so herself. Besides, how should
Mr Oswald have anything to do with meeting her? That was his own
little girl with him, I daresay."

"Daisy Oswald has close-cropped, black hair," replied Miss Gibbins,
quite unshaken in her opinion. "This child was older, and her hair
shone like gold. I feel sure it was Prissy's daughter."

CHAPTER THREE.

WAVERLEY.

Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide.

Milton.

While this went on at Dornton, Anna was getting nearer and nearer to her
new home. At first she was pleased and excited at setting forth on a
journey all by herself, and found plenty to occupy her with all she saw
from the carriage windows, and with wondering which of the villages and
towns she passed so rapidly were like Dornton and Waverley. It was
surprising that the old lady sitting opposite to her could look so
placid and calm. Perhaps, however, she was not going to a strange place
amongst new people, and most likely had taken a great many journeys
already in her life. Anna was glad this was not her own ease: it must
be very dull, she thought, to be old, and to have got used to
everything, and to have almost nothing to look forward to.

As the day wore on, and the hot afternoon sun streamed in at the
windows, the old lady, who was her only companion, fell fast asleep, and
Anna began to grow rather weary. She took the case with her mother's
picture in it out of her pocket and studied it again attentively. The
gentle, sweet face seemed to smile back kindly at her. "If you are half
as beautiful and a quarter as good," her father had said. Was she at
all like the picture now? Anna wondered. Surely her hair was rather
the same colour. She pulled a piece of it round to the front--it was
certainly yellow, but hardly so bright. Well, her grandfather would
tell her--she would ask him on the very first opportunity. Her
grandfather! It was wonderful to think she should really see him soon,
and ask him all sorts of questions about her mother. He lived at
Dornton, but that was only two miles from Waverley, and, no doubt, she
should often be able to go there. He was an organist.

Her father's tone, half-pitying, half-disapproving, came back to her
with the word. She tried to think of what she knew about organists. It
was not much. There was an organist in the church in London to which
she had gone every Sunday with Miss Milverton, but he was always
concealed behind red