“What do you want?” she said, in a most uninviting and ungracious tone of voice.

“I came to see you,” said Daisy, venturing to let her eyes rest for the first time on those poor, restless, unloving eyes opposite her—­“and I wanted to see the rose, and I have brought you another flower—­if you will let me bring it in.”

Her words were sweet as honey.  The woman looked at her, and answered again with the unintelligible grunt, of unbelieving wonder, which Daisy had heard once before.  Daisy thought on the whole the safest way was not to talk but to fetch her beautiful “Jewess” flowers to speak for themselves.  So she ran off and brought the pot and set it on the ground before Molly.  It was a great attraction; Daisy could see that at once.  The cripple sat back gazing at it.  Daisy prudently waited till her eyes came round again from the flowers and rested on her little visiter’s face.

“Where shall I put it?” said Daisy.  “Where would you like to have it go?”

Molly’s eyes presently followed hers, roaming over the little flower plot in search of room for the geranium, which did not appear; prince’s feather and marigolds so choked up the ground where balsams did not straggle over it.  Molly looked as Daisy did at the possibilities of the case, looked again at the strange sweet little face which was so busy in her garden; and then made a sudden movement.  With two or three motions of hands and knees she drew herself a few steps back to one of the exclusive bunches of balsams, and began with her two hands to root it up.  Actually she was grubbing, might and main, at the ungainly stalks of the balsams, pulling them up as fast as she could and flinging them aside, careless where.  Daisy came to help with her trowel, and together they worked, amicably enough but without a word, till the task was done.  A great space was left clear, and Molly threw herself back in her wonted position for taking observations.  Daisy wasted no time.  In hopeful delight she went on to make a hole in the ground in which to sink the pot of geraniums.  It was more of a job than she thought, and she dug away stoutly with her trowel for a good while before she had an excavation sufficient to hold the pot.  Daisy got it in at last; smoothed the surface nicely all round it; disposed of the loose soil till the bed was trim and neat, as far as that was concerned; and then stood up and spoke.  Warm,—­how warm she was! her face was all one pink flush, but she did not feel it, she was so eager.

“There,” she said, “that will stand there nicely; and when the cold weather comes, you can take the pot up and take it into the house, just as it is; and if you do not let it freeze, it will have flowers for you in the winter.”

“Cold?” said Molly.

“Yes—­by and by, when the cold weather comes, this must be taken up.  The cold would kill it, if it was cold enough to freeze.  It would have to go in the house.  The rose can stay out all winter if you like; but this must be kept warm.  This is a geranium.  And it will give you flowers in the winter.”