“I don’t know,” he said, looking over at Leslie; “your Mamma is such a very particular lady, Daisy, that she might be too proud to accept my offering.”
“Why,” cried the child, “that’s just what Uncle Ainsworth says about you: that you are too proud to take a gift from him, and it vexes him, too.”
“Daisy, Daisy!” cried Leslie, holding up a warning finger.
“Your uncle is a very unreasonable man, Daisy,” laughed Stanhope. “Now tell me, do you think I had better offer your Mamma a birthday present?”
“Why”—and Daisy opened wide her blue eyes—“Uncle Alan says that everybody who loves Mamma will remember her birthday. Don’t you love my Mamma?”
“Yes,” said Stanhope slowly, and fixing his eyes upon Leslie’s face, “I love her very much.”
Leslie’s cheeks were suffused with blushes, and she sat quite silent, with downcast eyes.
“Daisy,” said Stanhope, putting the child down quickly, “go to your uncle Ainsworth, and tell him that I have changed my mind; that I want the best part of his fortune. Run, dear.”
And as the child flew from the room, he rose and stood before Leslie.
“If your father yields to my demand,” he said softly, “what will be your verdict?”