“I must tell you more then, papa.”  And standing with her arm on her father’s shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains on the other side of the river, Daisy went on.

“There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford.  She is a cripple.  Papa, her legs and feet are all bent up under her, so that she cannot walk at all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt.”

“That is your idea of extreme misery, is it not, Daisy?”

“Papa, do you not think it is—­it must be—­very uncomfortable?”

“Very, I should think.”

“But that is not her worst misery.  Papa, she is all alone; the neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with her.  She is all alone by night and by day; and she is disagreeable in her temper, I believe, and she has nobody to love her and she loves nobody.”

“Which of those two things is the worst, Daisy?”

“What two things, papa?”

“To love nobody, or to have nobody to love her?”

“Papa—­I do not know.”  Then remembering Juanita, Daisy suddenly added,—­“Papa, I should think it must be the worst to love nobody.”

“Do you?  Pray why?”

“It would not make her happy, I think, to have people love her if she did not love them.”

“And you think loving others would be better, without anybody to give love back?”

“I should think it would be very hard!”—­said Daisy with a most profound expression of thoughtfulness.

“Well—­this poor cripple, I understand, lacks both those conditions of happiness?”

“Yes, papa.”

“What then?  You were going to tell me something about her.”

“Not much about her” said Daisy, “but only about myself.”

“A much more interesting subject to me, Daisy.”

You could only see the faintest expression of pleasure in the line of Daisy’s lips; she was looking very sober and a trifle anxious.

“I only thought, papa, I would try if I could not do something to make that poor woman happier.”

“What did you try?”

“The first thing was to get her to know me and like me, you know, papa; because she is rather cross and does not like people generally, I believe.”

“So you went to see her?”

“I have never spoken much to her, papa.  But I went inside of her gate one day, and saw her trying to take care of some poor flowers; so then I thought, maybe, if I took her a nice little rose-bush, she might like it.”

“And then like you?  Well—­you tried the experiment?”

“No, papa.  I did get a rose-bush from Logan and he told me how to plant it; and I was on my way to the cottage and had almost got there; and then I recollected mamma had said I must not speak to anybody without her leave.”