"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is a cripple. Papa, her legs and feet are all bent up under her, so that she cannot walk at all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt."
"That is your idea of extreme misery, is it not, Daisy?"
"Papa, do you not think it is—it must be—very uncomfortable?"
"Very, I should think."
"But that is not her worst misery. Papa, she is all alone; the neighbours bring her food, but nobody stops to eat it with her. She is all alone by night and by day; and she is disagreeable in her temper, I believe, and she has nobody to love her and she loves nobody."
"Which of those two things is the worst, Daisy?"
"What two things, papa?"
"To love nobody, or to have nobody to love her?"
"Papa—I do not know." Then remembering Juanita, Daisy suddenly added,—"Papa, I should think it must be the worst to love nobody."
"Do you? Pray why?"