she has done one part so well that I should like to see her in another."

"Why, you are going to be Ahasuerus yourself!" said the lady.

"Am I?" said Hamilton; who it must be noticed had not met for the practisings as often as the other people, being held not to need them. "Then I must respectfully be allowed to choose my own queen. I vote for Miss Theresa."

"It is a capital idea," said Preston.

"I think so too," said Mrs. Sandford. "Theresa, my dear, I wonder we did not think before of something so much to our advantage; but these children seemed to have got the picture into their own hands. You will do it far better. Come! let me robe you."

"I would rather be Vashti," murmured Theresa. "I don't like submissive characters. Mrs. Sandford, Vashti is far more in my line. Go off, boys, and get ready! What a pity we didn't think of having Vashti, Mrs. Sandford."

However, Theresa made no objection to be dressed for Esther.

"Who will be your supporters? Ella is too short. Jane and Nora?—Where is Nora!"

Nora was in the furthest corner of the room, seated in gloom.

"Nora!—"

"I am not going to play any more—" said Nora.

"You must come and be one of the queen's women—I want you for that."

"I am not going to play—" repeated Nora; but nobody heard except Daisy. "I am Esther myself! nobody else has any right to be it. I have practised it, and I know how to do it; and I am Esther myself. Nobody else has any right to be Esther!"

Daisy stood by in dismay. She did not know what comfort to bring to this distress.

"I won't play at all!" said Nora. "If I can't be Esther I won't be anything. You have all the good things, Daisy! you have all the prettiest pictures; and I might have had just this one. Just Esther. I just wanted to be Esther! It's mean."

"Why you've been plenty of things I think," said Jane Linwood, coming near this corner of gloom.

"I haven't! I have been that hateful prince in the tower and Cinderella's ugly sister—only hateful things."

"But you were Little Red Riding-Hood."

"Red Riding-Hood!" exclaimed Nora in unspeakable disdain. "Red Riding-Hood was nothing at all but a red cloak! and Daisy wore feathers, and had the dog—"

And the vision of Queen Esther's jewels and satin gown and mantle here overcame Nora's dignity if not her wrath: she began to cry.

"But won't you come and be one of the queen's maids? they will be very nicely dressed too," Daisy ventured gently.

"No!—I won't be anybody's maid, I tell you," sobbed the disconsolate child.

"Bring her along, Daisy," Mrs. Sandford called from the other side of the room.—"I am almost ready for her."

Daisy made another vain effort to bring Nora to reason, and then went sorrowfully to Mrs. Sandford. She thought tableaux were on the whole a somewhat troublesome amusement.

"Will I do, Mrs. Sandford?" she said. "Nora does not want to play."

"In dudgeon, hey?" said the lady. "I expected as much. Well Daisy—I will take you. I might perch you up on a foot-cushion to give you a little more altitude. However—I don't know but it will do. Theresa will be letting down her own height."

"I think I am letting myself down altogether, Mrs. Sandford, in allowing Ahasuerus to pick me out in that lordly style. But never mind—I shan't touch his sceptre any way. Boys, boys!—are you ready?"

"Splendid, Theresa!" said Preston as he came in. "Splendid! You are the very thing."

"I am diamonds and satin, you mean. I thank you. I know that is what I am at present."

"You look the character," said Hamilton.

Theresa made him a mock little courtesy. It was admirably done. It was the slightest gesture of supercilious disdain—excellent pantomime. The boys laughed and shouted, for Theresa's satin and diamonds gave effect to her acting, and she was a good actor.

This picture had been delayed so long, that at last hearing the shout of applause behind the scenes, the audience began to call for their share. In haste, but not the less effectively, Theresa and the rest threw themselves into attitude and the curtain was pulled aside. Daisy wished she could have been in the drawing-room, to see the picture; she knew it must be beautiful; but she was supporting one jewelled arm of Queen Esther and obliged by her duty to look only at the Queen's face. Daisy thought even that was a good deal to look at, it was so magnificently surrounded with decoration: but at the same time she was troubled about Nora and sorry for her own foolishness, so that her own face was abundantly in character for the grave concern that sat upon it. This picture met with, great favour. The people in the library were in much glee after it was over; all but Daisy and Nora.

"It is all spoiled!" said the latter. "The evening has been hateful. I wish I hadn't come."

"O Nora! don't say that," Daisy urged. "The pictures are almost over now; and then we shall have supper."

"I don't want supper! I only wanted to be Queen Esther and you said I might. It was the prettiest picture of the whole lot."

"But I couldn't help it, Nora."

"I could have done it just as well as Theresa! She didn't look handsome a bit."

"O Nora, I think she did—for a picture."

"She didn't a bit; the things she had on looked handsome."

Daisy was called away. Her last dressing was to be done now, and the one of which Daisy was most doubtful. She was to stand for the angel in the "Game of Life." Other people had no doubt about it. Mrs. Sandford was sure that the angel's wings would make a good representation, which Daisy was slow to believe; near by, they looked so very like gauze and pasteboard! They were arranged, at any rate, to appear as if they grew out of her shoulders; she was arrayed in flowing white draperies over her own little cambrick frock; and then she was ready. Hamilton came in. He was to be the young man in the picture. Daisy liked his appearance well. But when Preston followed him, she felt unspeakably shocked. Preston was well got up, in one respect; he looked frightful. He wore a black mask, ugly but not grotesque; and his whole figure was more like the devil in the picture than Daisy had imagined it could be. She did not like the whole business at all. There was no getting out of it now; the picture must be given; so the performers were placed.

Hamilton and Preston sat on two sides of a chess-board, and behind them the little angel stood watching the game. Mrs. Sandford was right. By a skilful placing and shielding of the lamps, the lights were thrown broadly where they ought to be, on faces and draperies, leaving the gauze wings of the angel in such obscurity that they just shewed as it was desired they should. The effect was extremely good, and even artistic. The little angel herself was not in full light; it was through a shade of gloom that her grave face of concern looked down upon the game on the chess-board. Truly Daisy looked concerned and grave. She thought she did not like to play such things as this. One of the figures below her was so very wicked and devilish in its look; and Hamilton leaned over the pieces on the board with so well-given an expression of doubt and perplexity,—his adversary's watch was so intent,—and the meaning of the whole was so sorrowfully deep; that Daisy gazed unconsciously most like a guardian angel who might see with sorrow the evil one getting the better over a soul of his care. For it was real to Daisy. She knew that the devil does in truth try to bewitch and wile people out of doing right into doing wrong. She knew that he tries to get the mastery of them; that he rejoices every time to sees them make a "false move;" that he is a great cunning enemy, all the worse because we cannot see him, striving to draw people to their ruin; and she thought that it was far too serious and dreadful a thing to be made a play of. She wondered if guardian angels did really watch over poor tempted souls and try to help them. And all this brought upon Daisy's face a shade of awe, and sorrow, and fear, which was strangely in keeping with her character as an angel, and very singular in its effect on the picture. The expressions of pleasure and admiration which had burst from the company in the drawing-room at the first sight of it, gradually stilled and ceased; and it was amid a profound and curious silence and hush that the curtain was at length drawn upon the picture. There were some people among the spectators not altogether satisfied in their minds.

"How remarkable!" was the first word that came from anybody's lips in the darkened drawing-room.

"Very remarkable!" somebody else said. "Did you ever see such acting?"

"It has all been good," said a gentleman, Mr. Sandford; "but this was remarkable."

"Thanks, I suppose you know to whose management," said the soft voice of the lady of the house.

"Management is a good thing," said the gentleman; "but there was more than management here, Mrs. Randolph. It was uncommon, upon my word! I suppose my wife came in for the wings, but where did the face come from?"

"Daisy," said Mr. Randolph as he found his little daughter by his side again,—"are you here?"

"Yes, papa."

Her father put his arm round her, as if to assure himself there were no wings in the case.

"How do you like playing pictures?"

"I think I do not like them very much—" Daisy said sedately, nestling up to her father's side.

"Not? How is that? Your performance has been much approved."

Daisy said nothing. Mr. Randolph thought he felt a slight tremor in the little frame.

"Do you understand the allegory of this last tableau, Daisy?" Dr. Sandford asked.

"I do not know what an allegory is, Dr. Sandford."

"What is the meaning of the representation, then, as you think of it?"

"This last picture?"

"Yes."

"It is a trial of skill, Dr. Sandford."

The room was still darkened, and the glance of intelligence and amusement that passed between her friend and her father, their own eyes could scarcely catch. Daisy did not see it. But she had spoken diplomatically. She did not want to come any nearer the subject of the picture in talking with Dr. Sandford. His mind was different, and he went on.

"What is the trial of skill about, Daisy?"

The child hesitated, and then said, speaking low and most unchildlike—

"It is about a human soul."

"And what do you understand are the powers at work—or at play?"

"It is not play," said Daisy.

"Answer Dr. Sandford, Daisy," said her father.

"Papa," said the child, "it isn't play. The devil tries to make people do wrong—and if they try to do right, then there is a—"

"A what?"

"I don't know—a fight, papa."

Mr. Randolph again felt a tremor, a nervous trembling, pass over Daisy.

"You do not suppose, my darling," he said softly, "that such a fight goes on with anything like this horrible figure that your cousin Preston has made himself?"

"I do not suppose he looks like that, papa."

"I do not think there is such a personage at all, Daisy. I am sure you need not trouble your little head with thinking about it."

Daisy made no answer.

"There is a struggle always going on, no doubt, between good and evil; but we cannot paint good and evil without imagining shapes for them."

"But papa,—" said Daisy, and stopped. It was no place or time for talking about the matter, though her father spoke low. She did not want even Dr. Sandford to hear.

"What is it, Daisy?"

"Yes," said the doctor, "I should like to know what the argument is."

"Papa," said Daisy, awesomely,—"there is a place prepared for the devil and his angels."

Mr. Randolph was silent now. But he felt again that Daisy was nervously excited, by the quiver that passed over her little frame.

"So you think, Daisy," said the doctor leaning towards her,—"that the white and the black spirits have a fight over the people of this world?"

Daisy hesitated, struggled, quivered, with the feeling and the excitement which were upon her, tried for self-command and words to answer. Mr. Randolph saw it all and did not hurry her, though she hesitated a good deal.

"You think they have a quarrel for us?" repeated the doctor.

"I don't know, Dr. Sandford—" Daisy answered in a strangely tender and sober voice. It was strange to her two hearers.

"But you believe in the white spirits, I suppose, as well as in the other branch of the connection?"

"Papa," said Daisy, her feeling breaking a little through her composure so much as to bring a sort of cry into her voice—"there is joy among the angels of heaven whenever anybody grows good!—"

She had turned to her father as she spoke and threw her arms round his neck, hiding her face, with a clinging action that told somewhat of that which was at work in her mind. Mr. Randolph perhaps guessed at it. He said nothing; he held her close to his breast; and the curtain drew at that moment for the last tableau. Daisy did not see it, and Mr. Randolph did not think of it; though people said it was very good, it was only the head and shoulders of Theresa Stanfield as an old country schoolmistress, seen behind a picture frame, with her uplifted finger and a bundle of rods. Theresa was so transformed that nobody would have known her; and while the company laughed and applauded, Daisy came back to her usual self; and slid out of her father's arms when the show was over, all ready for supper and Nora Dinwiddie.

There was a grand supper, and everybody was full of pleasure and complimentary speeches and discussion and praise of the tableaux. That was among the elder portion of the company. The four or five children were not disposed to such absolute harmony. Grapes and ices and numberless other good things were well enjoyed, no doubt; but amidst them all a spirit of criticism was rife.

"Daisy, your wings didn't look a bit like real wings—" said Jane Linwood.

"No," echoed Nora, "I guess they didn't. They were like—let me see what they were like! They were like the wings of a windmill."

"No, they weren't!" said Ella. "I was in the drawing-room—and they didn't look like a windmill a bit. They looked queer, but pretty."

"Queer, but pretty!" repeated Nora.

"Yes, they did," said Ella. "And you laughed when you were Red Riding-hood, Nora Dinwiddie."

"I didn't laugh a bit!"

"It is no matter if you did laugh, Nora," said Daisy;—"you got grave again, and the picture was very nice."

"I didn't laugh!" said Nora; "and if I did, everybody else did. I don't think the pictures I saw were at all like pictures—they were just like a parcel of people dressed up."

Some gay paper mottoes made a diversion and stopped the little mouths for a time; and then the people went away.

"Well Daisy," said Mrs. Gary,—"how do you like this new entertainment?"

"The pictures? I think they were very pretty, aunt Gary."

"How happened it that somebody else wore my diamonds?" said her mother,—"and not you. I thought you were to be dressed for Queen Esther?"

"Yes, mamma, so I was at first; and then it was thought best—"

"Not by me," said Preston. "It was no doing of mine. Daisy was to have been Esther, and she herself declared off—backed out of it, and left me to do as best I could."

"What was that for, Daisy?" said Mrs. Gary. "You would have made an excellent Esther."

"What was that for, Daisy?" said Mrs. Randolph. "Did you not like to be Esther?"

"Yes, mamma—I liked it at one time."

"And why not at another time?"

"I found out that somebody else would like it too, mamma; and I thought——"

Mrs. Randolph broke out with a contemptuous expression of displeasure.

"You thought you would put yourself in a corner! You were not manager, Daisy; and you must remember something is due to the one that is. You have no right to please yourself."

"Come here, Daisy," said her father, "and bid me good night. I dare say you were trying to please somebody else. Tell mamma she must remember the old fable, and excuse you."

"What fable, Mr. Randolph?" the lady inquired, as Daisy left the room.

"The one in which the old Grecian told the difficulty of pleasing more people than one or two at once."

"Daisy is ruined!" said Mrs. Randolph.

"I do not see how it appears."

"She has not entered into this thing at all as we hoped she would—not at all as a child should."

"She looked a hundred years old, in the Game of Life," said Mrs. Gary. "I never saw such a representation in my life. You would have said she was a real guardian angel of somebody, who was playing his game not to please her."

"I am glad it is over!" said Mrs. Randolph. "I am tired of it all." And she walked off. So did Mr. Randolph, but as he went he was thinking of Daisy's voice and her words—"There is joy among the angels of heaven whenever anybody grows good."



CHAPTER XIX.

It was growing late in the fall now. Mrs. Randolph began to talk of moving to the city for the winter. Mr. Randolph more than half hinted that he would like as well to stay where he was. But his wife said that for Daisy's sake they must quit Melbourne, and try what new scenes, and lessons, and dancing school would do for her. "Not improve the colour in her cheeks, I am afraid," said Mr. Randolph; but however he did not oppose, and Mrs. Randolph made her arrangements.

It was yet but a day or two after the tableaux, when something happened to disturb her plans. Mr. Randolph was out riding with her, one fine October morning, when his horse became unruly in consequence of a stone hitting him; a chance stone thrown from a careless hand. The animal was restive, took the stone very much in dudgeon, ran, and carrying his rider under a tree, Mr. Randolph's forehead was struck by a low-lying limb and he was thrown off. The blow was severe; he was stunned; and had not yet recovered his senses when they brought him back to Melbourne. Mrs. Randolph was in a state almost as much beyond self-management. Daisy was out of the house. Mrs. Gary had left Melbourne; and till the doctor arrived Mrs. Randolph was nearly distracted.

He came; and though his fine face took no gloom upon it and his blue eye was as usual impenetrable, the eyes that anxiously watched him were not satisfied. Dr. Sandford said nothing; and Mrs. Randolph had self-control sufficient not to question him, while he made his examinations and applied his remedies. But the remedies, though severe, were a good while in bringing back any token of consciousness. It came at last, faintly. The doctor summoned Mrs. Randolph out of the room then and ordered that his patient should be kept in the most absolute and profound quiet. No disturbance or excitement must be permitted to come near him.

"How long, doctor?"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Randolph?—"

"How long will it be before he is better?"

"I cannot say that. Any excitement or disturbance would much delay it. Let him hear nothing and see nothing—except you, and some attendant that he is accustomed to."

"O doctor, can't you stay till he is better?"

"I will return again very soon, Mrs. Randolph. There is nothing to be done at present for which I am needed."

"But you will come back as soon as you can?"

"Certainly!"

"And O, Dr. Sandford, cannot you take Daisy away?"

"Where is she?"

"I don't know—she is not come home. Do take her away!"

The doctor went thoughtfully down stairs, and checking his first movement to go out of the front door, turned to the library. Nobody was there; but he heard voices, and passed out upon the piazza. Daisy's pony chaise stood at the foot of the steps; she herself had just alighted. Preston was there too, and it was his voice the doctor had first heard, in anxious entreaty.

"Come, Daisy!—it's capital down at the river; and I want to shew you something."

"I think I am tired now, Preston. I'll go another time," said Daisy.

"Daisy, I want you now. Come! come!—I want you to go now, this minute."

"But I do not feel like a walk, Preston. I can't go till I have had my dinner."

Preston looked imploringly at the doctor, towards whom Daisy was now mounting the steps. It is safe to say that the doctor would willingly have been spared his present task.

"Where have you been now, Daisy?" he said.

Daisy's face brightened into its usual smile at sight of him. "I have been to Crum Elbow, Dr. Sandford."

"Suppose you go a little further and have luncheon with Mrs. Sandford and me? It will not take us long to get to it."

"Does mamma say so, Dr. Sandford?"

"Yes."

"Then I will be ready in a moment."

"Where are you going?" said her friend stopping her.

"Only up stairs for a minute. I will be ready in two minutes, Dr. Sandford."

"Stop," said the doctor, still detaining her. "I would rather not have you go up stairs. Your father is not quite well, and I want him kept quiet."

What a shadow came over Daisy's sunshine.

"Papa not well! What is the matter?"

"He does not feel quite like himself, and I wish him left in perfect repose."

"What is the matter with him, Dr. Sandford?"

Daisy's words were quiet, but the doctor saw the gathering woe on her cheek; the roused suspicion. This would not do to go on.

"He has had a little accident, Daisy; nothing that you need distress yourself about; but I wish him to be quite quiet for a little."

Daisy said nothing now, but the speech of her silent face was so eloquent that the doctor found it expedient to go on.

"He was riding this morning; his horse took him under the low bough of a tree, and his head got a severe blow. That is all the matter."

"Was papa thrown?" said Daisy under her breath.

"I believe he was. Any horseman might be unseated by such a thing."

Daisy again was mute, and again the doctor found himself obliged to answer the agony of her eyes.

"I do not think he is in much, if any, pain, Daisy; but I want him to be still for a while. I think that is good for him; and it would not be good that you should disturb him. Your mother is there, and that is enough."

Daisy stood quite still for a few minutes. Then making an effort to withdraw herself from the doctor's arm she said,

"I will not go into the room—I will not make any noise."

"Stop! Daisy, you must not go up stairs. Not this morning."

She stood still again, grew white and trembled.

"As soon as I think it will do him good to see you, I will let you into his room. Now, shall we send June up for anything you want?"

"I think, Dr. Sandford," said Daisy struggling for steadiness, "I will not go away from home."

Her words were inexpressibly tender and sorrowful. The doctor was unrelenting.

"Your mother desired it."

"Did mamma——?"

"Yes; she wished me to carry you home with me. Come, Daisy! It is hard, but it is less hard after all than it would be for you to wander about here; and much better."

Daisy in her extremity sunk her head on the doctor's shoulder, and so remained, motionless, for more minutes than he had to spare. Yet he was still too, and waited. Then he spoke to her again.

"I will go," said Daisy.

"You wanted something first?"

"I did not want anything but to change my gloves. It is no matter."

Very glad to have gained his point, the doctor went off with his charge; drove her very fast to his own home, and there left her in Mrs. Sandford's care; while he drove off furiously again to see another patient before he returned to Melbourne.

It was a long day after that to Daisy; and so it was to Mrs. Sandford. Nora Dinwiddie was no longer with her; there was nobody to be a distraction or a pleasure to the grave little child who went about with such a weird stillness or sat motionless with such unchildlike quiet. Mrs. Sandford did not know what to do; but indeed nothing could be done with Daisy. She could not be amused or happy; she did not wish Nora were there; she could only keep patient and wait, and wait, with a sore, straining heart, while the hours passed and Dr. Sandford did not come and she had no tidings. Was she patient? It seemed to Daisy that her heart would burst with impatience; or rather with its eager longing to know how things were at home and to get some relief. The hours of the day went by, and no relief came. Dr. Sandford did not return. Daisy took it as no good omen.

It was hard to sit at the dinner-table and have Mr. and Mrs. Sandford shewing her kindness, while her heart was breaking. It was hard to be quiet and still and answer politely and make no trouble for her entertainers. It was hard; but Daisy did it. It was hard to eat too; and that Daisy could not do. It was impossible.

"Mustn't be cast down," said Mr. Sandford. He was one of the people who look as if they never could be. Black whiskers and a round face sometimes have that kind of look. "Mustn't be cast down! No need. Everybody gets a tumble from horseback once or twice in his life. I've had it seven times. Not pleasant; but it don't hurt you much, nine times in ten."

"Hush, Mr. Sandford," said his wife. "Daisy cannot feel about it just as you do."

"Never been thrown yet herself, eh! Give her one of those peaches, my dear—she will like that better than meats to-day. Eat one of my red-cheeked peaches, Daisy; and tell me whether you have any so good at Melbourne. I don't believe it."

Daisy peeled her peach. It was all she could bear to do. She peeled it carefully and slowly; there never was a peach so long in paring; for it was hardly more than finished when they rose from table. She had tried to taste it too; that was all; the taste never reached her consciousness. Mrs. Sandford knew better than her husband, and let her alone.

Daisy could think of nothing now but to watch for the doctor; and to do it with the most comfort and the best chance she placed herself on the steps of the piazza, sitting down on the uppermost step. It was a fair evening; warm and mild; and Mrs. Sandford sitting in her drawing-room with the windows open was but a few feet from Daisy and could observe her. She did so very often, with a sorrowful eye. Daisy's attitude bespoke her intentness; the child's heart was wound up to such a pitch of expectation that eye and ear were for nothing else. She sat bending both upon the road by which she looked for the doctor to come; her little figure did not stir; her head rested slightly on her hand with a droop that spoke of weariness or of weakness. So she sat looking down the road, and the sweet October light was all over her and all around her. Mrs. Sandford watched her, till the light lost its brightness and grew fair and faint, and then began to grow dim. Daisy sat still, and Mrs. Sandford looked at her, till a step within the room drew her attention on that side.

"Why there you are!" said the lady—"come the other way. What news?"

"I have no news."

"Yes, but how is Mr. Randolph?" The lady had dropped her voice very low.

"He is sensible."

"Sensible!" Mrs. Sandford said with a startled look; but then drawing the doctor silently to her side she pointed to the watching, anxious little figure there on the steps. It did not need that Dr. Sandford should speak her name. Daisy had perfectly well heard and understood the words that had passed; and now she rose up slowly and came towards the doctor who stepped out to meet her.

"Well, Daisy—have you been looking for me?" he said. But something in the little upturned face admonished him that no light words could be borne. He sat down and took her hand.

"Your father looks better than he did this morning; but he feels badly yet after his fall."

Daisy looked at him and was silent a moment.

"Will they send for me home?"

"Not to-night, I think. Mrs. Randolph thought better that you should stay here. Can't you do it contentedly?"

Daisy made no audible answer; her lip quivered a very little; it did not belie the singular patience which sat upon her brow. Her hand lay yet in the doctor's; he held it a little closer and drew the child affectionately to his side, keeping her there while he talked with Mrs. Sandford upon other subjects; for he said no more about Melbourne. Still while he talked he kept his arm round Daisy, and when tea was brought he hardly let her go. But tea was not much more to Daisy than dinner had been; and when Mrs. Sandford offered to shew her to her room if she desired it, Daisy accepted the offer at once.

Mrs. Sandford herself wished to supply the place of June, and would have done everything for her little guest if she could have been permitted. Daisy negatived all such proposals. She could do everything for herself, she said; she wanted no help. A bag of things had been packed for her by June and brought in the doctor's gig. Daisy was somehow sorry to see them; they looked like preparations for staying.

"We will send for June to-morrow, Daisy, if your mamma will leave you still with me."

"O, I shall go home to-morrow—I hope," said Daisy. "I hope—" she repeated humbly.

"Yes, I hope so," said Mrs. Sandford. She kissed Daisy and went away. It was all Daisy wanted, to be alone. The October night was mild; she went to the window; one of the windows, which looked out upon the grass and trees of the courtyard, now lighted by a faint moon. Daisy sunk down on her knees there; the sky and the stars were more homelike than anything else; and she felt so strange, so miserable, as her little heart had never known anything like before. She knew well enough what it all meant, her mother's sending her away from home, her father's not being able to bear any disturbance. Speak as lightly, look as calmly as they would, she knew what was the meaning underneath people's faces and voices. Her father had been very much hurt; quite well Daisy was assured of that. He was too ill to see her, or too ill for her mother to like her to see him. Daisy knelt down; she remembered she had a Father in heaven, but it seemed at first as if she was too broken hearted to pray. Yet down there through the still moonlight she remembered his eye could see her and she knew he had not forgotten his little child. Daisy never heard her door open; but it did once, and some time after it did again.