music. Perhaps she wished she was
like that young wife, who had died so long ago, resting quietly
beneath the white daisies that bore her name.

"That is Madame Whitney's," exclaimed the lady, leaning forward toward
the window excitedly. "Dear me! I can almost imagine I am a young girl
again. Why, what is the matter, my dear? You look as though you were
about to faint."

The train whirled swiftly past--the broad, glittering Chesapeake on
one side, and the closely shaven lawn of the seminary on the other. It
was evidently recess. Young girls were flitting here and there under
the trees, as pretty a picture of happy school life as one would wish
to see. It seemed to poor hapless Daisy long ages must have passed
since that morning poor old John Brooks had brought her, a shy,
blushing, shrinking country lassie, among those daintily attired,
aristocratic maidens, who had laughed at her coy, timid mannerism, and
at the clothes poor John wore, and at his flaming red cotton
neckerchief.

She had not much time for further contemplation. The train steamed
into the Baltimore depot, and she felt herself carried along by the
surging crowd that alighted from the train.

She did not go into the waiting-room; she had quite forgotten she was
not at the end of her journey.

She followed the crowds along the bustling street, a solitary,
desolate, heart-broken girl, with a weary white face whose beautiful,
tender eyes looked in vain among the throngs that passed her by for
one kindly face or a sympathetic look.

Some pushed rudely by her, others looked into the beautiful face with
an ugly smile. Handsomely got-up dandies, with fine clothes and no
brains, nodded familiarly as Daisy passed them. Some laughed, and
others scoffed and jeered; but not one--dear Heaven! not one among the
vast throng gave her a kindly glance or a word. Occasionally one,
warmer hearted than the others, would look sadly on that desolate,
beautiful, childish face.

A low moan she could scarcely repress broke from her lips. A
handsomely dressed child, who was rolling a hoop in front of her,
turned around suddenly and asked her if she was ill.

"Ill?" She repeated the word with a vague feeling of wonder. What was
physical pain to the torture that was eating away her young life? Ill?
Why, all the illness in the world put together could not cause the
anguish she was suffering then--the sting of a broken heart.

She was not ill--only desolate and forsaken.