morning dress, a glass of flowers beside
her, every now and then stretching her
head into the sunshine, feeling it sweet,
the belief was strong upon her that some
sweetness, some sunshine must, somehow,
be meant to fall upon and enter into her life.

Foolish Daisy! She might have known
how empty was all this momentary
content. If the parting of last night had
been, indeed, "good-bye," and not "good-
night," the soft, fresh wind might have
blown upon her, the sun might have shone
upon her, the flowers have sent forth their
fragrance, and the birds their song, and
all the beauty and sweetness of life would
have been as nothing to her, or even as
worse than nothing.

Presently came a click of the latch of
the garden-gate, a step upon the winding
gravelled way, and then, as she knew
before she saw, a face at the open window.

"I couldn't help coming to look at you:
I had such a horrible dream about you last
night."

"Don't tell it me! On such a morning
one doesn't wish to hear of horrible
things."

"Indeed, Daisy, I had no thought of telling
it to you!"

"I wonder what it was like, Kenneth?"

"As unlike you as possible, and it is a
blessed thing, Daisy of Daisies, to look
upon you sitting there with your fresh
morning face, and to know my dream was
only a dream."

"He could dream nothing about me so
bad as what is the truth," thought Daisy;
but she said:

"What a morning it is, Kenneth! I feel
as if I could be happy in the way the birds
are, sitting singing in the sun, not conscious
of yesterday, or caring for to-morrow."

He smiled. "Will you give me a cup of
tea?" he asked.

"Indeed, I will. You look as if you
wanted that, or something."

"I do want that, and something."

"Will you have it there, or will you
come in?"

"I should be glad to sit down, I'm tired,
so I will come in."

He left the window to enter the house.

"Just happy to-day, at least to-day,"
was what she whispered to herself, as she
rang to order a cup and plate for Mr.
Stewart. Mr. Stewart was so habitual a
visitor at the cottage that his presence
there, at any time, as yet, provoked no
remark.

"Why, what a lot of letters!"
commented Mr. Stewart, half jealously. "I
didn't know you had any correspondents."

"I haven't opened them—I know by the
outsides what they are. You shall know,
too, if you will. This is from my
dressmaker —this contains a packet of flower-
seeds—this is about some books—and
this," she paused, examined the
postmarks, of which there were many, then
tore that letter open—her face sharp with
sudden agitation.

"Well?"

The expression with which she looked
up was at once puzzled and relieved.

"A most perplexing letter! Surely not
meant for me. It begins, 'My dear
unknown aunt,' and ends," turning the letter
over, "'your prepared-to-be-affectionate
niece, Myrrha Brown.' I didn't know I
had a niece. How can I have a niece?
Surely it's some mistake altogether."

"Brown—Myrrha Brown!" Mr. Stewart
meditated: then a sudden light broke upon
him. " I think I can guess, Daisy, who
she must be. The name, Myrrha, is as
uncommon as it is, I think, ugly. It was, I
remember, the name of your father's daughter
by his unhappy first marriage."

"I had forgotten, perhaps I hardly knew,
that papa had been married before he
married mamma. I was so young when he
died."

"Yes, and he was a reserved man, not
likely to speak before you of such things.
But he had a daughter, and her name was
Myrrha, and she made a clandestine
marriage, of which he strongly disapproved,
running away from the French school at
which he had placed her when he married
your mother. I don't know that I ever
heard the name of the man she married—
he was an American, I remember, and they
went to live among the French colonists in
America. No doubt his name was Brown,
and this correspondent of yours is their
daughter."

"But, Kenneth, how could this girl
possibly find me out?"

"That would be easy enough, Daisy, to
any one knowing how to set about it. It
is very possible your father kept up some
sort of communication with them, the
Browns, while he lived; no doubt they
had the address of his lawyer. I don't
know that I should have any so distinct
recollection of the name of Myrrha, had it
not been for a most lovely miniature of
that Myrrha, which used to hang in your
father's dressing-room, when I was a boy
and you were a baby. In later years it