No wonder that on this Saturday morning she sighed when the young man was gone. Last evening the odor of wine had been distinct about him, and the wildness which his mother called good spirits, Daisy believed meant danger in a more terrible form than the mother had even thought of as yet.
A succession of low, rapid, impatient knocks sounded at her door, and almost before she could answer, her Cousin Blanche flitted in.
A marked contrast to Daisy was this Cousin Blanche. Not that her hair was not brown, and her cheeks rosy, and her whole face full of sparkle; pretty she was, decidedly, if she had kept her hair out of her eyes, which, when fully dressed, she never did. And there was a certain pleasure in looking at her. She took life in all its forms, even its forms of care such as touched her, with a sort of joyish abandon.
Yet I think if you understood girls, you would have looked at her again, and sighed. There was such a chance to fade; you felt that she would fade, perhaps, with the first storm. You could not find what there was in Daisy's face that looked as though it might glow even amidst the storm, and certainly shine serene and sweet after the fierceness of storm was past.
She was in full flutter of excitement this morning, and caught at Daisy and whirled her about the room until the child was breathless, and her hair blown in waves into her wondering eyes, before there was an explanation of her mood.
"Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have such good, splendid news for you! What do you think Phil says?
"We've been talking with him, mamma and I, and he promised; he actually promised! Daisy, do you hear?
"And when Philip Hurst promises anything, it is as good as done."
"What did he say?" This from Daisy, her cheeks like two blush roses, and the shadow gone.
"Why, he said he would go to Sabbath-school with you to-morrow, and go into Mr. Easton's class, and stay through the entire session, if we would get you to do something for him."