her, as she opened
her eyes to consciousness, since she had first been stricken down.

"And I have been here ever since?" she inquired, wonderingly.

"Yes, my dear," replied Ruth Burton, softly patting the thin white
cheeks; "of course you have been here ever since. I am afraid we are
going to lose you soon, however. We have received a letter from your
husband, saying he will be here some time to-morrow. Shall you be
pleased to see him, dear?"

In one single instant all the dim, horrible past rushed back to Daisy's
mind. She remembered flinging herself down in the clover-scented
grass, and the world growing dark around her, as the terrible words of
Stanwick rang in her ears--he would be back in just fifteen minutes to
claim her.

Ah, bonny little Daisy, tossing on your pillow, babbling empty
nothings, better would it have been for you, perhaps, if you had
dropped the weary burden of your life into the kindly arms of death
then and there than to struggle onward into the dark mystery which lay
entombed in your future.

"Shall you be glad to see Mr. Stanwick, dear?" repeated the old lady,
and, unconscious of any wrong, she placed the letter he had written in
Daisy's hands. Like one in a terrible dream, Daisy read it quite
through to the end. "You see, he says he incloses fifty dollars extra
for you, dear. I have placed it with the twenty safe in your little
purse."

"Oh, Miss Ruth, you are so very kind to me. I shall never forget how
good you have all been to me," said Daisy, softly, watching the three
peaceful-faced old ladies, who had drawn their rocking-chairs, as was
their custom, all in a row, and sat quietly knitting in the sunshine,
the gentle click of their needles falling soothingly upon Daisy's
poor, tired brain.

"We shall miss you sadly when you go," said Ruth, knitting away
vigorously. "You have been like a ray of sunshine in this gloomy old
house. We have all learned to love you very dearly."

"You love me?" repeated Daisy, wonderingly. "I was beginning to
believe every one hated me in the whole world, every one has been so
bitter and so cruel with me, except poor old Uncle John. I often
wonder why God lets me live--what am I to do with my life! Mariana in
the moated grange, was not more to be pitied than I. Death relieved
her, but I am left to struggle on."

"Heaven hear her!" cried Ruth. "One suffers a great deal to lose all
interest in life. You are so young, dear, you could not have suffered