Mrs. Harbonner stood staring at Daisy.

“The promise is sure,” said Mrs. Benoit.  “All things shall work together for good to them that love God!”

The other woman wheeled about and looked at her for an instant with a sharp keen eye of note-taking; then she returned to Daisy.

“Well I suppose I’ll tell Hephzibah she won’t see you again till summer’s over; so she may as well give over thinking about it.”

“Do you think Hephzibah wants to learn, Mrs. Harbonner?”

“Well, I guess she does.”

“Wouldn’t she come here and get her lessons?  Couldn’t she come to see me every day while I am here?”

“I ’spose she’d jump out of her skin to do it,” said Mrs. Harbonner.  “Hephzibah’s dreadful sot on seeing you.”

“Mrs. Benoit,” said Daisy, “may I have this little girl come to see me every day, while I am here?”

“Miss Daisy shall have all, who she will,” was the answer; and it was arranged so; and Mrs. Harbonner took her departure.  Lingering a minute at the door, whither Juanita attended her, she made one or two enquiries and remarks about Daisy, answered civilly and briefly by Mrs. Benoit.

“Poor little toad!” said Mrs. Harbonner, drawing her shawl tight round her for the last time.  “But ain’t she little queer?”

These words were spoken in a low murmur, which just served to draw Daisy’s attention.  Out of sight behind the moreen curtain, Mrs. Harbonner forgot she was not beyond hearing; and Daisy’s ears were good.  She noticed that Juanita made no answer at all to this question, and presently shut the door.

The business of giving Daisy some fruit was the next thing attended to; in the course of eating which Daisy marvelled a little to herself what possible likeness to a toad Mrs. Harbonner could have discovered in her.  The comparison did not seem flattering; also she pondered somewhat why it could be that anybody found her queer.  She said nothing about it; though she gave Mrs. Benoit a little account of Hephzibah and the reason of the proposed series of visits.  In the midst of this came a cheery “Daisy”—­at the other side of her; and turning her head, there was Preston’s face at the window.

“O Preston!”—­Daisy handed to Mrs. Benoit her unfinished saucer of strawberries—­“I am so glad!  I have been waiting for you.  Have you brought my books?”

“Where do you think I have been, Daisy?”

“I don’t know.  Shooting!—­Have you?”

Daisy’s eye caught the barrel of a fowling-piece shewing its end up at the window.  Preston without replying lifted up his game bag and let her see the bright feathers of little birds which partly filled it.

“You have!—­Shooting!”—­Daisy repeated, in a tone between disapprobation and dismay.  “It isn’t September!”

“Capital sport, Daisy,” said Preston, letting the bag fall.

“I think it is very poor sport,” said Daisy.  “I wish they were all alive and flying again.”