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CHAPTER V
“I say you shall not,” cried Septima, planting herself firmly before her. “You shall not leave this house to-night.”
“You have no right to keep me here,” panted Daisy. “I am–I am–” The words died away on her lips. Rex had told her she must not tell just yet.
“You are a rash little fool,” cried Septima, wrathfully. “You are the bane of my life, and have been ever since that stormy winter night John brought you here. I told him then to wash his hands of the whole matter; you would grow up a willful, impetuous minx, and turn out at last like your mother.”
Daisy sprung to her feet like lightning, her velvet eyes blazing, her breath coming quick and hot.
“Speak of me as lightly as you will, Aunt Septima,” she cried, “but you must spare my poor mother’s name! Oh, mother, mother!” she cried, flinging herself down on her knees, and sobbing piteously, “if you had only taken me with you, down into the dark cruel waters!”
“I only wish to Heaven she had!” fervently ejaculated Septima.
At that moment a quick, hurried step sounded on the gravel path without, and John Brooks hastily entered the room.
“Ah! thank God! here you are, Daisy. I was over at the Hall for you, and they told me you had left some hours before. I knew you had not been home, and I was sorely afraid something had happened you.”
Ah! how little he knew! Something had happened to her, the darkest and cruelest shadow that had ever darkened a girl’s life was slowly gathering above her innocent head, and was soon to break, carrying in its turbulent depths a sorrow more bitter than death to bear.
John Brooks glanced inquiringly from the one to the other, intuitively guessing he must have interrupted a scene.
Daisy had struggled up from her knees to a sitting posture, putting her hair, curled into a thousand shining rings, away from her flushed face.
“Have you been scolding Daisy again, Septima?” he asked, angrily, taking the panting little damsel from the floor and seating her upon his knee, and drawing her curly head down to his rough-clad shoulder, and holding it there with his toil-hardened hand. “What have you been saying to my little Daisy that I find her in tears?”
“I was telling her if she did not mend her willful ways she might turn out like her moth–”
“Hush!” exclaimed John Brooks, excitedly. “I shouldn’t have thought you would have dared say that. What does Daisy know of such things?” he muttered, indignantly. “Don’t let your senses run away with you, Septima.”
“Don’t let your senses run away with you, John Brooks. Haven’t you the sense to know Daisy is getting too big for you to take on your knee and pet in that fashion? I am really ashamed of you. Daisy is almost a woman!” snapped Septima, scornfully–“quite sixteen.”
John Brooks looked at his sister in amazement, holding little Daisy off and gazing into the sweet little blooming face, and stroking the long fluffy golden curls as he replied:
“Ah, no, Septima; Daisy is only a child. Why, it seems as though it were but yesterday I used to take her with me through the cotton-fields, and laugh to see her stretch her chubby hands up, crying for the bursting blossoms, growing high above her curly golden head. Pshaw! Septima, Daisy is only a merry, frolicsome, romantic child yet.”
Daisy nestled her tell-tale face closer on his broad shoulder to hide the swift blushes that crept up to cheek and brow.
“Look up, pet,” he said, coaxingly, “I have news for you.”
“What–what is it?” gasped Daisy, wondering if he could possibly have heard of her romantic marriage with Rex, turning white to the very lips, her blue eyes darkening with suspense.
“Come, come, now,” laughed, John, good-humoredly, “don’t get excited, pet, it will take me just as long to tell it anyhow; it is something that will please you immensely.”
He drew from his breast pocket as he spoke a thick, yellow envelope, which contained several printed forms with blank spaces which were to be filled up. There was something in his voice which made Daisy look at him, but her eyes fell and her cheeks flushed hotly as she met his glance.
Daisy was not used to keeping a secret locked up in her truthful little heart. She longed to throw her arms around his neck and whisper to him of her mad, romantic marriage, and of the handsome young husband who loved her so fondly.
Daisy knew so little of real life, and less of love and marriage, up to the time she had met Rex! Her heroes had been imaginary ones, her ideas of love only girlish, romantic fancies. It was all very exciting and charming. She was very fond of handsome Rex, but she had yet to learn the depths of love which, sooner or later, brightens the lives of lovable women.
Daisy looked at the envelope with a wistful glance.
“I am going to make a lady of you, my little sunbeam. I am going to send you off to boarding-school. That’s what you have always wanted; now I am going to humor your whim.”
“But I–I do not want to go now, Uncle John. I–I have changed my mind.”
“What!”
“I–I don’t want to go off to boarding-school now. I had rather stay here with you.”
John Brooks laid down the pipe he was just lighting in genuine surprise.
“Why, it’s only last week you were crying those pretty eyes of yours out, teasing to be sent to school. I–well, confound it–I don’t understand the ways of women. I always thought you were different from the rest, little Daisy, but I see you are all the same. Never two days of the same mind. What is the reason you’ve changed your mind, pet?”
“Indeed, I don’t want to go now, Uncle John. Please don’t talk about it any more. I–I am happier here than I can tell you.”
John Brooks laughed cheerily.
“It’s too late for you to change your mind now, little one. I have made arrangements for you to start bright and early to-morrow morning. The stage will be here by daylight, so you had better start off to bed at once, or there will be no roses in these checks to-morrow.”
He never forgot the expression of the white, startled face Daisy raised to his. For once in her life Daisy was unable to shake him from his purpose.
“I know best, little one,” he said. “I mean to make a lady of you. You have no fortune, little Daisy, but your pretty face. It will be hard to lose my little sunbeam, but it is my duty, Daisy. It is too late to back out now; for once I am firm. You must start to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” sobbed Daisy, throwing herself down on her little white bed when she had reached her own room, “what shall I do? I can’t go without seeing Rex. I never heard of a girl that was married being sent off to school. I–I dare not tell Uncle John I am somebody’s wife. Oh, if I could only see Rex!” Daisy springs out of bed and crosses over to the little white curtained window, gazing out into the still calm beauty of the night. “If I only knew where to find Rex,” she mused, “I would go to him now. Surely he would not let me be sent away from him.” She turned away from the window with a sigh. “I must see Rex to-morrow morning,” she said, determinedly. And the weary little golden head, tired out with the day which had just died out, sunk restfully down upon the snowy pillow in a dreamless sleep, the happiest, alas! that poor little girl-bride was to know for long and weary years.
A dark, dreamy silence wraps the cottage in its soft embrace, the moon, clear and full, sails tranquilly through the star-sown heavens, and the sweet scent of distant orange groves is wafted through the midnight breeze. Yet the dark-cloaked figure that walks quickly and softly up the graveled walk sees none of the soft, calm beauty of the still summer night. She raises the brass knocker with a quick, imperative touch. After a wait of perhaps ten minutes or so Septima answers the summons, but the candle she holds nearly drops from her hands as she beholds the face of her midnight visitor in the dim, uncertain flickering glare of the candle-light.
“Miss Pluma,” she exclaims, in amazement, “is there any one ill at the Hall?”
“No!” replies Pluma, in a low, soft, guarded whisper. “I wished to see you–my business is most important–may I come in?”
“Certainly,” answered Septima, awkwardly. “I beg your pardon, miss, for keeping you standing outside so long.”
As Pluma took the seat Septima placed for her, the dark cloak she wore fell from her shoulders, and Septima saw with wonder she still wore the shimmering silk she had in all probability worn at the fête. The rubies still glowed like restless, leaping fire upon her perfect arms and snowy throat, and sprays of hyacinth were still twined in her dark, glossy hair; but they were quite faded now, drooping, crushed, and limp among her curls; there was a strange dead-white pallor on her haughty face, and a lurid gleam shone in her dark, slumbrous eyes. Pluma had studied well the character of the woman before her–who made no secret of her dislike for the child thrust upon their bounty–and readily imagined she would willingly aid her in carrying out the scheme she had planned.
Slowly one by one the stars died out of the sky; the pale moon drifted silently behind the heavy rolling clouds; the winds tossed the tops of the tall trees to and fro, and the dense darkness which precedes the breaking of the gray dawn settled over the earth.
The ponies which the groom had held for long hours pawed the ground restlessly; the man himself was growing impatient.
“She can be up to no good,” he muttered; “all honest people should be in their beds.”
The door of the cottage opened, and Pluma Hurlhurst walked slowly down the path.
“All is fair in love’s warfare,” she mutters, triumphantly. “Fool! with your baby face and golden hair, you shall walk quickly into the net I have spread for you; he shall despise you. Ay, crush with his heel into the earth the very flowers that bear the name of Daisy.”
CHAPTER VI
Under the magnolia-tree, among the pink clover, Rex Lyon paced uneasily to and fro, wondering what could have happened to detain Daisy. He was very nervous, feverish, and impatient, as he watched the sun rising higher and higher in the blue heavens, and glanced at his watch for the fifth time in the space of a minute.
“Pshaw!” he muttered, whisking off the tops of the buttercups near him with his ebony walking-stick. “I am not myself at all. I am growing as nervous as a woman. I think I’ll read little sister Birdie’s letter over again to occupy my mind until my sweet little Daisy comes.”
He sighed and smiled in one breath, as he threw himself down at full length on the green grass under the trees. Taking from his pocket a little square white envelope, addressed in a childish hand to “Mr. Rexford Lyon, Allendale, West Virginia, Care of Miss Pluma.” Rex laughed aloud, until the tears started to his eyes, as they fell on the words “Care of Miss Pluma,” heavily underlined in the lower corner.
“That is just like careless little romping Birdie,” he mused. “She supposes, because she knows who Miss Pluma is, every one else must certainly be aware of the same fact.”
He spread out the letter on his knee, trying hard to while away time in perusing its pages.
Rex looked so fresh and cool and handsome in his white linen suit, lying there under the shady trees that summer morning, his dark curls resting on his white hand, and a smile lighting up his pleasant face, it is not to be wondered at he was just the kind of young fellow to win the love of young romantic girls like Daisy and Pluma–the haughty young heiress.
Slowly Rex read the letter through to the end. The morning stage whirled rapidly past him on its way to meet the early train. Yet, all unconscious that it bore away from him his treasure, he never once glanced up from the letter he was reading.
Again Rex laughed aloud as he glanced it over, reading as follows:
“Dear Brother Rex,–We received the letter you wrote, and the picture you sent with it, and my heart has been so heavy ever since that I could not write to you because big tears would fall on the page and blot it. Now, dear old Brother Rex, don’t be angry at what your little Birdie is going to say. Mamma says you are going to marry and bring home a wife, and she showed me her picture, and said you was very much in love with her, and I must be so too. But I can’t fall in love with her, Brother Rex; indeed, I’ve tried very hard and I can’t; don’t tell anybody, but I’m awfully afraid I sha’n’t like her one bit. She looks stylish, and her name Pluma sounds real stylish too, but she don’t look kind. I thought, perhaps, if I told you I did not like her you might give her up and come home. I forgot to tell you the blue room and the room across the hall is being fixed up for you just lovely, and I am to have your old one.
“P.S.–And we received a letter from Mr. Lester Stanwick, too. He says he will be passing through here soon and wishes to call. When are you coming home, Rex? Don’t bring any one with you.
“Your loving little sister,“Birdie.”
“There’s no fear of my bringing Pluma home now,” he laughed, whistling a snatch of “The Pages’ Chorus.” “Birdie won’t have anything to fear on that score. I do wish mother hadn’t set my heart on my marrying Pluma. Parents make a mistake in choosing whom their children shall marry and whom they shall not. Love goes where it is sent.”
He looked at his watch again.
“By George!” he muttered, turning very pale upon seeing another hour had slipped away, “I can not stand this a minute longer. I must see what has happened to Daisy.”
With a nameless fear clutching at his heart–a dark, shadowy fear–like the premonition of coming evil, Rex made his way rapidly through the tangled underbrush, cutting across lots to John Brooks’ cottage.
He had determined to call for Daisy upon some pretext. It was rather a bold undertaking and might cause comment, still Rex was reckless of all consequences; he must see Daisy at all hazards; and when Rex made up his mind to do anything he usually succeeded; he was as daring and courageous as he was reckless and handsome.
Once, twice, thrice he knocked, receiving no answer to his summons.
“That’s strange,” he mused, “exceedingly strange.”
Hardly knowing what prompted him to do it, Rex turned the knob; it yielded to the touch, swinging slowly back on its creaking hinges.
“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, gazing wildly about him and as pale as death, “Daisy is gone and the cottage is empty!”
He leaned against the door-way, putting his hand to his brow like one who had received a heavy blow; and the bare walls seemed to take up the cry and echo, mockingly, “Gone!”
The blow was so sudden and unexpected he was completely bewildered; his brain was in a whirl.
He saw a laborer crossing the cotton-fields and called to him.
“I was looking for John Brooks,” said Rex. “I find the cottage empty. Can you tell me where they have gone?”
“Gone!” echoed the man, surprisedly. “I don’t understand it; I was passing the door a few hours since, just as the stage drove off with John Brooks and Daisy. ‘Good-bye, neighbor,’ he called out to me, ‘I am off on an extended business trip. You must bring your wife over to see Septima; she will be lonely, I’ll warrant.’ There was no sign of him moving then. I–I don’t understand it.”
“You say he took Daisy with him,” asked Rex, with painful eagerness. “Can you tell me where they went?”
The man shook his head and passed on. Rex was more mystified than ever.
“What can it all mean?” he asked himself. “Surely,” he cried, “Daisy–dear little innocent blue-eyed Daisy–could not have meant to deceive me; yet why has she not told me?”
The hot blood mounted to his temples. Perhaps Daisy regretted having married him and had fled from him. The thought was so bitter it almost took his breath away. Rex loved her so madly, so passionately, so blindly, he vowed to himself he would search heaven and earth to find her. And in that terrible hour the young husband tasted the first draught of the cup of bitterness which he was to drain to the very dregs.
Poor Rex! he little knew this was but the first stroke of Pluma Hurlhurst’s fatal revenge–to remove her rival from her path that she might win him back to his old allegiance.
Early that morning there had been great bustle and stir in the Brooks’ cottage. In vain Daisy had attempted to steal quietly away into her own little room and write a hasty line to Rex, which, if all other means failed her, she could send to him by one of the men employed in the fields, begging him to come to her at once. Septima would not leave her to herself for a single instant. Even her writing-desk, which had stood on the bureau in the corner for years, was gone. Poor little Daisy cried out to herself–fate was against her.
“I should like to say good-bye to the old familiar scenes, Septima,” she said, making a desperate effort to meet Rex by some means. “I should like to see the old magnolia-tree down in the glade just once before I go.”
“Nonsense,” replied Septima, sharply, a malicious smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. “I guess the trees and the flowers won’t wither and die of grief if you don’t bid them good-bye; it’s too late now, anyhow. See, here is the stage coming already,” she cried, glancing out of the window, “and here comes John with his valise and umbrella. Make haste, Daisy; where’s your gloves and satchel?”
For one brief instant Daisy stood irresolute; if she had only dared cry out to them “I am a bride; it is cruel to send me away from Rex,” what a world of misery might have been spared her! but her lips were sealed.
“Well, well,” cried John Brooks, hurriedly entering the room; “not ready yet, little girlie? We must be off at once or we will miss the train.”
In vain Daisy protested brokenly she could not go, and the agony in those blue uplifted eyes would have touched a heart of stone. Still John Brooks believed it would be a sin to comply with her request. Go to school she must, for Heaven had intended a cultured mind should accompany so beautiful a face. Half lifting, half carrying the slight figure in his powerful arms, Daisy was borne, half fainting and sobbing as though her heart would break, to the vehicle which stood in waiting.
On through the fragrant stillness of that sunshiny summer morning the jolting stage rolled rapidly on its way, crossing the little bridge where she had lingered only the night before with Rex, her husband; they would soon reach the alder bushes that skirted the pool. The next bend in the road would bring her in sight of the magnolia-tree where Rex would be awaiting her.
Ah, thank Heaven, it was not too late! she could fling out her arms, and cry out: “Rex, my love, my darling, they are bearing me from you! Save me, Rex, my darling, save me!”
John Brooks sat quietly by her side silently wondering what had come over little Daisy–sweet, impulsive little Daisy–in a single night. “She is only a child,” he muttered to himself, “full of whims and caprices; crying her eyes out last week because she could not go off to school, and now crying because she’s got to go.”
Swiftly the stage rolled down the green sloping hill-side; in another moment it had reached the alder bushes and gained the curve of the road, and she saw Rex lying on the green grass waiting for her. The sunlight drifting through the magnolia blossoms fell upon his handsome, upturned, smiling face and the dark curls pushed back from his white forehead. “Rex! Rex!” she cried, wringing her white hands, but the words died away on her white lips, making no sound. Then the world seemed to close darkly around her, and poor little Daisy, the unhappy girl-bride, fell back in the coach in a deadly swoon.
CHAPTER VII
“Poor little Daisy!” cried John Brooks, wiping away a suspicious moisture from his eyes with his rough, toil-hardened hand, “she takes it pretty hard now; but the time will come when she will thank me for it. Heaven knows there’s nothing in this world more valuable than an education; and she will need it, poor little, motherless child!”
As the stage drove up before the station Daisy opened her blue eyes with a sigh. “I can at least write to Rex at once,” she thought, “and explain the whole matter to him.” Daisy smiled as she thought Rex would be sure to follow on the very next train.
John Brooks watched the smile and the flush of the rosy face, and believed Daisy was beginning to feel more reconciled about going to school.
“I hope we will get there by noon,” said John, anxiously, taking the seat beside her on the crowded train. “If we missed the train at the cross-roads it would be a serious calamity. I should be obliged to send you on alone; for I must get to New York by night, as I have some very important business to transact for the plantation which must be attended to at once.”
“Alone!” echoed Daisy, tremblingly. “Why, Uncle John, I was never away from home alone in my life!”
“That’s just the difficulty,” he answered, perplexedly. “I have always guarded my little flower from the world’s cruel blasts, and you are unused to the rough side of life.”
“Still, I could go on alone,” persisted Daisy, bravely.
John Brooks laughed outright.
“You would get lost at the first corner, my girlie! Then I should have to fly around to these newspaper offices, advertising for the recovery of a little country Daisy which was either lost, strayed, or stolen. No, no, little one!” he cried; “I would not trust you alone, a stranger in a great city. A thousand ills might befall a young girl with a face like yours.”
“No one would know I was a stranger,” replied Daisy, innocently. “I should simply inquire the way to Madame Whitney’s, and follow the directions given me.”
“There! didn’t I tell you you could never find the way?” laughed John until he was red in the face. “You suppose a city is like our country lanes, eh?–where you tell a stranger: ‘Follow that path until you come to a sign-post, then that will tell you which road leads to the village.’ Ha! ha! ha! Why, my dear little Daisy, not one person in a hundred whom you might meet ever heard of Madame Whitney! In cities people don’t know their very neighbors personally. They are sure to find out if there’s any scandal afloat about them–and that is all they do know about them. You would have a lively time of it finding Madame Whitney’s without your old uncle John to pilot you through, I can tell you.”
Daisy’s last hope was nipped in the bud. She had told herself, if she were left alone, she could send a telegram back at once to Rex, and he would join her, and she would not have to go to school–school, which would separate a girl-bride from her handsome young husband, of whom she was fast learning to be so fond.
“I could have sent you under the care of Mr. Stanwick,” continued John, thoughtfully. “He started for the city yesterday–but I did not receive Madame Whitney’s letter in time.”
He did not notice, as he spoke, that the occupant in the seat directly in front of them gave a perceptible start, drawing the broad slouch hat he wore, which concealed his features so well, still further over his face, while a cruel smile lingered for a moment about the handsome mouth.
The stranger appeared deeply interested in the columns of the paper he held before him; but in reality he was listening attentively to the conversation going on behind him.
“I shall not lose sight of this pretty little girl,” said Lester Stanwick to himself, for it was he. “No power on earth shall save her from me. I shall win her from him–by fair means or foul. It will be a glorious revenge!”
“Madame Whitney’s seminary is a very high-toned institution,” continued John, reflectively; “and the young girls I saw there wore no end of furbelows and ribbons; but I’ll warrant for fresh, sweet beauty you’ll come out ahead of all of ’em, Pet.”
“You think so much of me, dear good old uncle,” cried Daisy, gratefully. “I–I wonder if any one in the world could ever–could ever care for me as–as you do?” whispered Daisy, laying her soft, warm cheek against his rough hand.
“No one but a husband,” he responded, promptly. “But you are too young to have such notions in your head yet awhile. Attend to your books, and don’t think of beaus. Now that we are on the subject, I might as well speak out what I’ve had on my mind some time back. I don’t want my little Daisy to fall in love with any of these strangers she happens to meet. You are too young to know anything about love affairs. You’ll never rightly understand it until it comes to you. I must know all about the man who wants my little Daisy. Whatever you do, little one, do upright and honestly. And, above all, never deceive me. I have often heard of these romantic young school-girls falling in love with handsome strangers, and clandestine meetings following, ending in elopements; but, mark my words, no good comes of these deceptions–forewarned is forearmed. Daisy, you’ll always remember my words, and say to yourself: ‘He knows what is best.’ You will remember what I say, won’t you, Pet?”
He wondered why the fair, sweet face grew as pale as a snow-drop, and the cold little fingers trembled in his clasp, and the velvety eyes drooped beneath his earnest gaze.
“Yes,” whispered Daisy; “I shall remember what you have said.”
In spite of her efforts to speak naturally and calmly the sweet voice would tremble.
“Bal–ti–more!” shouted the brakeman, lustily. “Twenty minutes for breakfast. Change cars for the north and west!”
“Ah, here we are!” cried John, hastily gathering up their satchels and innumerable bundles. “We must make haste to reach the uptown omnibus to get a seat, or we shall have to stand and cling to the strap all the way up. I’m an old traveler, you see. There’s nothing like knowing the ins and outs.”
“Have a coach uptown, sir? Take you to any part of the city. Coach, sir?” cried innumerable hackmen, gathering about them.
Daisy tightened her hold on John’s arm. She quite believed they intended to pick her up and put her in the coach by main force. One of them was actually walking off with her reticule.
“Hold there, young man,” cried John, quickly, recovering the satchel. “Don’t make yourself uneasy on our account. We would be pleased to ride in your conveyance if you don’t charge anything. We have no money.”
The loquacious hackmen fell back as if by magic. Daisy was blushing like a rose, terribly embarrassed. John Brooks laughed long and heartily.
“That’s the quickest way in the world to rid yourself of those torments,” he declared, enjoying his little joke hugely. “Why, Daisy, if you had come on alone some of those chaps would have spirited you away without even saying so much as ‘by your leave.’”
Mme. Whitney’s Seminary for Young Ladies was a magnificent structure, situated in the suburbs of Baltimore. On either side of the pebbled walk which led to the main entrance were tall fountains tossing their rainbow-tinted sprays up to the summer sunshine. The lawn in front was closely shaven, and through the trees in the rear of the building could be seen the broad rolling Chesapeake dancing and sparkling in the sunlight. The reputation of this institution was second to none. Young ladies were justly proud of being able to say they finished their education at Mme. Whitney’s establishment.
As a natural consequence, the school was composed of the élite of the South. Clang! clang! clang! sounded the great bell from the belfry as Daisy, with a sinking, homesick feeling stealing over her, walked slowly up the paved walk by John Brooks’ side toward the imposing, aristocratic structure.
Poor little Daisy never forgot that first day at boarding-school; how all the dainty young girls in their soft white muslins glanced in surprise at her when Mme. Whitney brought her into the school-room, but she could have forgiven them for that if they had not laughed at her poor old uncle John, in his plain country garb, and they giggled behind their handkerchiefs when she clung to his neck and could not say good-bye through her tears, but sunk down into her seat, leaning her head on her desk, bravely trying to keep back the pearly drops that would fall.
When recess came Daisy did not leave her seat. She would have given the world to have heard Rex’s voice just then; she was beginning to realize how much his sheltering love was to her. She would even have been heartily glad to have been back in the little kitchen at the cottage, no matter how much Septima scolded her.
All the girls here had the same haughty way of tossing their heads and curling their lips and looking innumerable things out of their eyes, which reminded Daisy so strongly of Pluma Hurlhurst.
Most of the girls had left the school-room, dividing off into groups and pairs here and there. Daisy sat watching them, feeling wretchedly lonely. Suddenly a soft white hand was laid lightly on her shoulder, and a sweet voice said:
“We have a recess of fifteen minutes, won’t you come out into the grounds with me? I should be so pleased to have you come.” The voice was so gentle, so coaxing, so sweet, Daisy involuntarily glanced up at the face of the young girl bending over her as she arose to accompany her. She put her arm around Daisy’s waist, school-girl fashion, as they walked down the lone halls and out to the green grassy lawn. “My name is Sara Miller,” she said; “will you tell me yours?”
“Daisy Brooks,” she answered, simply.
“What a pretty name!” cried her new-found friend, enthusiastically, “and how well it suits you! Why, it is a little poem in itself.”
Daisy flushed as rosy as the crimson geraniums near them, remembering Rex, her own handsome Rex, had said the same thing that morning he had carried her heavy basket to the gates of Whitestone Hall–that morning when all the world seemed to change as she glanced up into his merry brown eyes.
“We are to be room-mates,” explained Sara, “and I know I shall like you ever so much. Do you think you will like me?”
“Yes,” said Daisy. “I like you now.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Sara, making a mock courtesy. “I am going to love you with all my might, and if you don’t love me you will be the most ungrateful creature in the world. I know just how lonesome you must be,” continued Sara. “I remember just how lonesome I was the first day I was away from mamma, and when night set in and I was all alone, and I knew I was securely locked in, I was actually thinking of tearing the sheets of my bed into strips and making a rope of them, and letting myself down to the ground through the window, and making for home as fast as I could. I knew I would be brought back the next day, though,” laughed Sara. “Mamma is so strict with me. I suppose yours is too?”
