"Yes, she is a mite of a Daisy, but a very precious one," he answered; then looking into the flushed face, with its soft, shining eyes and parted lips, he added, "You are a Daisy yourself."
The flowers she held dropped at her feet unheeded as she clasped both hands upon her breast, and with quick-coming breath and filling eyes, asked eagerly, "How did you know it, sir? how did you know it?"
"Know what, my child? What troubles you?"
"How did you know I was Daisy?" she almost gasped.
"I did not know it," he answered in surprise. "Is your name Daisy? I thought it was Margaret."
"They call me Margaret, sir,—Betty and Jack; but Daisy is my own, own name, that papa and mamma called me," she answered, recovering herself a little.
"And where are your papa and mamma?" he asked. "I thought the woman who keeps the fruit-stall at the corner was your mother."
"Oh, no, sir!" she said. "She is only Betty. She is very good to me, but she is not mamma. Mamma was a lady," she added, with simple, childish dignity, which told that she was a lady herself.
"But where are your father and mother?" he repeated, with fresh interest in the child.