Maud seemed to think that Daisy was made for her servant; and when she wished to enjoy herself alone, or to do some kind deed,--for other people lived, now, in the neighborhood of the cabin,--her sister would always interfere, and complain and whine so grievously that Daisy yielded to her.

But Maud away, and her work all finished in the house, Daisy would clap on her spectacles, and then such a wonderful world as stretched around her! Nothing was common, or mean, or dead; all things were full of beauty and surprise, when she looked into them.

The insects that stung Maud, and made her so impatient, would settle quietly on Daisy's hand, and let her find out how their gauzy, glittering wings were made, and see all the strange machinery by which they could rise and fly, and the little beating hearts and busy heads they had.

Then they would go slowly circling to their homes; and Daisy would softly follow, and find how they lived, and what they ate, and what became of them in winter time, and all about their young.

The birds, meantime, would come and sing to her about their joy, their young, their fairy nests, their homes among the shady summer leaves; the poorest worm, the ugliest spider, had something in him curious and beautiful.

Then she would study the plants and trees, see the sap rising out of the ground, and slowly creeping into every branch and leaf, and the little buds come forth, and swell, and burst, at length, into lovely flowers.

She would sit upon the mossy rocks, and think how far down under the earth they had been, and how full they might be of living creatures now; and then bending over the violets that had grown in their crevices, would count their tiny veins, and find how air and sunshine had mixed with the sap to color and perfume them.

All these works of his hands made Daisy feel how near the great G.o.d was to her, and that she could never go where he had not been before, and where his eye would not follow her.

And then, amidst her troubles and toils, she had but to think of the beautiful city above, where Peter and Susan were waiting for her, where the spirits clothed in light would be her teachers and friends, and she would see as far, perhaps, as they, and learn more a thousand times than even her wonderful spectacles could teach her now.

But, one day, the dame took a fancy in her head that she was too old to go to the fair again, and, in future, Daisy must go instead, and take care of Maud.

This pleased neither of the sisters; for Daisy now must lose her only hours of quiet; and Maud, instead of the old crone who had pa.s.sed for her servant, must appear with the shabby little Daisy, of whose meek, serious face, and country manners, she was very much ashamed.

Then there was the mark of the spectacles to attract attention, and make every one ask who it could be that had such a wise look on a face so young.

But the two sisters started, one morning, for the fair, on the selfsame road on which Peter had met his wife, and along which he had led her home, to make his cabin such a happy place.

It was not so bad for Maud to have Daisy with her as she had feared; for the good natured sister carried all her parcels, found out cool springs where they could drink, and pleasant spots where they could sit in the cool gra.s.s and rest sometimes, instead of hurrying on through the dust, as the dame had always done.

Then Daisy had a cheerful heart, and was pleased with every thing she met, and so full of her stories and cheerful songs, that the way seemed not half so long to Maud as when she went with the dame.

Ah, but Maud didn't think how much shorter and brighter her sister's path through life would have been had _she_, instead of her selfish temper, a good and gentle heart like that which was cheering her now.

Daisy took her spectacles along, you may be sure; and besides that she saw through them many a flower, and bird, and stone, and countless other things to which her sister was as good as blind, Maud found them very useful at the fair.

For the gla.s.ses showed things now exactly as they were--in the rich silk, rough places or cotton threads; calicoes, gay enough to the naked eye, through these looked faded and shabby. Was any thing shopworn, moth eaten, or out of fashion, the spectacles told it as plainly as if they had spoken aloud.

And just so, seen through these magical gla.s.ses, the people changed. A man with a smiling face and pleasant words would appear dishonest and cunning, when Daisy put on her spectacles. A maiden with a proud and beautiful face looked humbled, all at once, and sad, and dying of a broken heart. People that walked about in splendid clothes, and looked down on the others, seemed suddenly poor beggars, hiding beneath their garments as if they were a mask.

The dame would never carry bundles for Maud, nor allow herself to be hurried or contradicted in any way; but Daisy bore all the burdens of her own accord, and yielded to Maud's caprices, however foolish they might be, if they troubled no one except herself.

But on their way home, something occurred in which Daisy resolved to have her own way; and Maud was so angry that she would not walk with her sister, and hurrying on, left her far behind.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE QUARREL.

It was the old dame that caused the sisters' quarrel. A few miles from the cabin she appeared, creeping through the dusty road, with a bundle of sticks three times as big as herself on her head.

"Pretty well!" exclaimed Maud. "The old creature could not find strength enough to walk a little way with me; but she can pick up sticks all day for herself, and carry home more than I could even lift."

The dame made no reply; perhaps she did not hear the beauty's words; but Maud was so vexed that she brushed roughly past, and upset all her sticks, and the poor old dame in the midst of them.

The fairy lifted her wrinkled arm, which was covered with bleeding scratches, and shook her finger angrily at Maud, who only laughed, and said, "It is good enough for you; take care, next time, how you stand in my way. I am the one to be angry, after you've scattered your sharp old sticks all over the road to fray my new silk stockings. Come, Daisy, make a path for me through them."

Daisy helped the dame to her feet again, and wiped away the dust and blood, and bound the arm up with her own handkerchief, and then began patiently to pick up all the sticks, and fasten them in a bundle.

She did this while Maud and the fairy were quarrelling and reproaching each other. We could often make up for a fault or accident in the time which we spend mourning over it and deciding whose was the fault.

Maud, in her heart, was not sorry for what her sister had now done, because she feared the fairy, and knew, if she went too far in offending her, that she might never appear again; and then Miss Maud would eat coa.r.s.e food, and wear shabby clothes, like her sister Daisy.

Still she pretended to be angry, and scolded Daisy well for undoing what she had done, and comforting the old woman when she chose to punish her.

Yet more vexed was she when Daisy took the sticks on her own head; for the dame seemed tired and faint, and trembled like a leaf from the fright and pain of her fall.

Maud drew herself up haughtily, and asked if she was expected to walk in a public road in company with a lame old hag and a f.a.got girl. Her eyes flashed, and the color glowed in her delicate cheeks, as she spoke; Daisy thought she had never seen her sister look so beautiful, and even took out the gla.s.ses that she might look more closely at the handsome face.

Alas, what a change! Serpents seemed coiling and hissing about Maud's breast; her eyes were like the eyes of a wolf; the color on her cheeks made Daisy think of the fires she had seen burning so far down in the centre of the earth; and the ivory whiteness of her forehead was the dead white of a corpse.

It was not strange that, Maud's beauty gone, her sister grew less submissive; for Daisy, even with her spectacles, had found nothing except beauty to love in her sister. She thought a lovely heart must be hidden somewhere underneath the lovely face.

But now she had looked past the outside, and all was deformed and dreadful.

"I should like to know if you mean to answer," said Maud pettishly; "I told you either to throw down the sticks, or else I would walk home alone."

"I must help the poor dame; and as for our walk, we both know the way,"

was Daisy's quiet answer.

So they parted; and Daisy began to cheer the dame, who groaned dreadfully, by telling of all the fine things at the fair, and the use she had made of her spectacles, and how grateful she must always be for such a wondrous gift.

It pleased the dame to have her gla.s.ses praised; and so she forgot to limp and grumble about her wounds, and walked on gayly enough by Daisy's side, telling sometimes the wisest, and sometimes the drollest, stories she had ever heard.

But their mirth was interrupted by the sound of sobs; and Daisy's quick eyes discovered, sitting among the bushes by the way, a little girl, all rags and dust, crying as if her heart would break.

"Never mind her; she will get over it soon enough," said the dame.

"I wonder how you would have liked it, had I said that about you, an hour ago," thought Daisy, but made no reply, except to turn and ask the child what she could do for her.

"O, give me food, for I am starved, and clothes, for I am cold, and take me with you, for I am so lonely," sobbed the child.

"Then don't cry any more, but take my hand; and here are some wild grapes I picked just now--taste how fresh and sweet they are."

The little girl laughed for joy, with the tears still glistening on her face, and soon leaving Daisy's hand, skipped about her, flying hither and thither like a b.u.t.terfly, filling her hands with flowers, and then coming back, to look up curiously in the strange old face of the dame.

"You are a good soul, after all," said the fairy, when Daisy returned to her side. "See how happy you have made that little wretch!"