ard with only Leo for my companion.

I had to tell Julia about it, and I gathered up the four scraps of paper
from the floor where Daisy had thrown them, and, joining them together,
saw they really were the marriage settlement, and kept them for Guy,
should he ever be able to hear about it and know what it meant. There
was a telegram for me the next evening, dated at Detroit, and bearing
simply the words, "Arrived safely," and that was all I heard of Daisy.
No one in town knew of her having been here but Julia and myself, and it
was better that they should not, for Guy's life hung on a thread, and
for many days and nights I trembled lest that promise, sealed by a kiss,
would have to be redeemed.

That was three weeks ago, and Guy is better now and knows us all, and
to-day, for the first time, I have a strong hope that I am not to be
left alone, and I thank Heaven for that hope, and feel as if I were at
peace with all the world, even with Daisy herself, from whom I have
heard nothing since that brief telegram.

AUGUST 1, ----.

The shadow of death has passed from our house, and I may almost say the
shadow of sickness, too, for though Guy is still weak as a child and
thin as a ghost, he is decidedly on the gain, and to-day I drove him out
for the third time, and felt from something he said that he was
beginning to feel some interest in the life so kindly given back to him.
Still he will never be just the same. The blow stunned him too
completely for him to recover quite his old hopeful, happy manner, and
there is a look of age in his face which pains me to see. He knows Daisy
has been here, and why. I had to tell him all about it, and sooner, too,
than I meant. Almost his first coherent question to me after his reason
came back was:

"Where is Daisy? I am sure I heard her voice. It could not have been a
dream. Is she here, or has she been here? Tell me the truth, Fanny."

So I told him, though I did not mean to, and showed him the bits of
paper, and held his head on my bosom while he cried like a little child.
How he loves her yet, and how glad he was to know that she was not as
mercenary as it would at first seem. Not that her tearing up that paper
will make any difference about the money. She cannot give it to him, he
says, until she is of age, neither does he wish it at all, and he would
not take it from her; but he is glad to see her disposition in the
matter; glad to have me think better of her than I did, an