't give up life and hope so easily as that.
Daisy-plant was safe yet, though it had been thrown on a heap of
rubbish.

The next day papa came in with something he had covered with a
handkerchief. Emma took away the handkerchief, and clapped her hands for
joy. "My own dear daisy," she said: "yes, I am sure it is the same.
Thank you, dear papa!"

Yes, papa had found it on the rubbish, had washed it from dirt, and
clipped off its broken leaves, and put it into a pretty little
flower-pot with some fine rich mould; and there was daisy as brisk and
bright as ever.

[Illustration]

Summer passed away, and autumn came, and Emma was as fond as ever of her
dear plant. But Mrs. Vincent, Emma's mother, had been very ill, and Dr.
Ware had cured her.

One day, while Emma was in the parlor with her father and mother, Dr.
Ware came in.

"I need not come again," he said: "I am here now to say good-by. You
will not want any more of my medicines."

Then Emma's papa thanked Dr. Ware very much for the skill and care which
he had shown in the case; and Emma's mother said, "I hope to show you
some day how grateful I am, Dr. Ware."

"What can I do to let him know how much I thank him?" thought Emma. "I
will give him my little daisy-plant," said she. So she took it to Dr.
Ware; and he was so much pleased, that he took her on his knee and
kissed her. But I am not sure that a little tear did not drop on
Daisy-flower, as Emma put it into the doctor's hand.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Music]

WINIFRED WATERS.

Music by T. CRAMPTON.

1. Winifred Waters sat and sighed
Under a weeping willow;
When she went to bed she cried,
Wetting all the pillow;
Kept on crying night and day,
Till her friends lost patience;
"What shall we do to stop her, pray?"
So said her relations.

2. Send her to the sandy plains,
In the zone called torrid;
Send her where it never rains,
Where the heat is horrid.
Mind that she has only flour
For her daily feeding;
Let her have a page an hour
Of the driest reading.

3. When the poor girl has endured
Six months of this drying,
Winifred will come back quite cured,
Let us hope, of crying.
Then she will not day by day
Make those mournful faces,
And we shall not have