ng upon a little white
cottage nestling in a bower of green leaves far to the right of it,
where dwelt John Brooks, the overseer of the Hurlhurst plantation.

For sixteen years the grand old house had remained closed--the
plantation being placed in charge of a careful overseer. Once again
Whitestone Hall was thrown open to welcome the master, Basil
Hurlhurst, who had returned from abroad, bringing with him his
beautiful daughter and a party of friends.

The interior of the little cottage was astir with bustling activity.

It was five o'clock; the chimes had played the hour; the laborers were
going to the fields, and the dairy-maids were beginning their work.

In the door-way of the cottage stood a tall, angular woman, shading
her flushed and heated face from the sun's rays with her hand.

"Daisy, Daisy!" she calls, in a harsh, rasping voice, "where are you,
you good-for-nothing lazy girl? Come into the house directly, I say."
Her voice died away over the white stretches of waving cotton, but no
Daisy came. "Here's a pretty go," she cried, turning into the room
where her brother sat calmly finishing his morning meal, "a pretty go,
indeed! I promised Miss Pluma those white mulls should be sent over to
her the first thing in the morning. She will be in a towering rage,
and no wonder, and like enough you'll lose your place, John Brooks,
and 'twill serve you right, too, for encouraging that lazy girl in her
idleness."

"Don't be too hard on little Daisy, Septima," answered John Brooks,
timidly, reaching for his hat. "She will have the dresses at the Hall
in good time, I'll warrant."

"Too hard, indeed; that's just like you men; no feeling for your poor,
overworked sister, so long as that girl has an easy life of it. It was
a sorry day for _me_ when your aunt Taiza died, leaving this girl to
our care."

A deep flush mantled John Brooks' face, but he made no retort, while
Septima energetically piled the white fluted laces in the huge
basket--piled it full to the brim, until her arm ached with the weight
of it--the basket which was to play such a fatal part in the truant
Daisy's life--the life which for sixteen short years had been so
monotonous.

Over the corn-fields half hid by the clover came a young girl tripping
lightly along. John Brooks paused in the path as he caught sight of
her. "Poor, innocent little Daisy!" he muttered half under his breath,
as he gazed at her quite unseen.

Transferred to canvas, it wo