CHAPTER XXXIV.
The sunny summer days came and went, lengthening themselves into long weeks before Daisy Brooks opened her eyes to consciousness. No clew could be found as to who the beautiful young stranger was.
Mr. Tudor had proposed sending her to the hospital––but to this proposition his wife would not listen.
“No, indeed, Harvey,” she exclaimed, twisting the soft, golden curls over her white fingers, “she shall stay here where I can watch over her myself, poor little dear.”
“You amaze me, my dear,” expostulated her husband, mildly. “You can not tell who you may be harboring.”
“Now, Harvey,” exclaimed the little woman, bending over the beautiful, still, white face resting against the crimson satin pillow, “don’t insinuate there could be anything wrong with this poor child. My woman’s judgment tells me she is as pure as those lilies in yonder fountain’s bed.”
“If you had seen as much of the world as I have, my dear, you would take little stock in the innocence of beautiful women; very homely women are rarely dangerous.”
“There is no use in arguing the point, Harvey. I have determined she shall not be sent to the hospital, and she shall stay here.”
Mrs. Tudor carried the point, as she always did in every argument.