“Did you?”

“It was two men that passed me on the road; I heard one say to the other as I went by, that it was your carriage, and then he said that ’Randolph’s folks were a good deal stuck up;’—­what did he mean, papa?”

“Nothing of any consequence, Daisy.”

“But why did he say it, papa?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I did not understand it nor like it, papa; I wanted to know what he meant.”

“It is hardly worth talking about, Daisy.  It is the way those who have not enough in the world are very apt to talk of others who are better off than themselves.”

“Why, papa?”

“They were poor men, I suppose, weren’t they?”

“Yes papa—­working men.”

“That class of people, my dear, are very apt to have a grudge against the rich.”

“For what, papa?”

“For being able to live better than they do.”

“Why papa! do poor people generally feel so?”

“Very often, I think.  They do not generally speak it out aloud.”

“Then papa,” said Daisy speaking slowly, “how do you know?  What makes you think they feel so?”

Her father smiled at her eagerness and gravity.  “I see it, Daisy, when they do not speak it.  They shew it in various ways.  Besides, I know their habit of talking among themselves.”

“But papa, that is very bad.”

“What?”

“That poor people should feel so.  I am sure rich people are their best friends.”

Her father stroked her head fondly, and looked amused.

“They don’t believe that, Daisy.”

“But why don’t they believe it, papa?” said Daisy growing more and more surprised.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Randolph rising, “they would be better satisfied if I gave them my horses and went afoot.”

A speech which Daisy pondered and pondered and could make nothing of.  They walked on, Mr. Randolph making observations and giving orders now and then to workmen.  Here a man was mowing under the shrubbery; there the gardener was setting out pots of greenhouse flowers; in another place there were holes digging for trees to be planted.  Daisy went musing on while her father gave his orders, and when they were again safe out of hearing she spoke.  “Papa, do you suppose Michael and Andrew and John, and all your own people, feel so about you?”

“I think it is likely, Daisy.  I can’t hope to escape better than my neighbours.”

“But, papa, they don’t look so, nor act so?”

“Not before me.  They do not wish to lose their places.”

“Papa,—­couldn’t something be done to make them feel better?”

“Why Daisy,” said her father laughing, “are you going to turn reformer?”

“I don’t know what that is, papa.”

“A thankless office, my dear.  If you could make all the world wise, it would do, but fools are always angry with you for trying it.”