"In Washington? I don't know. Did he never give it to you?"

"No, ma'am; nothing except 'Washington.' "

"I suppose that is enough. Haven't you written to him?"

"I have written once. - I have been thinking, Miss Cardigan, that I must stop the writing."

"Altogether?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"His writing too?"

"Yes. My father and mother do not know - and I cannot ask them, - and -"

"You are right," Miss Cardigan answered sorrowfully. "And yet you will let your engagement stand, Daisy?"

"I cannot break my part of it, ma'am. I - nor they - cannot change what is, and what has been done. The future is in their hands - or in G.o.d's hands, rather."

Miss Cardigan sighed.

"And what then, dear, about the address?" she said.

"Because, Miss Cardigan, I am going there. I am going to Washington."

She stopped her work to look at me.

"I am going Sat.u.r.day. My guardian has sent for me. It is very strange, Miss Cardigan; but I must go; and I thought I would like to know in what part of the city Christian is."

"Will you write to let him know? You will, of course. Write just as usual, child; the letter will reach him."

"Why should I, Miss Cardigan? what use? He cannot come to see me."

"Why not?"

"I would not dare. My guardian watches me well; and he would not like my seeing Mr. Thorold of all people."

"Why not? Ah, child! there is a rose leaf in each of your cheeks this minute. That tells the story. Then, Daisy, you had better not go to Washington. Christian will not bear that very well; and it will be hard for you too. My dear, it will be hard."

"Yes, ma'am - and hard not to go. I shall go, Miss Cardigan."

"And mayn't I tell him you are there?"

"No, ma'am. If I can, I will let him know somehow."

But a sense of the difficulties, dangers, doubts and uncertainties, thronging my way, therewith pressed heavily upon me; and I sat in silence and weariness, while Miss Cardigan put up her work and ordered tea, and finally went off to her greenhouse. Presently she came back with a rose in her hand and held it under my face. It was a full dewy sweet damask rose, rich and fragrant and lovely as such a rose can be. I took it and looked at it.

"Do ye mind," my old friend said, "how the flowers spoke to you and brought you messages, when Daisy was a child yet and first came to see me?"

"I know - I remember," I said.

"Does that no tell you something?"

"What does it tell me?" I said, scarce able to command my words, under the power of a.s.sociation, or memory, which was laying its message on my heart, though it was a flower that bore the message. Inanimate things do that sometimes - I think, often, - when the ear of the soul is open to hear them; and flowers in especial are the Lord's messengers and speak what He gives them. I knew this one spoke to me.

"Listen, and see," Miss Cardigan said.

I looked, and as I looked, these words came up in my mind -

"Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?"

"The Lord over all is rich unto all that call upon Him."

And still as I looked, I remembered, - "In all their afflictions He was afflicted;" - and, "My G.o.d shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus."

The words came into my head; but apart from the words, the rose seemed to say all these things to me. People who never heard flowers talk would think me fanciful, I suppose.

"And you will go to that city of trouble, and you will not let Christian know?" Miss Cardigan said after a while.

"Yes ma'am. - No ma'am," I answered.

"Suppose he should be angry about it?"

"Does he get angry?" I asked; and his aunt laughed.

"Does the child think he is perfect?"

"No, certainly," I said; "of course he has faults; but, Miss Cardigan, I did not think anger was one of them, - or getting angry."

"He will never get angry with you, Daisy, it is my firm belief."

"But does he, easily, with other people?"

"There! I don't know," she said. "He used to be gay quick with his temper, for all so gentle as he is. I wouldn't try him too far, Daisy, with not letting him know."

"I cannot tell him -" I said, sighing.

For I knew, better than she did, what thorough good care would be taken of me, and what small mercy such a visitor as Mr.

Thorold would meet at the hands of my guardians. So with a doubtful heart I kissed Miss Cardigan, and went back over the way to prepare for my journey. Which was, however, thrown over by a storm till the next week.

The journey made my heart beat, in spite of all my doubts. It was strange, to see the uniforms and military caps which sprinkled every a.s.semblage of people, in or out of the cars.

They would have kept my thoughts to one theme, even if wandering had been possible. The war, - the recruiting for the war, - the coming struggle, - the large and determined preparation making to meet it, - I saw the tokens of these things everywhere, and heard them on every hand. The long day's ride to Washington was a long fever dream, as it seems to me now; it seemed a little so to me then.

It was dark when we reached Washington; but the thought that now became present with me, that anywhere Thorold might be, could scarce be kept in check by the reflection that he certainly would not be at the railway station. He was not there; and Dr. Sandford was; and a carriage presently conveyed us to the house where rooms for us were provided. Not a hotel, I was sorry to find. By no chance could I see Thorold elsewhere than in a hotel.

Supper was very full of talk. Mrs. Sandford wanted to know everything; from the state of the capital and the military situation and prospects for the nation, to the openings for enjoyment or excitement which might await ourselves. The doctor answered her fast enough; but I noticed that he often looked at me.

"Are you tired?" he asked me at length; and there was a tone of gentle deference in his question, such as I often heard from Dr. Sandford. I saw that my silence struck him.