"Red," said the Doctor, grimly.
"Red hair!" with a sort of gasp. "Oh no, you must not ask me. I can't do it. I'll pay anything you like to get her a home—you know I always feel as if the Daisy Cot children had an especial claim on me—but I can not take her for my own."
"As you please," said the Doctor, gruffly; rising to his feet. "Only you needn't trouble yourself to pay anything for her. We're not over-rich at the hospital, but I rather think we can raise enough ourselves for our little girl. It wasn't money I asked you for, but love."
"What is her name, Doctor?" she asked, more quietly.
THE MESSAGE OF THE DAISIES.
"Mercy. (Hallo!" thought the Doctor, "I almost said Daisy, and that would have ended the last chance, and no mistake.) 'The quality of mercy is not strained,' you know; 'it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,' and all that sort of thing. Well, madam, I'm disappointed, I confess; but saying so won't mend matters. Keep on taking that quinine." And he moved toward the door. "By-the-way," he said, coming back again, "I nearly forgot. What put it into the baby's head no mortal knows; but just as I was coming out of the hospital this morning she gave me these, and asked me to give 'em to you from her;" and he laid the little bunch of daisies on her lap.
There was a sound between a sob and a cry, as she caught the poor faded little flowers to her lips; then both hands went up to hide the sudden storm of tears.
"I thought you'd take 'em as a message, or a what-you-may-call-'em," said the Doctor, clearing his throat; "they seemed so to me." He turned to the door again, but paused before the Good Shepherd picture. "Did you ever notice," he said, "that the Good Shepherd's arms here are full, and yet there's a wretched, sickly, lame little beast that's coming on behind? I rather think it's about as good a job as any one can do to lend that little animal a hand." And this time he really went.
