“Yes, all through, except a shawl for old Sarah Mackie and a few more toys for Biddy Warren’s blind boy,” Daisy said, and her mother replied:  “Well, I’m sure I shall be glad for your sake when it is over.  You’ll make yourself sick, and you are nearly worn out now, remembering everybody in New York.”

“Not quite everybody, mother,” Daisy rejoined cheerfully; “only those whom everybody forgets—­the poor, whom we have with us always.  Don’t you remember the text and the little kirk where we heard it preached from?  But come—­dinner is ready, and I am hungry, I assure you.”

She led the way to the handsome dining room, and took her seat at the table, looking, in her dark street dress, as her mother had said, pale and worn, as if the shopping had been very hard upon her.  And yet it was not so much the fatigue of the day which affected her as the remembrance of a past she did not often dare to recall.

It was at Christmas time years ago that she first met with Guy, and all the day long, as she turned over piles of shawls and delaines and flannels, or ordered packages of candy and bonbons and dollies by the dozen, her thoughts had been with Guy and the time she met him at Leiter and Field’s and he walked home with her.  It seemed to her years and years ago, and the idea of having lived so long made her feel old, and tired, and worn.  But the nice dinner and the cheer of the room revived her, and her face looked brighter and more rested when she returned to the parlor and began to show her mother her purchases.

Daisy did not receive many letters except on business, and as these usually came in the morning she did not think to ask if the postman had left her anything; and so it was not until her mother had retired and she was about going to her own room that she saw a letter lying on the hall-stand.  Miss Barker, who had instigated the letter, had never written to her more than once or twice, and then only short notes, and she did not recognize the handwriting at once.  But she saw it was postmarked Cuylerville, and a sick, faint sensation crept over her as she wondered who had sent it, and if it contained news of Guy.  It was long since she had heard of him—­not, in fact, since poor Tom’s death, and she knew nothing of the little girl called for herself, and thus had no suspicion of the terrible shock awaiting her, when at last she broke the seal.  Miss Barker had written a few explanatory lines, which were as follows: 

“Cuylerville, Dec., 18—.

“Dear miss MCDONALD—­Since saying good-by to you last June, and going off to the mountains and seaside, while you like a good Samaritan stayed in the hot city to look after ‘your people,’ I have flitted hither and thither until at last I floated out to Cuylerville to visit Mrs. Guy Thornton, who is a friend and former schoolmate of mine.  Here—­not in the house, but in town—­I have heard a story which surprised me not a little, and I now better understand that sad look I have so often seen on your sweet face without at all suspecting the cause.