round.  But Julia was not with them.  She will never come to us again.  Julia is dead, and her grave is off in Saratoga, for Guy dare not have her moved, but he has erected a costly monument to her memory, and the mound above her is like some bright flower bed all the summer long, for he hires a man to tend it, and goes twice each season to see that it is kept as he wishes to have it.  Julia is in Heaven and Daisy is here again at Elmwood, which she purchased with her own money and fitted up with every possible convenience and luxury.

Guy is ten years younger than he used to be, and we are all so happy with this little fairy, who has expanded into a noble woman, and whom I love as I never loved a living being before, Guy excepted, of course.  I never dreamed when I turned her out into the rain that I should love her as I do, or that she was capable of being what she is.  I would not have her changed in any one particular, and neither, I am sure, would Guy, while the little ones fairly worship her, and must sometimes be troublesome with their love and their caresses.

It is just a year since she came back to us again.  We were in the old house then, but somehow Daisy’s very presence seemed to brighten and beautify it, until I was almost sorry to leave it last April for this grander place with all its splendor.

There was no wedding at all; that is, there were no invited guests, but sure, never had bride greater honor at her bridal than our Daisy had, for the church where the ceremony was performed, at a very early hour in the morning, was literally crowded with the halt, the lame, the maimed, and the blind; the slums of New York, gathered from every back street and by-lane and gutter; Daisy’s “people,” as she calls them, who came to see her married, and who, strangest of all, brought with them a present for the bride, a beautiful family Bible, golden-clasped and bound, and costing fifty dollars.  Sandy McGraw presented it, and had written upon the fly leaf:  “To the dearest friend we ever had we give this book as a slight token of how much we love her.”  Then followed upon a sheet of paper the names of the donors and how much each gave.  Oh, how Daisy cried when she saw the ten cents and the five cents and the three cents and the one cent, and knew how it had all been earned and saved at some sacrifice for her.  I do believe she would have kissed every one of them if Guy had permitted it.  She did kiss the children and shook every hard, soiled hand there, and then Guy took her away and brought her to our home, where she has been ever since, the sweetest, merriest, happiest little creature that ever a man called wife, or a woman sister.  She does leave her things round a little, to be sure, and she is not always ready for breakfast.  I guess she never will wholly overcome those habits, but I can put up with them now better than I used to.  Love makes a vast difference in our estimate of others, and she could scarcely ruffle me now, even if she kept breakfast waiting every morning, and left her clothes lying three garments deep upon the floor.  As for Guy—­but his happiness is something I cannot describe.  Nothing can disturb his peace, which is as firm as the everlasting hills.  He does not caress her as much as he did once, but his thoughtful care of her is wonderful, and she is never long from his sight without his going to seek her.