suspicious of all other mortals. Petting she despised, and invariably showed symptoms of displeasure if disturbed in her favorite occupation of playing with an ugly, yellow cat in dark corners of the house. But the strangest thing of all was her quietness. She never romped like other children, never prattled; indeed, she rarely spoke at all, so we were all attention as she pointed to young Robertson with her spoon, and said in a clear, babyish voice, “Dat’s a berry fine-lookin’ boy, mamma.”

Everybody smiled, for the boy in question, though manly and stalwart in appearance, had a decidedly plain face. He blushed a little, and bent over his plate. Mrs. Drummond took her hand from the coffee-urn long enough to lay it on Daisy’s head: “Hush, child, you must not talk at the table.”

“Wemove dat hand,” said the child, in a displeased tone. Then rapping on the table with her spoon, to call Robertson’s attention, she asked, “Boy, what’s your name?”

“Roland Robertson,” he replied, with an embarrassed laugh.

Daisy, intensely interested, and altogether regardless of the boarders’ amused glances, said in a stage whisper, while she solemnly wagged her curly head, “Woland Wobertson, I love you.” Then scrambling out of her high-chair, she ran down the long room, and peremptorily demanded a seat on his knee.

He started, looked annoyed, then sheepish, and finally took her up. It did not suit his English reserve to be made the cynosure of all eyes. Daisy sedately arranged her flounces, then watched him playing with his food. “Don’t you like fwicasseed chicken?” she asked, gently.

“Yes,” he said; “but I am not hungry.”

“Some mornin’s I eat nuffin too,” she said, in a relieved way; “more partickler when I have a glass of milk in de night. Woland,” tenderly patting the hand around her waist, “did you have a dwink in de night?”

Robertson’s face became scarlet. She viewed him with the utmost solicitude. Then turning to a lady next her, who had finished her breakfast, and was indolently fanning herself, “Dive me dat fan, de poor darlin’ is hot.”

Both on that occasion and many subsequent ones, Daisy amused us by the epithets she bestowed upon her favorite. We found that she had not been an inattentive observer of the many newly married couples that had sojourned at Mrs. Drummond’s.

Robertson was fanned for several minutes—Daisy striking his face, with an extra now and then for his nose, in her awkward zeal, until I wondered at his patience. Suddenly, he pushed back his chair, said he had finished his breakfast and that she had better get down. This gave rise to a stroke of childish policy. She ordered the table-maid to bring her hitherto neglected plate of porridge, and putting the spoon in Robertson’s hand insisted upon his feeding her. He complied with a pretty good grace. Daisy kept up an unbroken scrutiny of his face, and presently dodging a spoonful of milk, laid a pink forefinger on his upper lip. There was just the faintest suspicion of a moustache there. “I fordet what you call dis,” she said, “moss—moss——”

“Moustache,” he replied, abruptly bringing the porridge feeding performance to a close, and putting her on her tiny feet. She ran out of the room after him, pulling the napkin from her neck as she went. When I reached the hall, Robertson was taking down his hat from the rack, Daisy in close attendance. She was just prefacing a remark with, “Woland, love,” when Mrs. Drummond came out of the dining room.—“Daisy,” she said, peevishly, “you must say Mr. Robertson.”

“How berry cross you are dis mornin’,” said the child, throwing a glance at her over her shoulder; then turning to Robertson, she went on to ask him whether he would soon come back, to see