"Carry her home to her cave; why did you bring her to me?" said Maud.
But just then she seemed to see the cold, bare cave that Daisy had told her about, with nothing except wooden stools and a smoky fireplace—no soft bed, no child to watch over and comfort the poor old dame.
So Maud called the servants back, and had the woman placed in her own room, and watched with her, and bathed her limbs, and though she was fretful, did not once neglect her through a long and tedious illness.
At last, the dame felt well enough to go home, and bade good by to Maud, who begged her not to go; "for," she said,—and the tears came into her eyes,—"you make me think of dear Daisy, the only one that ever loved me, with this selfish heart."
"No, no; I cannot trust you," said the dame, and disappeared.
But she came back, with such a bundle in her arms as she had brought to Susan once; and when Maud looked up to thank her, lo! the dame had changed to a lovely fairy, with a young, sweet face—the same that Daisy used to talk about.
Bending over Maud, she wiped the tears from her face, and put the bundle in her arms, and disappeared.
And when the little child learned to love her, Maud forgot her fears and cares, her cruel husband and her selfish self, and found how much happier it makes us to give joy than to receive it.
The little girl was named Daisy, and grew up not only beautiful and rich, but wise and good; she spent her money nobly, and gained the love and added to the happiness of all her friends.
But the one whom she made happiest was her own mother—Maud.