Daisy In The Field

"I have only lost, without any other being the gainer," said

papa a little bitterly.

"No, papa, you have not lost; you cannot; I am not changed,

papa, do you not see that I am not changed? I am yours, just

as I always was, - only more, papa."

Papa kissed me, but it cut me to the heart to feel there was

pain in the kiss. I did what my lips could to clear the pain

away.

"Half is not as much as the whole, Daisy," he said at length.

"It may be, papa. Suppose the whole is twice as large as it

used to be?"

"That is a good specimen of woman's reasoning. But you have

not told me all yet, Daisy. Who is it that holds the other

half?"

There was so much soreness and disappointment shown in papa's

words, rather in the manner of them, that it was extremely

difficult for me to carry on the conversation. Tears are a

help, I suppose, to other women. They do not come to me, not

at such times. I stood still in papa's arms, with a kind of

dry heartache. The pain in his words was a terrible trial to

me. He folded me close again and kissed me over and over, and

then whispered, "Who is it, Daisy?"

"Papa, it was at West Point. I never meant it, and never knew

it, until I could not help it."

"At West Point!" said papa.

"Two years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me there."

"It is not Dr. Sandford!"

"Oh, no, papa! He is not to blame. He did everything he could

to take care of me. He knows nothing it all about it."

"Who is it, then?"

"He was a cadet then, papa; he is in the army now."

"Who is he?"

"He is from Vermont; his name is Thorold."

"Not a Southerner?"

"No, papa. Do you care very much for that?"

"Is he in the Northern army, Daisy?"

"He could not help that, papa; being a Vermonter."

Papa let me go; I had been standing in his arms all this

while; and took several turns up and down our little room. I

sat down, for my joints trembled under me. Papa walked and

walked.

"Does your mother know?" he said at last.

"I dared not tell her."

"Who does know?"

"Nobody, papa, but you, and an old friend of mine in New York,

- an aunt of Mr. Thorold's."

"Daisy, what is this young man?"

"Papa, I wish you could know him."

"How comes it that he, as well as you, has kept silence?"

"I don't know, papa. His letter must have miscarried. He was

going to write to you immediately, just before I left

Washington. I was afraid to have him do it, but he insisted

that he must."