know I berry seldom go out.”

“Does no one take you for walks?” asked Robertson. The child shook her head, and said that her mamma was always busy. The lad drew up his stalwart frame, stifled some kind of an indignant exclamation, and looked pityingly down at the pale, delicate figure of the child. Daisy was watching him attentively. “Woland,” she said inquiringly, “Have you any work dis mornin’?”

“No, Daisy.”

“Then can’t you dive me a walk?”

Her little hand stole confidingly in his. Her tone was coaxing in the extreme. He laughed, and said: “Very well—go ask your mamma.”

In delighted surprise, she scampered to her mother’s end of the table. “Mamma, may I go a-walkin’ wid Wo—wid Mithter Wobertson?” Mrs. Drummond looked up, hastily ran her eyes over Daisy’s shabby frock, then over Robertson’s handsome suit of clothes. “You have nothing fit to wear, child.”

Daisy’s face became the picture of despair. “The child looks very well as she is,” interposed Robertson dryly, as he walked toward them, “and it is a warm day; she only wants a bonnet.” Daisy listened in delight, then when her mother’s consent was gained, seized Robertson’s fingers and pressed them to her lips. Not long after I had taken my seat in church that morning, a tall young man with a child clinging to him, came walking up the aisle to a seat in front of me. To my surprise, I saw Robertson and Daisy. He, I fear, napped a little during the sermon. Not a word was lost on Daisy. She sat bolt upright, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on the clergyman. At the close of the service, we found ourselves near each other and walked home together. As we passed through the hot, sunny streets, Robertson, as if to apologize for being in church, said, “After we got outdoors this morning, Daisy insisted upon going to church, to see the clergyman ‘wing de bells.’”

“The child is almost a heathen,” I answered, in a low voice; “I wish her mother would send her to Sunday-school.”

Daisy’s sharp ears caught my remark. “Is dat where little chillens go Sunday afternoons, wid pretty books under dere arms?”

“Yes,” I replied; “wouldn’t you like to go too?”

“May I, Woland?” eagerly. “I will be berry good.”

He laughed, and said that they must ask her mamma to give the subject her consideration.

For the rest of the day, Daisy followed Robertson about the house like a pet dog. Toward evening, some of his friends came in, and he shook himself free from her, and went up to his room with them. After a time, they all came trooping downstairs. The sound of their merry voices floated to the room where I was sitting. But they were all hushed, when a babyish voice asked, “Are you going out, Woland?”

Robertson resorted to artifice to prevent the recurrence of a scene. “Daisy,” he said, “my friend here, Mr. Danforth”—laying his hand on the shoulder of the youth nearest him—“is a great admirer of yellow cats. Do you suppose that Pompey could be persuaded to walk upstairs and say ‘How-do-you-do’ to him?”

“Oh yes, dear boy,” said the child, trotting downstairs to fulfill her favorite’s behest. When the sound of her footsteps died away, there was subdued laughter, and some one said, “Who is that pretty child, Robertson?” Then the door banged, and there was silence.

When I heard Daisy returning, I went to the door. She came hurrying along, firmly holding the disconsolate-looking, yellow animal under her arm. A blank look overspread her face when she saw that I was sole occupant of the hall. “Where is Mithter Wobertson?” she inquired of me in a dignified way.

“He has gone out,” I said, as