“We thought,” pursued Mrs. Tudor, gently, “that perhaps you desired to see my husband––he is a detective––upon some matter. You fainted when you were just within the gate.”
“Was it your garden?” asked Daisy, surprisedly. “I thought it was a park!”
“Then you were not in search of Mr. Tudor, my dear?” asked his wife, quite mystified.
“No,” replied Daisy. “I wanted to get away from every one who knew me, or every one I knew, except Uncle John.”
“I shall not question her concerning herself to-day,” Mrs. Tudor thought. “I will wait a bit until she is stronger.” She felt delicate about even asking her name. “She will seek my confidence soon,” she thought. “I must wait.”
Mrs. Tudor was a kind-hearted little soul. She tried every possible means of diverting Daisy’s attention from the absorbing sorrow which seemed consuming her.
She read her choice, sparkling paragraphs from the papers, commenting upon them, in a pretty, gossiping way.
Nothing seemed to interest the pretty little creature, or bring a smile to the quivering, childish lips.
“Ah! here is something quite racy!” she cried, drawing her chair up closer to the bedside. “A scandal in high life. This is sure to be entertaining.”