"So my dear little Daisy," said her father drawing his arm round her a little more closely—"you think a rose-bush would serve instead of friends to make this poor creature happy?"
"O no, papa!"
"What was the purpose of it, then?"
"Only—to get her to like me, papa."
"What were you going to do to make her happy?"
"Papa, if you lived in such a place, in such a way, wouldn't you like to have a friend come and see you sometimes?"
"Certainly!—if you were the friend."
"I thought—by and by—she might learn to like it," Daisy said in the most sedately meek way possible. Her father could not forbear a smile.
"But Daisy, from what you tell me, I am at a loss to understand the part that all this could have had in your happiness."
"O papa—she is so miserable!" was Daisy's answer. Mr. Randolph drew her close and kissed her.