Daisy In The Field

"Mamma! - nobody ever accused Dr. Sandford before of being a

fool."

"He is a fool to look at you. Do get a little wisdom into his

head, Daisy!" And she left the room again as the doctor

entered the house.

I knew he and I understood each other; and though he might be

a fool after mamma's reckoning, I had a great kindness for

him. So I met him with frank kindness now. The doctor walked

about the room a while, talking of indifferent things; and

then said suddenly, "Do you remember old Molly Skelton?"

"Certainly. What of her?"

"She is dying, poor creature."

"Does she know I am here?" I asked.

"I have not told her."

"Would she like to see me, do you think?" I said, with an

uneasy consciousness that I must go, whatever the answer were.

"If she can recognise you-I presume there is nobody else she

would so like to see. As in reason there ought not."

"Can you take me there, Dr. Sandford?"

"Not at this hour; I am going another way. This afternoon I

will take you, if you will go. Will you go?"

"If you will be so good as to take me."

"I will come for you then at four o'clock."

That ride I have reason to remember. It was a fair June

afternoon, though the month was almost out now; the peculiar

brilliance which distinguishes June shone through the air and

sparkled on the hills. With clear bright outlines the Catskill

range stretched away right and left before us, whenever our

road brought us in view of it; fulness of light on the sunny

slopes, soft depth of shadow on the others, proclaiming the

clear purity of the atmosphere. The blue of the sky, the fresh

sweetness of the air, the life of colour in the fields and

trees, all I suppose made their appeal at the doors of my

heart; for I felt the pressure. It is the life in this June

weather, I think, that reproaches what in us is not life; and

my spirit was dead. Not really, but practically; and the June

beauty gave me pain. I was out of harmony with it. And I heard

nature's soft whisper of reproof. Justly given; for when one

is out of harmony with nature, there is sure to be some want

of harmony with the Author of nature. The doctor drove me

silently, letting nature and me have it out together; till we

came to the old cottage of Molly Skelton, and he handed me

from the curricle. Still the doctor was silent.

He stopped, purposely I think, to speak to his groom; and I

went in first. The rows of flowers by the side of the walk

were tangled and overgrown and a thicket of weeds; no care had

visited them for many a day; but they were there yet. Molly

had not forgotten her old tastes. I went on, wondering at

myself, and entered the cottage. The sick woman lay on the bed

there, alone and seemingly asleep; I turned from her to look

at the room. The same old room; little different from what it

used to be; even two pots with geraniums in them stood on the

window-sill, drooping their heads for want of water. Nobody

had watered them for so long. Clearly Molly had not changed.

Was it only I? I looked and wondered, as I saw myself again at

ten years old in that very room. Here had been those first

cups of tea; those first lessons in A B C; and other lessons

in the beginnings of a higher knowledge. What had they all

come to? Was Molly the better in anything beyond her flowers?

What had eleven years wrought for her?