And then, alas! how every thing was changed! Her first thought was of the fairy; but she had gone, and Daisy had been sleeping in her mother's easy chair, and felt cold and lonely as she looked around upon the silent room.

No music there, no flowers and angelic faces, and clouds like chariots of pearl, with golden wings to hurry them along; no father to take her in his arms, and call her his little Daisy.

She closed her eyes, and tried to sleep again, for it seemed to her a great deal better to dream than to be awake in such a dreary little world as that. But suddenly Daisy thought of her mother, and almost at the very moment was aroused by a moan from another part of the room.

She ran to Susan's side, and found her sick, and wretched as she was the night before; so Daisy bathed her head, and brought her some fresh water from the spring; and when she could not comfort her in any other way, began to tell her dreams, how she had seen her father again, and felt sure he must be still alive.

As Susan listened, she dried her tears, and kissed Daisy so fondly that the little girl no longer wished to be asleep, but was glad that she had power to run about, and prattle, and amuse her lonely mother.

For she remembered Peter's last words now, that she must be a good girl, and help, not herself, not sit still and have pleasant dreams, but help her mother.

And this Daisy felt resolved to do, if only for his sake.

CHAPTER XI.

THE DAME'S BUNDLE.

As soon as her mother smiled once more, Daisy asked her what had become of the splendid fairy, and when she would be back again, and how it happened that the light and music had gone with her from their home.

Susan had seen no fairy, and could not believe that Daisy was thinking of the poor old wrinkled dame. When she told the story of her journey to the cave, and the loaf of fairy bread, and the old dame's sudden change, the mother stroked Daisy's hair, and said that this was only another of her wonderful dreams, and that, instead of going to the rain, the rain had come to her, pelting upon the window so hard, it had, perhaps, sprinkled her face--that was all; and the light of the fairy was, she supposed, the light of the morning sun, that had pried her little sleepy lids apart, at last.

Daisy felt bewildered and sorrowful at this, for she did not like to give up her new friend; but her mother told her how long she had known the dame; how she had put her hand in Peter's, years ago; and afterwards put Daisy in his arms, a little thing, no larger than her wooden doll, that could only lie in the gra.s.s or swing in its nest among the boughs, and look up at the sky.

Daisy thought, if she could have such another dear little thing to play with, and love, and tell her stories to, she should be contented with her home, and willing to wait for her father, and forget the vision of the fairy that had folded her so tenderly in her arms.

So she went on asking questions about the dame; and then her mother remembered the gift of the iron spectacles. Of course Daisy wished to see them; but where they were no one knew. And Susan consoled her by saying they were but homely and worthless things.

"All things are worthless unless we make use of them," said the shrill voice of the dame, who in her sudden way appeared all at once in the room.

"I only wonder that I don't grow tired of helping you," she said; "for you give me nothing except ingrat.i.tude. Here, take this, and see what fault you can find with it."

She tossed a bundle into Susan's arms, put a loaf on the table, and pointed Daisy to the rubbish heap outside the door; then frowning angrily at Susan, "Pretty extravagance! to make believe you are poor, and throw away what is worth more than all the gold on earth. Why didn't you make the child wear my gift?"

"She was homely enough, at first, without it," Susan answered; "and after she grew better looking, why should I waste my time looking up those old rusty spectacles, to make her a fright again?"

"You will have no such trouble with the other one." As the fairy spoke, a lovely little face peeped out from the bundle in Susan's arms. "Now, tell what I shall give her, with her name."

Susan had never seen such a beautiful child, and, poor as she was, felt grateful to the dame for this new gift; but she begged for leave to name the little one herself.

"I will call it Peterkin, after my husband. Ah, how the dear man would have loved it!" And Susan began to cry.

"Then her name will not match her face; if you want a Peterkin, I will bring you one instead of this; but her name must be Maud."

So Susan gave up the name for the sake of the child's good looks, and begged the dame to keep her always so beautiful, and to make her rich.

"That's easy enough; you should have asked me, Susan, to make her heart rich and beautiful. Yet rich she shall be; and no one in all the earth shall have so handsome a face. But, remember, it is on one condition I promise--that Maud and Daisy shall always live together, rich or poor; that they shall never spend a night apart, until Daisy goes to live with her father again."

Susan promised, and was thanking the dame with all her heart, though looking at the lovely little face that nestled in her bosom, when Daisy flew into the room.

"O mother, mother! I've seen her again, and prettier than she was at first. She smiled at me, and stroked my hair, and then went floating off among the trees, like all the faces in my dream."

"Then she and the dame are not one; for, look!"

"Look where? Has the dame been here again?"

"To be sure; I was talking with her when you came; and the door has not been opened since."

But no old woman was in sight; Daisy looked under the table, and in the closet, and every dark corner; but she was not there; and the little girl told her mother that she must have been dreaming, now.

But Susan showed her what the dame had brought, and even put the little thing in Daisy's arms. It was hardly larger than a bird, and pretty as a flower, and as helpless, too.

And Daisy almost forgot the fairy in this new delight; she thought that all the visions in the air were not so sweet and lovely as her sister's face. She could not look at it enough; and at length taking out from her pocket a pair of spectacles, gravely put them on, and looked at her sister again.

Susan laughed; she couldn't help it, Daisy looked so drolly. She saw that the spectacles were the very ones the dame had brought; for she thought there could hardly be another pair so old and rusty in the world.

The little girl said she had found them in a dust heap, where Susan remembered that she had emptied the rubbish from some old boxes, the day before. Daisy had but just cleaned the gla.s.ses with her ap.r.o.n, and was holding them up to find if they were clear, when she saw, through them, the beautiful fairy floating by, and smiling on her as she pa.s.sed.

She thought, after all, it might have been the gla.s.ses that had changed the sour old woman into a smiling fairy; but when she looked at her sister's sweet little face through them, it was not half so beautiful--it seemed cold and hungry, and the smile was gone.

Susan felt very sure that the dame was real, for all about her were the care and trouble she had brought; and had she not dragged her on through cruel storms, and scolded her when she was trying to do her best? And if the beautiful smiling vision was real, why did it always float away?

Susan forgot that the dame, too, floated away when her errands were done.

So Daisy did not know but she had been dreaming again, though with her eyes wide open; and yet she could not forget how softly she had been folded once in the fairy's arms.

Perhaps it was because the little girl believed in her, and was always watching and hoping to see her again, that the beautiful bright form sometimes floated past her eyes.

CHAPTER XII.

A LEAF OUT OF DAISY'S BOOK.

After a great many days of rain, the storm ceased; and glad enough was Daisy, for she had grown tired of staying in the house, or of being drenched and almost blown away when she ventured out of doors.

The sun came out, one morning, and did not hide in clouds again, as usual, but poured its beautiful beams down on the earth, till the dark forest trees seemed touched with gold, and the little drooping flowers lifted up their heads once more.

Daisy, as she looked from the cabin window, and saw and heard the raging storm, had often wondered what would become of her friends the birds--if their nests would not be shaken from the trees, and their little unfledged young ones would not shiver with cold. Then, too, the b.u.t.terflies, she feared, would have their bright wings washed away or broken; and the flowers would have their petals shaken off, and be snapped from their slender stems.

But we are apt to dread a great deal worse things than ever happen to us; and though Daisy did find some fallen nests and dead birds scattered on the ground, she could see that the storm had done more good than harm.

For every bird there were hundreds of insects lying dead--not bees and b.u.t.terflies, but worms and bugs, that bite the flowers, and make them shrivel up and fade, and that gnaw the leaves off the trees and all the tender buds, and sting and waste the fruit.