Mr. Randolph was inclined to frown and suspect obstinacy; but the meek little lips which offered themselves for a kiss disarmed him of any such thought.  He clasped Daisy in his arms and gave her kisses, many a one, close and tender.  If he had known it, he could have done nothing better for the success of his plan; under the pressure of conscience Daisy could bear trouble in doing right, but the argument of affection went near to trouble her conscience.  Daisy was obliged to compound for a good many tears, before she could get away and begin her drive.  And when she did, her mind was in a flutter.  A hundred dollars! how much good could be done with a hundred dollars.  Why would it not be right to do something, even sing such a song on Sunday, when it was sung for such a purpose and with such results?  But Daisy could not feel quite sure about it; while at the same time the prospect of getting quit of her difficulties by this means—­escaping her mother’s anger and the punishment with which it was sure to be accompanied, and also pleasing her father—­shook Daisy’s very soul.  What should she do?  She had not made up her mind when she got to the little brown house where Mrs. Harbonner lived.

She found mother and daughter both in the little bare room; the child sitting on the floor and cutting pieces of calico and cloth into strips, which her mother was sewing together with coarse thread.  Both looked just as when Daisy had seen them before—­slim, and poor and uncombed; but the room was clean.

“I thought you warn’t coming again,” said Mrs. Harbonner.

“I couldn’t come till to-day,” said Daisy, taking a chair.  “I came as soon as I could.”  Partly from policy, partly because she felt very sober, she left it to Mrs. Harbonner to do most of the talking.

“I never see more’n a few folks that thought much of doing what they said they’d do—­without they found their own account in it.  If I was living in a great house, now, I’d have folks enough come to see me.”

Daisy did not know what answer to make to this, so she made none.

“I used to live in a better house once,” went on Mrs. Harbonner; “I didn’t always use to eat over a bare floor.  I was well enough, if I could ha’ let well alone; but I made a mistake, and paid for it; and what’s more, I’m paying for it yet.  ’Taint my fault, that Hephzibah sits there cuttin’ rags, instead of going to school.”

Again Daisy did not feel herself called upon to decide on the mistakes of Mrs. Harbonner’s past life; and she sat patiently waiting for something else that she could understand.

“What are you come to see me for now?” said the lady.  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you haven’t got no work for me to do, and I must owe you for that ham?”

“I have got something for you to do,” said Daisy.  “The boy has got it at the gate.  The housekeeper found some clothes to make—­and you said that was your work.”