him, but to all the house. An astonishing change had come over her since her illness. She was always gentle now, never sullen, and cheerful sometimes to gayety. The boarders had all taken to petting her—she was a link to bind them together and make them less selfish—and she seemed to appreciate their attentions, though her preference for Robertson was decidedly marked. Even Mrs. Drummond was changing. She often took Daisy on her lap now, and I had seen her brush away a tear when the child tried to smooth out her wrinkles with her tiny hand.

It was late in the summer when Daisy recovered from the fever. All through the autumn, Robertson gave her walks and drives, bought her picture-books and toys to amuse herself with during his absence, and with a sense of gratitude far beyond her years, her little heart seemed running over with love toward him.

Before the autumn closed my business connections took me away, and for several years I was a stranger to Fairfax. One winter day, when the air was thick with snowflakes, I came back. My first thoughts were of the Drummonds and Roland Robertson. Strange to say, he was one of the first men I met. He knew me at once, gave me a hearty greeting, and insisted upon my going along with him to his house.

There was no need to ask him how he was getting on. His surroundings showed worldly prosperity, his face, the happy, upright man. He looked grave when I spoke of the Drummonds. “Poor Mrs. Drummond—she has been dead for two years. She was utterly worn out.”

“And Daisy?”

He stroked a heavy moustache. His object, I think, was to conceal a smile. “She is in England at school. Her holidays she spends with my people.”

“And do they like her?”

“Immensely. She has grown to be a very beautiful girl, both in disposition and looks.” Then opening his coat, he drew from an inner pocket a picture—the head of a lovely young girl.

I scarcely recognized the delicate child of old. “And does she keep up her devotion to you?”

“She does.” He gave me a decidedly amused glance; carefully replaced next the photograph two or three pressed white field daisies that had fallen out, and put it back in his pocket.

“And what is to become of her?” I went on curiously.

He looked about his handsome, but solitary drawing room. “I am going to England in the spring, to get her,” he said with a laugh. “I have tried living without her, and I can endure it no longer.”

The End.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

Cover created for this ebook.

[The end of Daisy, by Margaret Marshall Saunders]