straight from afternoon church, and
rested among Miss Cardigan's books and in her sweet society and in the
happy freedom and rest of her house, with an intensity of enjoyment
which words can but feebly tell. So in time I came to tell her all my
troubles and the perplexities which had filled me; I was willing to
talk to Miss Cardigan about things that I would have breathed to no
other ear upon earth. She was so removed from all the sphere of my
past or present life, so utterly disconnected from all the persons and
things with which I had had to do, it was like telling about them to a
being of another planet. Yet she was not so removed but that her
sympathies and her judgment could be living and full grown for my
help; all ready to take hold of the facts and to enter into the
circumstances, and to give me precious comfort and counsel. Miss
Cardigan and I came to be very dear to each other.

All this took time. Nobody noticed at first, or seemed to notice, my
visits to the "house with the flowers," as the girls called it. I
believe, in my plain dress, I was not thought of importance enough to
be watched. I went and came very comfortably; and the weeks that
remained before the summer vacation slipped away in quiet order.

Just before the vacation, my aunt came home from Europe. With her came
the end of my obscurity. She brought me, from my mother, a great
supply of all sorts of pretty French dresses hats, gloves, and
varieties--chosen by my mother--as pretty and elegant, and simple too,
as they could be; but once putting them on, I could never be unnoticed
by my schoolmates any more. I knew it, with a certain feeling that was
not displeasure. Was it pride? Was it anything more than my pleasure
in all pretty things? I thought it was something more. And I
determined that I would not put on any of them till school was broken
up. If it _was_ pride, I was ashamed of it. But besides French
dresses, my aunt brought me a better thing; a promise from my father.

"He said I was to tell you, Daisy my dear,--and I hope you will be a
good child and take it as you ought--but dear me! how she is growing,"
said Mrs. Gary, turning to Mme. Ricard; "I cannot talk about Daisy as
a 'child' much longer. She's tall."

"Not too tall," said madame.

"No, but she is going to be tall. She has a right; her mother is tall,
and her father. Daisy, my dear, I do believe you are going to look
like your mother. You'll be very handsome if you do. And y