In the distance the little babbling brook sung to her of peace and rest beneath its curling, limpid waters.
“Oh, mother, mother,” she cried, “what was the dark sorrow that tortured your poor brain, till it drove you mad––ay, mad––ending in death and despair? Why did you leave your little Daisy here to suffer so? I feel such a throbbing in my own poor brain––but I must fly anywhere, anywhere, to escape this new sorrow. God has forgotten me.” She took one step forward in a blind, groping, uncertain way. “My last ray of hope has died out,” she cried as the memory of his cruel words came slowly back to her, so mockingly uttered––“the minister would be none the wiser––he is blind.”
CHAPTER XIV.
When Lester Stanwick returned to the cottage he found that quite an unexpected turn of events had transpired. Miss Burton had gone out to Daisy––she lay so still and lifeless in the long green grass.
“Heaven bless me!” she cried, in alarm, raising her voice to a pitch that brought both of the sisters quickly to her side. “Matilda, go at once and fetch the doctor. See, this child is ill, her cheeks are burning scarlet and her eyes are like stars.”
At that opportune moment they espied the doctor’s carriage proceeding leisurely along the road.
“Dear me, how lucky,” cried Ruth, “Doctor West should happen along just now. Go to the gate, quick, Matilda, and ask him to stop.”
The keen eyes of the doctor, however, had observed the figure lying on the grass and the frantic movements of the three old ladies bending over it, and drew rein of his own accord to see what was the matter.