And Daffodil found her way to the guest's heart with very little effort. It might have been her beauty, that no one around seemed aware of, or her pretty, winsome manner. She accompanied him and her father on their rides about. She was a graceful and well-trained horsewoman. She had so many dainty legends of out-of-the-way nooks; most of them Norah had grafted on old country tales.
And the evenings at home came to be quite a delight for them all, listening to the glories of his city and the strides it had made. Of the famous men, of the many incidents in the great struggle, its churches and various entertainments as well as the social aspect. Daffodil listened enchanted.
They had come to be such friends that she sat on the broad arm of the chair, but he noted her wonderful delicacy in never dropping into familiarities, while they were so common with her father, and grandad was almost rough with her. True, Barbe had an innate refinement and it was the child's birth-right as well.
She sat there one afternoon. Mother and grandmother were busy preserving fruit for winter use, it grew so plentifully, but they had not mastered the art of keeping some of the choicest through the winter uncooked.
"Daffodil," he began gravely, "your parents have entertained me most delightfully. You have a charming home and I shall hate to leave it. But on Thursday there is a return post and I have overstayed the time I thought would be ample to transact the business I came about. And now I must return."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I do not want you to go."
What pleading, beautiful eyes she raised to him.
Old as he was it thrilled through his pulses.
"But, my child, I cannot live here. And I shall miss you so much. Why I have half a mind to run away with you. I wonder if you would like a visit to my beautiful city."
"Oh, it would be splendid! But—is there any one——"