"O, no—what could tire him, Maud? He looked strong, and noble, and glad, and seemed, among the dark trees, like a shining light."
"Alas! then it was I who tired him, and made him sorrowful," thought Maud; then said, aloud, "But, Daisy, are you sure he took your hand? See, it is smeared with the old dame's blood, and soiled with tears you wiped from the beggar's face, and stained and roughened with hard work: are you sure he touched it?"
"The whole was so strange, that I dare not be sure whether any part of it was real," replied Daisy, who was so modest that she did not wish to tell all Christ had said.
"I am sure, then," outspoke the dame. "He took her hand, and—listen to me, Maud!—he said, 'This blood, these tears, these labor stains, will be the brightest jewels you can wear in heaven; have courage, and be patient, Daisy—for beautiful words are written here, that never will fade away.'"
And when Maud asked what they were, the dame replied sharply, "Exactly the opposite of words that are written on somebody's fine hands: self-sacrifice, and generosity, and faith, and earnestness, and love. Such words as these make Daisy's rough hands beautiful."
CHAPTER XXII.
THE FACE AND THE HEART.
"Can I give up my beautiful face, and become a poor little drudge, like Daisy?" asked Maud of herself. "No, it's a great deal too much trouble. I can find plenty of friends at the fair; and so I will forget the sad, sweet face that has haunted me all these months."