"Didn't I tell you the life was there?" whispered her aunt. "Hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise Him who is the health of my countenance and my God!"
When her father came home that night, there was a different atmosphere somehow in the quiet room, and about his little girl. There was nothing that he could say was altered, except that a bunch of snowdrops stood in a vase beside his plate; but Daisy's eyes had the light of hope in them.
"The child has been talking to Jesus, I fancy," said his sister that night, "and any one who talks to Him finds the worst burden lifted!"
[CHAPTER VII.]
MILICENT'S MUSIC.
"WHY, Milicent!" exclaimed her aunt. "Crying over your music, darling?"
Milicent was too miserable to mind being caught crying, though generally she was so brave that she would have resented the sympathy.
"I'm cold, and I can't get on; and Miss Seymour told me I was to do nothing till I had played this exercise twenty times."
Her aunt went up to her and touched the little icy fingers, which with contact with the cold ivory keys, were numbed and almost useless.
"Miss Seymour will let you warm them, I am sure, if I explained," said her auntie. "Come here on my knee, and while you get warm we will have a little talk. Then I will help you with your exercise afterwards, and you shall see how quickly we will learn it."