Daisy In The Field

Now I tried to reason myself out of this. What had I lost? I

asked myself. What were these tears for? What had I lost, that

I had not been without until only twelve hours before? Indeed

rather, what had I not gained? But my reasonings were of no

use. Against them all, some vision of Thorold's face, some

sparkle of his eyes, some touch of his hand, would come back

to me, and break down my power and unlock fresh fountains of

tears. This passion of self-indulgence was not like me, and

surprised myself. I suppose the reason was, I had been so long

alone; I had been working my way and waiting, in exile from

home as it were, so many days and years; nobody that loved me

better than I loved myself had been near me for so very long;

that the sweetness so suddenly given and so suddenly taken

away left me a little unsteady. Was it wonderful? The joy and

the grief were both new; I was not braced for either; the one

seemed to add poignancy to the other; and between the two

facts, that Thorold loved me, and that he was gone from me

into what might be a duty of danger, - that he was gone into

danger and that he loved me, - for a little while my soul was

tossed back and forth like a ship on a stormy sea, unable to

make any headway at all. And so Miss Cardigan found me. She

half lifted half drew me up, I remember; made me lie down

again on the sofa, gave me some hot tea to drink; and when she

had made me drink it, she sat still looking at me, silent, and

I thought a good deal disturbed. It would be difficult to tell

why I thought so. Perhaps it was because she said nothing. I

lay quiet with my face hid in my hands.

"What do you think to do with yourself to-day, now?" - was at

last her practical question.

"What o'clock is it?" I whispered.

"It's just on the stroke of six, Daisy."

"I'll get up and go on with my work," I said; and I raised

myself to a sitting posture accordingly.

"Work!" echoed Miss Cardigan. "You look like much of that!

Your cheeks" (and she touched them) "they are the colour of my

magnolia there that has just opened. A night's work Christian

has made of it! I suppose he is travelling off as content as

if he had something to praise himself for. The pride of these

men! -"