The toads were having a feast over the bodies of these little mischief makers; and the birds were swinging on the tips of the leafy boughs, and singing enough to do your heart good; bees came buzzing about as busily as though they meant to make up for all the time they had lost; and a beautiful b.u.t.terfly, floating through the sunshine, settled upon a flower at Daisy's feet, and waved his large wings, that looked soft and dry as if there had never been a drop of rain.

Then the trees were so bright and clean, with the dust all washed away, and fresh as if they had just been made; they waved together with a pleasant sound, that Daisy thought was like a song of joy and praise; and every little leaf joined in the chorus, far and wide, stirring, and skimming, and breathing that low hymn of happiness.

The wood was fragrant, too; and in all its hollows stood bright little pools, that reflected the sky, and sparkled back to the sun; the gra.s.s and flowers had grown whole inches since Daisy saw them last, and the mosses were green as emerald.

Quite near the cabin, though hidden from it by the trees, was a wide river, that had swollen with the rain, and was rushing on with a sound so loud that it shook the leaves, and seemed like a mighty voice calling to Daisy from a great way off.

So she found her way to its sh.o.r.e, and saw that the bridge across it had been swept away; and as it went foaming and tearing along, whole trees, and boats, and rafts were whirling in the tide that was rushing on, on, on, she wondered where.

Then the little girl remembered how long she had been away from home, and hurried back to tell her mother about the bridge, stopping now and then to s.n.a.t.c.h a flower as she pa.s.sed. Her hands were full when she bounded into the cabin; and she looked as bright, and fresh, and full of joy as any thing out doors.

But her mother sat in a corner, feeling very sad, and hardly looked at Daisy's flowers, and said it was nothing to her how bright the sun shone so long as it never could rest again on Peter's face.

"Why," said Daisy, "I thought father was happy in heaven, and where he did not have to work so hard, and there were never any storms, and the flowers were prettier than these."

"That is true enough," Susan answered; "but it will not keep us from being lonely, and cold, and hungry, too, sometimes."

"But we are not hungry now, and perhaps the queer old dame may bring us some more of her bread, or else I'm pretty sure the fairy will take care of us. Who feeds the flowers, mother?"

"G.o.d."

"What, ours--up in heaven?"

"There is only one G.o.d, Daisy; he gives us meat and milk, and gives the flowers dew and air."

"Then I suppose they were thinking about him this morning."

"Why?"

"Because, when I first went out, they seemed as if they were dreaming--just as I felt when I dreamed; so that I wondered if they hadn't seen the fairy pa.s.s, or if their eyes were sharper than ours, and they could see faces floating in the air when there were none for us. It was damp, at first, and there were great shadows; but presently the sunshine poured in every where, and still they kept looking straight up into the sky--a whole field of them, down by the river bank; and, do see! even these I've brought you are looking up now at our wall as if they could see through it. If G.o.d can see through walls, can't we, when we are looking after him?"

"I don't know but we might, Daisy. You ask strange questions."

"Just answer one more, mother. If the flowers have the same G.o.d with us, why do they always look so happy, and beautiful, and young? Does he think more of them than he does of us?"

"No, child--not half so much. We suffer because G.o.d made us wiser than the flowers."

"Why, they get trampled on, and beaten in the wind, and have their stems broken, and have to stay out doors in the cold all night, (Daisy was thinking of her midnight walk,) and sometimes they don't have any sunshine for a week: we should call that trouble, and I know what I think about it."

"Tell me."

"Why, you see, the flowers are always looking at the sky, and don't mind what is happening around them, nor wait to think who may step on their pretty faces. Suppose we are wiser; why can't we live as they do, mother, and think about G.o.d and heaven, instead of always ourselves?"

"I know a little girl who lives very much like them now," said Daisy's mother, kissing her. "But, my dear child, how strangely you have looked ever since you put on those old spectacles!"

"Why, am I not the same Daisy? Am I changing to a fairy, like the dame?"

"I fear not; they leave a sort of shadow on your face, and make you homely. It seems to me, Daisy, I'd throw the old things away."

"O, don't say that--not if they make me like the old woman herself. I guess it doesn't matter much how we look down here."

"Down where?"

"Why, on the earth; for you know father was not handsome; and when I saw him in heaven, in my dream, O, he had such a beautiful face!"

So Daisy went on prattling about her father until Susan dried her tears; for when she thought of Peter now, it was not the poor crushed body in the wood, which she had wept about, but the beautiful, smiling angel in paradise.

And when cares gathered thicker about her, and want seemed so near that Susan grew discouraged, Daisy would bring her flowers; and the mother would remember then how they were always looking up to the kind G.o.d, and so look up herself, and thinking about him, forget her sorrows and her cares.

CHAPTER XIII.

MAUD.

The little Maud grew more beautiful every day; she was fair as a lily, except that you might think rose leaves had been crushed to color her cheeks. Her bright eyes were shaded by long, silky lashes; and her pretty mouth, when it was shut, concealed two rows of delicate, pearly teeth. Her hair hung in a cloud of dark-brown curls, touched on the edges with a golden tinge.

The old dame took care that her dress should be always fine; and while she gave Daisy the coa.r.s.est woollen gowns, brought delicate muslins for Maud.

But Daisy did not mind this; she was glad to see her beautiful sister dressed handsomely; and, besides, how could she crowd through the bushes by the river bank, or sit on the ground looking at gra.s.s and flowers through her spectacles, if her own dresses were so frail?

It was not, after all, so very amusing as Daisy had hoped, to take care of Miss Maud, when she began to run about and play. She did not dare to go in the wood, for fear of bugs and snakes; she did not like to sail chips in the river, and make believe they were boats; she tossed away Daisy's wooden doll, and called it a homely thing; she pulled up her sister's flowers, and always wanted to go in a different place and do a different thing from her.

The little girl found it hard to give up so many pleasures; but she kept thinking that Maud would be older soon, and would know better than to be so troublesome.

And Maud was no sooner large enough to run about than Daisy wished her young again; for she took pains to tread on the prettiest flowers, and call them old weeds, and would chase every b.u.t.terfly that came in sight, and tear his wings off, and then laugh because he could not fly; she pinched the rabbits' ears until they grew so wild they were almost afraid of Daisy, and seemed to have no pleasure except in making those about her very uncomfortable.

Yes, Maud had one other pleasure--she loved to sit beside the still pools in the wood, that were like mirrors, and watch the reflection of her handsome face.

But after this, she was sure to go home peevish and discontented, telling her mother and Daisy what a shame it was to live in such a lonely place, and have no one admire her beauty; and to be so poor, and depend on the charity of "that hag," as she called the dame.

Then she loved to tell Daisy what a common-looking little thing _she_ was, and how the mark of those ugly spectacles was always on her face, and every day it grew more homely and serious, and as if she were a daughter of the dame. "As for myself," Maud would end, "I am the child, I know, of some great man; the dame has stolen me away from him, I feel sure, and then thinks I ought to be grateful because she brings me these clothes."

At this, Daisy would look up through her spectacles, and say, meekly, "It doesn't matter much who is our father here; for G.o.d, up in heaven, is the Father of us all, and gives great people their fine houses, just as he gives these flowers to you and me; for mother told me so."

Then Maud would toss her head, and ask, "What is mother but an old woodcutter's wife, that has worked, perhaps, in my father's kitchen?"

"G.o.d doesn't care where we have worked, but how well our work is done,"

said Daisy.

"O, nonsense! Who ever saw G.o.d? I want a father that can build me a fine house, all carpeted, and lighted with chandeliers, and full of servants, like the houses mother tells us about sometimes."

"Why, Maud, what is this world but a great house that G.o.d has built for us? All creatures are our servants; the sun and stars are its chandeliers; the clouds are its beautiful window frames; and this soft moss is the carpet. Look, what dear little flowers grow among it, and gaze up as if they were saying, 'Yes--G.o.d made us all.'"

"Who wants a house that every one else can enjoy as much as we, and a father that is not ashamed to call every dirty beggar his child?"