Truly Daisy wanted nothing else. She left rose-bush and watering pot, chaise and pony, to Lewis's management, and gladly let the doctor take her up beside him. She liked to drive with him; he had a fine horse and went fast; and there were other reasons.
Now they drove off in fine style; fast, over the good roads; whisked by Melbourne, sped away along south, catching glimpses of the river from time to time, with the hills on the further side hazily blue and indistinct with the September haze of sunbeams. Near hand the green of plantations and woodland was varied with brown grainfields, where grain had been, and with ripening Indian corn and buckwheat; but more especially with here and there a stately roof-tree or gable of some fine new or old country house. The light was mellow, the air was good; in the excitement of her drive Daisy half forgot her perplexity and discomfiture. Till the doctor said, suddenly looking round at her with a smile, "Now I should like to know the history of that rose-bush."
"Oh, there is no history about it," said Daisy, quite taken by surprise.
"Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end," said the doctor. "What was the beginning of this?"
"Only, Dr. Sandford," said Daisy, doubtfully, "I was sorry for that poor woman, after what you told me about her."
"Molly Skelton?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you thought to comfort her with rose-bushes?"
"No sir, but I wanted to get on good terms with her."
"Are you on any other terms?"