“You are too deep for me, Daisy,” said Mr. Randolph languidly.  “Go and get ready for Dr. Sandford.  He will be here presently.”

So Daisy went, feeling very uncertain of the result of her talk, but doubtful and discouraged.  Mr. Randolph had a book in hand when she returned to the library:  she could not speak to him any more; and soon indeed the doctor came, helped her into his gig, and drove off with her.

Now it was pleasant.  The fine gravelled roads in the grounds of Melbourne were in beautiful order after the rain; no dust rose yet, and all the trees and flowers were in a refreshed state of life and sweetness.  Truly it was a very hot day, but Daisy found nothing amiss.  Neither, apparently, did the doctor’s good horse.  He trotted along without seeming to mind the sun; and Daisy in a good deal of glee enjoyed everything.  It was private glee—­in her own mind; she did not offer any conversation; and the doctor, of Mr. Randolph’s mind, perhaps, that it was a warm day, threw himself back in his seat and watched her lazily.  Daisy on the contrary sat up and looked busily out.  They drove in the first place for a good distance through her own home grounds, coming out to the public road by the church where Mr. Pyne preached, and near which the wintergreens grew.  It looked beautiful this morning, with its ivy all washed and fresh from the rain.  Indeed all nature was in a sort of glittering condition.  When they came out on the public way it was still beautiful; no dust, and fields and grass and trees all shining.

The road they travelled now was one scarce known to Daisy; the carriages from Melbourne never went that way; another was always chosen at the beginning of all their excursions whether of business or pleasure.  No gentlemen’s seats were to be seen; an occasional farmhouse stood in the midst of its crops and meadows; and more frequently a yet poorer sort of house stood close by the roadside.  The road in this place was sometimes rough, and the doctor’s good horse left his trot and picked his way slowly along, giving Daisy by this means an opportunity to inspect everything more closely.  There was often little pleasure in the inspection.  About half a mile from the church, Daisy’s attention was drawn by one of these poor houses.  It was very small, unpainted and dreary-looking, having a narrow courtyard between it and the road.  As the gig was very slowly going past, Daisy uttered an exclamation, the first word she had uttered in a long while.

“O Dr. Sandford!—­what is that?  Something is the matter!”

“No,” said the doctor coolly, “nothing is the matter—­more than usual.”

“But a woman was on her hands and knees on the ground? wasn’t it a woman?”

“Yes.  She cannot move about in any other way.  She is a cripple.”

“She cannot stand up?” said Daisy, looking distressed and horrified.

“No.  She has no use of her lower limbs.  She is accustomed, to it, Daisy; she never had the use of them, or never for a very long while.”