“Good gracious!” he thought. “Has she followed us from St. Jo.?”
Then the girl looked up, and he recognized her.
“Daisy Blaney!” he exclaimed. “Why, I didn’t know you!”
No wonder he had not recognized the bold, saucy, reckless girl in this meek, abashed, low-spoken maiden.
“Yes, Daisy Blaney,” she said. “I thought perhaps you did not want to know me, and I did not wonder much.”
“Didn’t want to know you? Why not, Miss Blaney?”
“Oh, because—because—you know,” she faltered, in confusion. “I reckon I ain’t just the sort of girl you would be proud to introduce to your friends. You didn’t meet me under very favorable circumstances, and you must think I’m pretty far down the scale.”
“I hope not,” said Merry, quickly.
“Still, I know just what you think, and I don’t know that I blame you much. You are different from any show feller I ever met before. I never fancied any of them cared a snap what became of a girl if they could have a good time. None of them ever gave me any good advice before. I never saw one before you who was not ready to catch on and have a racket. Instead of catching on, you gave me a calling down. I knew I deserved it, and it made me feel all the more reckless. I thought I was too far on the road to turn back, and I tried to forget what you said to me; but I couldn’t forget it, and it kept sounding in my ears all the time. I couldn’t run away from the sound; I couldn’t drown it with music and laughter. I saw you looking at me in that sympathizing, pitying way, and, though I tried to laugh at you for a fool, your eyes haunted me. Oh, I tell you I was right miserable after that talk with you. You set me to thinking of mother and home.”
“Mother and home!” said Frank, softly. “The two strongest influences for good. How many a wayward wanderer has been reclaimed by thoughts of mother and home!”