“Well, but, pa, I heard you say that bathing was so healthy; and Bob doesn’t look healthy.”
“Thank heavens! here we are at Tiffany’s,” muttered Mr. Goodman when presently the carriage came to a stop. But before his daughter descended he took her hand and said: “Daisy, you love me, do you not?”
“Love you, pa? Of course I do.” And to prove it the child pressed her lips to his cheek.
“Then, dearest, please not to speak any more about Flywheel Bob; otherwise your governess will think you are crazy, and so will everybody else who hears you.”
“Crazy!” cried Daisy, opening her eyes ever so wide. Then turning up her little, saucy nose: “Well, pa, I don’t care what Mam’selle thinks!”
“But you care about what I think?” said Mr. Goodman, still retaining her hand; for she seemed ready to fly away.
“Oh! indeed I do.”
“Then I request you not to mention Flywheel Bob any more.”
“Really?” And Daisy gazed earnestly in his face, while astonishment, anger, love, made her own sweet countenance for one moment a terrible battle-field. It was all she spoke; in another moment she and Rover were within the splendid marble store.
As soon as she was gone Mr. Goodman drew a long breath. Yet he could not bear to be without his daughter, even for ever so short a time; and now she was scarcely out of sight when he felt tempted to hobble after her. He worshipped Daisy. But who did not? She was the life of his home. Without her it would have been sombre indeed;