Daisy came in the room, and stood beside him, looking
in his face with her fond, quiet eyes.

When he awoke, one long dark shadow from the houses opposite slanted into
the apartment.

Snarle was looking at him.

"I have been asleep," said Snarle, "and have had such pleasant thoughts
that it is painful to find myself in this poor little world again. Ah, me,
what will wife and Daisy do in it all alone?"

"Not alone," said Mortimer. "I will watch over them--love them." Then,
after a pause: "Father, I love Daisy--I would make her my wife."

"Ah, I wished that; but I did not think it:" and Snarle paused a moment.
"Have you told Daisy so?"

"Yes--but----"

"Well," said Snarle, waiting.

"But she does not love me; and that is why I said love would make life
bitter."

"Perhaps she does."

"No."

"What did Daisy say?"

"She said there were clouds in the morning of her life--(these were her own
words)--which had no sunshine in them. Then she called me brother and
kissed me, and told me that I must never think of her as my wife. She would
be my sister always. And when I speak to her of this, she turns away or
hums a pleasant air to mock me."

"She is not our child, Mortimer."

"What?"

"No, I am not wandering," said Snarle, in reply to Mortimer's look. "She is
not our child. We adopted her under strange circumstances. I have not told
you this before. Daisy did not wish me to; but it is right that you should
know it now. Sit nearer to me."

Mortimer obeyed mechanically.

"One stormy night we were sitting, my wife and I, in the room below. I
remember as if it were yesterday, how the wind slammed the window-blinds,
and blew out the street-lamps. It was just a year ago that night we lost
our little Maye, and we were very sad. We sat in silence, while without the
storm increased. The hail and snow dashed against the window-panes, and
down the chimney. Every now and then the wind lulled, and everything was
still."

Heaven knows why Mr. Snarle ceased speaking just then; but he did, and
seemed lost in reverie.

"What was I saying?"

"You were speaking of the storm."

"Yes, yes. It was in one of those pauses of the wind that we heard a low
sob under our windows. We did not heed it at first, for sometimes a storm
moans like a human voice. It came again so distinctly as to leave no doubt.
I opened the hall-door, and groped about in the snow. When I returned to
the sitting-room, I held little Daisy in my arms. Sh