"What little beauties! Who are they for, papa?" asked Carrie.
"For little girls who have been helpful and kind to mamma during the past week," said Mr. Ransom, smiling. "I sent up the cages by express, but brought on the birds myself. Poor little fellows! they are glad to have reached their journey's end, I think."
"But there's only two, and there are fee girls," said Daisy,—"one, two, fee girls," pointing by turns to her sisters and herself, "and one, two birds. That's not enough, papa."
"Papa thought his Daisy too young to have the care of a bird yet," said Mr. Ransom, "but here is what he brought for her; for mamma wrote to him what a good girl she was, and what pains she was taking to cure herself of that foolish habit of crying for trifles."
And, unwrapping the last parcel, Mr. Ransom disclosed a box containing a pretty little dinner-set. At another time Daisy would have been delighted; but what was a dinner-set to a bird?
She stood looking from one to the other without the slightest expression of pleasure or satisfaction in her own pretty gift.
"Don't you like it, Daisy?" asked her father.
"Papa, I—I—I would if I could, but—but the birdies are 'live, and the dinner-set is dead; but I wouldn't cry about it, would I, mamma?"
With which she ran to her mother, and buried her face in her lap. Poor little woman! it was almost touching to see how hard she struggled with her too ready tears, which had been so long accustomed to have their way upon small occasion. There was no mistaking the good-will and resolution with which she was striving to cure herself of a rather vexatious and foolish habit; but it was such hard work as can only be imagined by little girls who have been troubled with a similar failing.
Mamma's praises and caresses helped her to conquer it this time again, though it was a harder trial than usual, and she altogether declined to look at the dinner-set, or to take any comfort therein.