MAUD.
The little Maud grew more beautiful every day; she was fair as a lily, except that you might think rose leaves had been crushed to color her cheeks. Her bright eyes were shaded by long, silky lashes; and her pretty mouth, when it was shut, concealed two rows of delicate, pearly teeth. Her hair hung in a cloud of dark-brown curls, touched on the edges with a golden tinge.
The old dame took care that her dress should be always fine; and while she gave Daisy the coarsest woollen gowns, brought delicate muslins for Maud.
But Daisy did not mind this; she was glad to see her beautiful sister dressed handsomely; and, besides, how could she crowd through the bushes by the river bank, or sit on the ground looking at grass and flowers through her spectacles, if her own dresses were so frail?
It was not, after all, so very amusing as Daisy had hoped, to take care of Miss Maud, when she began to run about and play. She did not dare to go in the wood, for fear of bugs and snakes; she did not like to sail chips in the river, and make believe they were boats; she tossed away Daisy's wooden doll, and called it a homely thing; she pulled up her sister's flowers, and always wanted to go in a different place and do a different thing from her.
The little girl found it hard to give up so many pleasures; but she kept thinking that Maud would be older soon, and would know better than to be so troublesome.
And Maud was no sooner large enough to run about than Daisy wished her young again; for she took pains to tread on the prettiest flowers, and call them old weeds, and would chase every butterfly that came in sight, and tear his wings off, and then laugh because he could not fly; she pinched the rabbits' ears until they grew so wild they were almost afraid of Daisy, and seemed to have no pleasure except in making those about her very uncomfortable.
Yes, Maud had one other pleasure—she loved to sit beside the still pools in the wood, that were like mirrors, and watch the reflection of her handsome face.
But after this, she was sure to go home peevish and discontented, telling her mother and Daisy what a shame it was to live in such a lonely place, and have no one admire her beauty; and to be so poor, and depend on the charity of "that hag," as she called the dame.
Then she loved to tell Daisy what a common-looking little thing she was, and how the mark of those ugly spectacles was always on her face, and every day it grew more homely and serious, and as if she were a daughter of the dame. "As for myself," Maud would end, "I am the child, I know, of some great man; the dame has stolen me away from him, I feel sure, and then thinks I ought to be grateful because she brings me these clothes."