it is that " one year's seeding makes seven
years'-weeding." Nor are these annual
weeds the only ones which thus increase:
a single plant of the creeping buttercup
will cover a circumference of thirty feet,
having no less than sixty-nine rooting
scions radiating from the central shoot;
and each of its many flowers is capable of
ripening as many as twenty-five seeds.

DAISY'S TRIALS.
IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER VI.

AND how was it with Daisy now? Just
thus: life seemed one uncomprehended ache.
The long, lovely summer days, the long,
lonely summer evenings, were full of an
intolerable something, the reason of which,
the nature of which, she was always vainly
trying to discover. Sometimes Daisy, busy
with her needle, in the house or in the garden,
while Myrrha rode with Mr. Stewart,
would think for hours uninterruptedly, and
in these hours she thought much of her
child. There was something in the world
(had it been dead she knew she would have
been told) which was hers, and no other's.
And, instead of clasping it close, she had
shut her arms and her heart against it.
Therefore of her loneliness she had no
right to complain.

"She will stay with me till she is
married, I suppose," Daisy said to herself one
evening, looking at Myrrha; "I suppose
she must be married from here. Well
—I hope it will be soon. I shall be glad
to have it over. Will Kenneth be happy?
Will Kenneth be happy? That should be
my only question, my only care. Will
Kenneth be happy?" She sighed. "Perhaps,"
she went on, "when a man is as old
as Kenneth before he marries, when he
marries he likes to have his wife young
enough to be to him something of a child:
he isn't used to sympathy and companionship,
and doesn't need them. If only I
could believe in Myrrha. If her childishness
were more of the sweet, simple sort.
But she is so strange a mixture. In some
ways so old-hearted, so worldly-wise. If I
could even be sure that she loves him
—that she can love anything but herself."

Myrrha sat on a low chair, her face on
her hand, her elbow on her knee, gazing
into the fire that had been lighted to please
her. She said the evening was cold, and
that to be cold made her cross. She said,
too, that her ride, which had been unusually
short that afternoon, had been "nasty" and
"disagreeable." Her attitude was disconsolate,
the expression of her face was sullen.
After several timid glances at the girl,
Daisy, in crossing the room, paused behind
her and laid a soft hand on her shoulder.

"Myrrha," she began—her voice trembled
with earnestness, and her eyes moistened
as she spoke—" you are not playing with
him as you tell me you have done with
others, are you? Remember he is not a
young man, with all the chances of life
before him. He has suffered much. He
has had in life much sorrow and little joy.
And, Myrrha, he is so good: so noble, so
patient, so unselfish, so good. Forgive me
for speaking to you so, but, Myrrha, he is
so dear a friend of mine, his happiness is
so much to me. Tell me you love him and
that you mean to be to him a good and
faithful wife."

"Who in the world are you speak-
ing about, Aunt Daisy?" Myrrha asked
roughly.

"Of whom should I be speaking but of
Mr. Stewart?"

"Mr. Stewart! I make Mr. Stewart 'a
good and faithful wife!' You've been
asleep and dreaming, Aunt Daisy."

"Do you mean, Myrrha, that you are
not engaged to Mr. Stewart?"

"Certainly, I do mean, Aunt Daisy, that
I am not engaged to Mr. Stewart. Why
he's old enough to be my father! That you
should be engaged to him, that you should
make him a good and faithful wife, would
be much more suitable."

"Myrrha!"

"Aunt Daisy, you're a fool—or—ah yes,
I know I'm rude and rough, but I don't
mean it unkindly. You love Mr. Stewart,
and he's fond of you. You are always
hankering after him; the idea of his
marrying me has been making you look like
a martyr. Why on earth don't you marry
him and have done with it? I begin to
think you must be married already, or
something! How else is one to understand
your conduct? You know he's fond of you,
you know you love him as you love your
life, but you ' don't mean to marry.' Now,
Aunt Daisy, I've some common sense, and
I know there must be more in this than
meets the eye: something more than
old-maidish nonsense and scruples."

Daisy had turned from pale to red, and
then from red to pale, but she had been too
much taken by surprise to check this outbreak,
and Myrrha went on:

"I'll tell you what I think of Mr.
Stewart, and then you'll understand that