“But could she get to Melbourne?” said Daisy.

“I don’t know.  Maybe she can.  Who’d she see at your house?”

“Nobody, but the man at the lodge, or his mother.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the man that lives in the lodge, to open the gate.”

“Open the gate, hey?  Who pays him for it?”

“Papa pays him, and he lives in the lodge.”

“I shouldn’t think it would take a man to open a gate.  Why Hephzibah could do it as well as anybody.”

Daisy did not see the point of this remark, and went on.  “Hephzibah wouldn’t see anybody else, but me.”

“Well, I believe you mean what you say,” said Mrs. Harbonner, “and I hope you will when you’re twenty years older—­but I don’t believe it.  I’ll let Hephzibah come over to you on Sundays—­I know she’s jumpin’ out of her skin to go—­she shall go on Sundays, but I can’t let her go other days, ’cause she’s got work to do; and anyhow it would be too fur.  What time would you like to see her?”

“As soon as it can be after afternoon church, if you please.  I couldn’t before.”

“You’re a kind little soul!” said the woman.  “Do you like flowers?”

Daisy said yes.  The woman went to a back door of the room, and opening it, plucked a branch from a great rose-bush that grew there.

“We haint but one pretty thing about this house,” said she presenting it to Daisy,—­“but that’s kind o’ pretty.”

It was a very rich and delicious white rose, and the branch was an elegant one, clustered with flowers and buds.  Daisy gave her thanks and took leave.

“As we have opportunity, let us do good unto all men.”  There was a little warm drop of comfort in Daisy’s heart as she drove away.  If she could not go to Sunday-school herself, she might teach somebody else yet more needy; that would be the next best thing.  Sunday afternoon—­it looked bright to Daisy; but then her heart sank; Sunday evening would be near.  What should she do?  She could not settle it in her mind what was right; between her mother’s anger and her father’s love, Daisy could not see what was just the plumb line of duty.  Singing would gain a hundred dollars’ worth of good; and not singing would disobey her mother and displease her father; but then came the words of one that Daisy honoured more than father and mother—­“Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day;” and she could not tell what to do.

CHAPTER XIII.

Daisy had gone but a little way out of the village, when she suddenly pulled up.  Sam was at the side of the chaise immediately.

“Sam, I want a glass of water; where can I get it?”

“Guess at Mrs. Benoit’s, Miss Daisy.  There’s a fine spring of cold water.”

“Who is Mrs. Benoit?”

“It’s Juanita—­Miss Daisy has heard of Mrs. St. Leonard’s Juanita.  Mr. St. Leonard built a house for her,—­just the other side o’ them trees.”