Daisy In The Field

Papa and I seemed to walk on a new plane from that day. There

was a hidden sympathy between us, which had its root in the

deepest ground of our nature. We never had been one before, as

we were one from that time.

It was but a few days, and another thing happened. The mail

bag had come in as usual, and I had gathered up my little

parcel of letters and gone with it to my room, before I

examined what they were. A letter evidently from Mr. Dinwiddie

had just made my heart leap with pleasure, when glancing at

the addresses of the rest before I broke the seal of this, I

saw what made my heart stand still. It was the handwriting of

Mr. Thorold. I think my eyes grew dim and dazed for a minute;

then I saw clearly enough to open the envelope, which showed

signs of having been a traveller. There was a letter for me,

such a letter as I had wanted; such as I had thirsted for; it

was not long, for it was written by a busy man, but it was

long enough, for it satisfied my thirst. Enclosed with it was

another envelope directed to papa.

I waited to get calm again; for the joy which shot through all

my veins was a kind of elixir of life; it produced too much

exhilaration for me to dare to see anybody. Yet I think I was

weeping; but at any rate, I waited till my nerves were quiet

and under control, and then I went with the letter to papa. I

knew mamma was just gone out and there was no fear of

interruption. Papa read the letter, and read it, and looked up

at me.

"Do you know what this is, Daisy?"

"Papa, I guess. I know what it was meant to be."

"It is a cool demand of you," said papa.

I was glad, and proud; that was what it ought to be; that was

what I knew it suited papa that it should be. I stood by the

mantelpiece, waiting.

"So you knew about it?"

"Mr. Thorold said he would write to you, papa. I had been

afraid, and asked him not. I wanted him to wait till he could

see you."

"One sees a good deal of a man in his letters," said papa;

"and this is a man's letter. He thinks enough of himself,

Daisy."

"Papa, - not too much."

"I did not say too much; but enough; and a man who does not

think enough of himself is a poor creature. I would not have a

man ask me for you, Daisy, who did not in his heart think he

was worthy of you."

"Papa, you draw nice distinctions," I said half laughing.