PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This little story, by Miss Marshall Saunders, author of “Beautiful Joe,” appeared some years ago in England, in the interests of a benevolent institution. It has seemed worthy of a wider publication, and hence it is brought out in its present dress. The infantile grace and quaint ways of the little child; her influence in shaping a somewhat warped life, with all its incidental lessons, and the final happy ending of it all, will give the little story, we are sure, a wide audience and a cordial reception.

CHAPTER I

A Baby’s Grace

ONE evening, Mrs. Drummond, the tired, careworn woman who presided over our boarding house, glanced down the well-spread table, and informed us that the next day we were to have a new boarder—a Mr. Robertson, a young bank clerk who had lately come from England to our prosperous Canadian town.

I knew the lad by reputation, and the next morning when he sauntered into the dining room, I looked at him carefully. Poor boy, his eye was heavy, and his step languid. In his foolish endeavors to “see life,” he was fast losing the purity of heart and mind with which he had quitted his far-away home, and it was making its mark upon him in a way not to be mistaken.

He sat opposite me, and I could see that he was making a mere pretence of taking his breakfast.

Presently, there was a remark from Mrs. Drummond’s end of the table. The child was speaking—the child par excellence, for there was not another one in the house. She was a curious little creature—willful, disdainful, neglected by her mother, and 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 her.

“No,” he replied, his hand on the door, “I lunch in town; you won’t see me till evening.” The child’s face fell, and she turned silently away.

I went out quickly, and overtook him before he reached the corner of the street. “That child seems to have taken quite a fancy to you,” I said quietly; “I never before knew her to show so much interest in any one.”

“I don’t know why she does,” he answered awkwardly, and with some impatience, “unless it is owing to my having spoken to her the other day. When I went to engage my room, she was sitting in a corner alone, and I gave her a picture I happened to have in my pocket.” He stopped suddenly. He did not tell me then, nor did I find out until long afterward, that the little, lonely child had reminded him of a dead sister of his, and that when he gave her the picture, he gave her a kiss with it.

I made some trite remark about the softening and good influences a child can throw around one—I did not intend to hint at all that he was in need of such influences; but so suspicious was he in his dawning manhood, that he resented my remark, and relapsed into profound silence. A minute later, he left me, under the pretence of taking a short cut to the bank.

I did not see him again until evening. I entered the dining room on the first stroke of the dinner bell. Mrs. Drummond had just preceded me. I could not help smiling at her dismayed face. Daisy, with excited, nervous movements, was dragging her high-chair from the head of the table, to a place near Robertson’s.

“That young man has bewitched the child,” she said fretfully. “She slapped me just now, because I would not let her put on her best dress for him.”

While she was speaking Robertson entered the room. He was in better spirits than in the morning. When his eye fell on Daisy, sitting flushed with victory beside his plate, he smiled and pinched her cheek as he sat down. During the progress of the meal he showed a certain amount of attention to the scrap of humanity at his side; and she, with no eyes for the other people at the table, hung on his looks, and with a more practical interest in his welfare, watched every morsel of food that went into his mouth. Once she said impatiently to me, “You wed-haired man, you—don’t you see dat Woland wants some vegetables? Pass some quick.”

Dinner over, all scattered about the house. Daisy never retired earlier than any other person, so I watched her curiously to see what she would do. Robertson had gone to his room. With a disappointed air she seated herself on the lowest step of the staircase. Some young men standing about the hall tried to tease her. “Baby dear,” said one of them mischievously, “I’m afraid you’re going to be a flirt.”

“What’s dat?” she said, holding out inviting arms to the yellow cat that was sneaking about my boots.

“A flirt is an animal with eyes all over its head, and an enormous mouth, and it goes about the world eating men,” explained another.

Poor Daisy—she was yet at the stage of believing everything she heard. She shrugged her white shoulders, as she said, “Drefful!” and hugged her dingy cat a little closer. Presently they all laughed. She had thrown the cat to the floor, and sprung to her feet. Robertson was coming downstairs, very carefully dressed, a light overcoat thrown over his arm. Evidently, it was his intention to spend the evening with some of his friends.

Daisy inquired wistfully whether he was going out, and on his replying in the affirmative, she asked whether it was “work” that was taking him—that term signifying to her something that could not be neglected.

“No, Daisy,” he said, trying to escape her detaining hands, “I am going to see a play.”

“Woland,” she said beseechingly, “won’t you stay an’ play wid me an’ Pompey?” pointing toward the yellow cat, that was glaring at him from under a hall chair.

It was not a very inviting prospect. He laughed, put her aside, saying, “Some other time, little girl,” and went toward the hall door. The child watched him, her little breast heaving, her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her dress. He was going to leave her, the only person in the house whom she cared for. The disappointment was too great, “Oh, Woland—I fought you would stay,” she said, in a choking voice. Then dropping on the white fur rug at her feet, she burst into a perfect passion of tears.

This was such an unprecedented proceeding on the part of the self-contained child, that a crowd of anxious faces soon surrounded her. “Whatever is the matter with the child?” said her mother querulously, as she bent over the pink, sobbing bundle. “She hasn’t cried since the day she fell downstairs, and nearly killed herself.”

Robertson hurried back at the sound of the wailing voice. “Has she hurt herself?” he asked anxiously. He looked astonished when we explained the cause of her emotion. “Don’t cry, Daisy,” he said, “I will stay with you to-morrow evening.”

The child’s sobs redoubled. He hesitated, looked at his watch, then muttered “I suppose I would be a brute to leave her like this.”

“Daisy,” I whispered in her curly locks, “he is going to stay with you.” A shriek of joy, and the child was on her feet, clinging to his hand with an enthusiasm that made him turn away with a half-foolish air. The next two hours were uninterrupted bliss for Daisy. She spent them in one of the parlors, leaning against Robertson’s knee, looking at photographs of the Athenian Marbles. They were evidently Greek to her, but one glance at Robertson would smooth out her little, puzzled forehead. At ten o’clock her little head drooped and she soon fell fast asleep, so that he carried her upstairs, her face bordered by its curls resting confidingly on his shoulder. When he came down, I saw him glance irresolutely at the clock, as if uncertain whether to go out or not. I asked him whether he would like to come to my room. I had some curios which I had picked up in my rambles about the world which I thought would be of interest to him. Some of them I told him were from Athens, and bore some relation to the Marbles he had been examining. He thanked me

very politely, but very stiffly, and said that at some future time he would like to see them. In some way, he hardly knew why, he felt very sleepy this evening, and would go to bed at once. He went, and thoughts of his little companion went with him as he sunk to a rest purer and sweeter than that which had been his during the weeks preceding.

CHAPTER II

Sunshine and Shadow

THE next day was Sunday. As I came downstairs in the morning I saw that Daisy was in her old place, on the lowest step of the staircase. My salutation she returned with reserve, but presently I heard a gay, “Mornin’, dear,” and turning around, saw that she was holding up her face to Robertson for a kiss. Before they entered the dining room, she made solicitous inquiries about his night’s rest. He laughed shortly. “I haven’t slept so well for many a night,” he said. Her little face brightened, and they went together to the table.

The church bells were ringing when we finished breakfast, and some one laughingly asked Daisy where she was going to attend service. “You are teasin’ me,” she said rebukingly; “you 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 gently as I could. “Won’t you come and talk to me for a little while?” Disregarding the latter part of my sentence, she said mournfully, “Do you weally fink so?”

I nodded my head. She let the cat slip to the floor, with a wrathful “Get downstairs, you wetched beast,” and then went silently away. There was a little, dark corner near a back staircase, to which she often retreated in times of great trouble. There I think, she passed the next hour. About nine o’clock she appeared and from that time until nearly every one in the house had gone to bed, she wandered restlessly, but quietly, about the parlors and halls. I knew what she was waiting for—poor, little, lonely creature. Shortly after eleven, Mrs. Drummond put her head in the room. “Why, Daisy,” fretfully, “aren’t you in bed yet? Go right upstairs.”

The child silently obeyed, refusing, by a disdainful gesture, my offer to carry her. That night I could not get to sleep. It seemed as if I too was listening for a returning footstep. About one o’clock, there was a sound on the staircase. I got up, opened my door, and seeing that the night-light was burning in the hall, stepped out.

Robertson, with his hand on the railing, and a terribly red face, was coming slowly upstairs. Just as he reached his door, a little, white-robed figure stole into the hall. She ran up to him. “Oh my darlin’, darlin’ boy,” with a curious catching of her breath, “I fought you was lost, like de Babes in de Wood.”

He steadied himself against the wall, only half comprehending what she said. Then he muttered thickly, “Go to bed, child.”

“Vewy well,” she murmured obediently, then standing on tip-toe, “Kiss me good-night, Woland.”

With abashed eyes and shamed countenance, the young man looked down at the innocent, baby face, shining out of its tangle of curls. He was not fit to kiss her and he knew it. He turned his head from her, and in tones harsher than he really meant said, “Go away, Daisy.”

The child still clung to him. She did not understand why the caress should be denied her. Suddenly his mood changed. He uttered an oath, pushed her violently from him, and staggered into his room.

The child fell, struck her head heavily against the floor, then lay quite white and still. I hastened toward her, took her up in my arms, and rapped at her mother’s door. Mrs. Drummond was still up, sitting before a table, making entries in an account book. She started in nervous surprise, then when I explained matters, looked toward the empty crib, and said, “She must have slipped by me when my back was turned. Has she fainted? She sometimes does. I don’t know why she should be such a delicate child. Please put her in the crib. I will get some brandy.”

I glanced uneasily at the child’s pale face, then quitted the room. Early the next morning, Mrs. Drummond knocked at my door. “I wish you would come and look at Daisy,” she said querulously; “she has not slept all night, and now she has fallen into a kind of stupor; I can’t get her to speak to me.”

I hurried to the child’s cot, and bending over it said, “Daisy, don’t you want some breakfast?”

She neither moved nor spoke, and after making other ineffectual attempts to rouse her, I said, “The child is ill—you must call a doctor.”

“Suppose we get Mr. Robertson to speak to her,” she replied. “This may be only temper.”