Chapter 17

THE FORLORN HOPE

The spot where our tents were pitched commands a view, I think one of the loveliest in the world. Perhaps with me association has something to do with the feeling. That broad sweep of the plains of Jericho, bright with their groves of Zizyphus trees; the lake waters coming in at the south; the great line of the Moab horizon, and the heights of the western shore; and then the constant changes which the light makes in revealing all these; I found it a study of beauty, from the morning till the night. From the time when the sun rose over the Moab mountains and brightened our dôm trees and kissed our spring, to the evening when the shadow of Quarantania stretched over all our neighbourhood, as it stretched over Jericho of old, and the distant hills and waters and thickets glowed in colours and lights of their own.

The next morning after my walk I was up early, and going a little way from my tent door, I sat down to enjoy it. The servants were but just stirring; my father and Mr. Dinwiddie safe within their canvas curtains. It was very nice to be alone, for I wanted to think. The air was deliciously balmy and soft; another fair day had risen upon us in that region of tropical summer; the breath of the air was peace. Or was it the speech of the past? It is difficult to disentangle things sometimes. I had troublesome matters to think about, yet somehow I was not troubled. I did not lay hold of trouble, all the while I was in Palestine. Mr. Dinwiddie's words had revealed to me that it might be my duty to tell my father all that was in my heart. Suspicions of the fact, only, had crossed my thought before; but "as iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." I saw more clearly. And the longer I sat there on my stone looking over to the line of the Jordan and to the hills through which the armies of Israel had once come down to cross it, the clearer it grew to my mind, that the difficulty before me was one to be faced, not evaded. I saw that papa had a right to know my affairs, and that he would think it became me as a Christian not to make a mystery of them. I saw I must tell papa about myself. And yet, it did not appal me, as the idea had often appalled me. I was hardly afraid. At any rate, there before me the hosts of the Israelites had passed over dry shod; though the river was swift and strong; and the appeal of Elisha, - "Where is the Lord God of Elijah?" - came home to my ear like a blast of the priests' silver trumpets. I felt two hands on my shoulders.

"Studying it all, Daisy?"

"Papa, I am never tired of studying."

"This is a wonderful place."

"Papa, you know little about it yet. Old Jericho was up there."

"You speak as if I had gone to school in 'old Jericho,' " said my father, laughing. "I have the vaguest idea, Daisy, that such a city existed. That is all."

"Sit down, papa, while breakfast is getting ready, and let me mend your knowledge."

So we read the story there, on the stone by the spring. Mr. Dinwiddie joined us; and it was presently decided that we should spend the morning in examining the ground in our neighbourhood and the old sites of what had passed away. So after breakfast we sat out upon a walk over the territory of old Jericho.

"But it is strange," said papa, "if the city was here, that there are no architectural remains to testify as much."

"We rarely find them, sir, but in connection with Roman or Saracenic work. Shapeless mounds, and broken pottery, as you have it here, are all that generally mark our Palestine ruins."

"But Herod?" said papa. "He was a builder."

"Herod's Jericho was a mile and a half away, to the east. And moreover, if anything had been remaining here that could be made of use, the Saracens or Crusaders would have pulled it to pieces to help make their sugar mills up yonder, or their aqueducts."

"There is no sugar cane here now?"

"Not a trace of it. Nor a palm tree; though Jericho was a city of palms; nor a root of the balsam, though great gain was derived to Judea in ancient times from the balsam gardens here."

We mounted our horses and rode down to the site of Herod's Jericho, on the banks of the little stream that issues from the gorge of the Wady Kelt. How lovely, and how desolate, it was. The stream overhung with trees and bordered with oleanders and shrubs of which I have forgotten the names, and crossed by old arches still; and around, the desolate tokens of what once was. Foundation lines, and ruined aqueducts. Mr. Dinwiddie made us remark the pavement of the road leading up to the Kelt, the old road to Jerusalem, the road by which Jesus went when the blind men called him, and over which, somewhere on its way, stretched the sycamore tree into which Zaccheus climbed. Ah how barren and empty the way looked now! - with Him no longer here. For a moment, so looked my own path before me, - the dusty, hot road; the desolate pass; the barren mountain top. It was only a freak of fancy; I do not know what brought it. I had not felt so a moment before, and I did not a moment after.

"Where His feet lead now, the green pastures are not wanting, -" Mr. Dinwiddie said; I suppose reading my look.

"Never, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"Never!"

"But it _seems_, often, to people, that they are wanting."

"Their eyes are so blinded by tears that they cannot see them, sometimes. Even then, they can lie down and feel them, - feel that they are in them."

"Are there any sycamore trees here now?" my father asked.

"Two or three poor old specimens; just enough to show for the story. Those sycamore figs belong to the low and warm situations; this is the proper place for them."

Papa felt so well that we determined to push on to the Jordan. It was a hot, long ride, over a shadeless and barren plain; and when we came to the river papa declared himself very much disappointed. But I was not. Narrow and muddy as the stream was, it was also powerful in its rapid flood; no one could venture to bathe in it. The river was much swollen and had been yet more so; the tracks of wild animals which the floods had disturbed were everywhere to be seen. Papa and Mr. Dinwiddie reasoned and argued, while I sat and meditated; in a deep delight that I should see the Jordan at all. We took a long rest there, on its banks. The jungle was a delicious study to me, and when the deep talk of the gentlemen subsided enough to give me a chance, I got Mr. Dinwiddie to enlighten me as to the names and qualities of the various trees and plants. They were of fine luxuriant growth. Poplars and sycamores and other trees, willows, I think, and exquisite tamarisks in blossom; and what I specially admired, the canes. I understood then how people might go into the plain to see "a reed shaken with the wind." Growing twelve to fifteen feet high, with graceful tufts of feathery bloom which they bow and sway to the breeze in a manner lovely to see.

Another day we rode down to the shore of the Dead Sea; papa being none the worse for his Jordan excursion. Then the rain visited us, and for two or three days we were kept in our tents. With some difficulty I then persuaded papa to go further south, to the shore of the Dead Sea, to some pleasant camping ground by one of its western springs; there rain falls almost never. So, first at Ain Feshkah and then at Ain Jidi, we spent another couple of weeks; without Mr. Dinwiddie it would have been impossible, but his society kept papa from wearying and made everything as enjoyable as could be to both of us. It was the middle of February when we returned to Jerusalem.

The rainy season was not of course at an end yet; but a change of beauty had come over the land. We found fruit trees in blossom, almond and peach; and apricots just ready to bloom. Corn up and green; and flowers coming and come. I had my own plans, made up from the experience and counsels of my English friends; but papa wanted to see Jerusalem, and I waited. Of course I wanted to see Jerusalem too; and here again Mr. Dinwiddie was our excellent friend and guide and instructor. Papa was quite in earnest now; and went about the city examining walls and churches and rock-tombs and all the environs, with a diligent intentness almost equal to mine; and he and Mr. Dinwiddie had endless talks and discussions, while I mused. The words, "Constantine," "Byzantine," "Crusaders," "Helena", "Saracenic," "Herod," "Josephus;" with modern names almost as well known; echoed and re-echoed in my ears.

"Daisy!" said papa suddenly in one of these talks, - "Daisy! you are not interested in this."

"Papa, it is so uncertain."

Mr. Dinwiddie laughed.

"But the question, child; don't you care about the question? how is it ever to be made certain? I thought this question would engage all your attention."

"How can it ever be made certain, papa? After those hundred and fifty years when there were no Jews allowed here, who was to remember the spot of the Sepulchre? Few but Christians knew it, in the first place."

"Oh, you _have_ thought about it!" said papa. "But are you not interested in a _probable_ site, Daisy?"

"No, papa."

"All these old churches and relics then do not concern you?"

"Papa, I only go to see them for your sake."

"Well," said papa, "now I will go to the Mount of Olives for your sake."

That was my plan; following the advice of the English party, who said they had enjoyed it. We hired for a time a little stone dwelling on the Mount of Olives, from which we had a fine view of the city; and to this new home papa and I moved, and took up our quarters in it. Of all my days in the Holy Land, excepting perhaps the time spent at Jericho and Engedi, these days were the best. They are like a jewel of treasure in my memory.

The little dwelling to which we had come was rougher in accommodation than our tents; but the season was still early, and it gave better shelter to papa. It was a rude stone house, with a few small rooms at our service; which I soon made comfortable with carpets and cushions. The flat roof above gave us a delightful view of the country and abundant chance to examine and watch all its points and aspects. I spent the hours up here or at the window of our little sitting-room; using my eyes all the time, to take in and feast upon what was before them. Only when papa would go out with me, I left my post; to take up the survey from some new point of view. I had a great deal to think of, those days; a certain crisis in my life had come, or was coming; I was facing it and getting ready for it; and thinking and looking seemed to help and stimulate each other. It was wonderful to watch the lights change on Jerusalem; from the first sunbeam that came over the hills of Moab and touched the city, to the full glare of the midday, and then the sunset colours on land and rock and building, transforming the dull greys and whites with a flush of rosy beauty and purple splendour. The tints that hovered then upon the red hills of Moab were never to be forgotten. I watched it, this change of light and shade and colour, from day to day. I learned to know Jerusalem and her surrounding hills and her enclosing valleys; and the barrier wall of Moab became a familiar line to me. All this while, as I said, I had a great deal to think of, and was thinking. Past, present and future chased each other in and out of my head; or rather, it seems to me, dwelt there together.

"Daisy!" - papa called to me when I was on the roof one day. I ran down.

"What are you doing up there?"

"I was looking, papa. I was studying topography."

"Let us go out and study it a little by actual survey. I think a walk would do me good."

We went down first to the valley of the Kedron, and wandered about there; sometimes sitting down under the shade of the olive trees to rest; speculating upon localities, recalling scenes of history; wondering at the path which descends into the valley from St. Stephen's gate and goes on over the Mount of Olives to Bethany. Above all things, that path held my eyes. No doubt the real path that was travelled eighteen centuries ago lay deep beneath many feet of piled-up rubbish; but the rubbish itself told a tale; and the path was there. After a long stay in the valley, we mounted the hill again, where our temporary home was; and passing that, went on to the height of the hill. There we sat down. The westering sun was casting lines of light all over the landscape, which would be soon floods of colour. Papa and I sat down to look and wait.

"It certainly is worth coming for," said papa. "Our journey realises more than all I had hoped from it, Daisy."

"I am so glad, papa!"

"But you, Daisy, how is it with you? You seem to me a little, and not a little, _distraite_."

"I have so much to think of, papa."

"More than I have?"

"Why, yes, papa," I said, half laughing. "I think so."

"You must have fields of speculation unknown to me, Daisy."

"Yes, papa. Some time I want to talk to you about them."

"Isn't now a good time?" said papa, carelessly.

I was silent a while, thinking how to begin. It was a good time, I knew, and I dared not let it pass. I had been waiting till Mr. Dinwiddie should have left us and papa and I be quite alone; and he was to join us again as soon as we started on our northward journey. Now was my best opportunity. All the more, for knowing that, my heart beat.

"Papa," I began, "may I ask you a few questions, the better to come at what I want?"

"Certainly. Your questions, Daisy, I have always found stimulating."

"Then first, what is it you think of most, in looking over from this place to Jerusalem?"

"Of course," said papa, rousing himself, "the prominent thought must be the wonderful scene that was acted there eighteen hundred years ago; not the course of history before or after. Is that what you mean?"

"I mean that, papa. I mean the death of Christ. Papa, what was that for?"

"Why, as I understand it, Daisy, it was a satisfaction to the justice of God for the sins of the world. Are you going to put me through a course of theology, Daisy?"

"No, papa. But do you think it was for all the world, or only for a part of them?"

"For all, of course. The Bible words I take to be quite clear on that point, even if it were possible that it should have been otherwise."

"Then it was for you and me, papa?"

"Yes."

"And for those ignorant Moslems that live in the city now?"

"Yes, of course it was; though I think they will not have much good of it, Daisy."

"Never mind that, papa. Then it was for my old June, and for Maria and Darry and Pete and Margaret, and all the rest of our people at Magnolia?"

"Yes," said papa, rousing up a little. I did not look at him.

"Papa, don't you think the Lord Jesus loves the people for whom He died?"

"Certainly. It is inconceivable that He should have died for them if He did not love them. Though that is also a great mystery to me, Daisy."

"Papa, don't you think that, having died for them, He holds them precious?"

"I suppose so," said papa slowly.

"Every one?"

"Yes."

"Do you think He loves one man less than another because his skin is darker?"

"Certainly not, Daisy."

"Then papa - should we?"

"I do not know that we do," papa said, after a pause.

"Papa, think. What would you say to our, or anybody's, holding white men in slavery - making them work without wages - and forcing them to obey under the lash?"

"They are an inferior race, Daisy," papa answered again after a pause. His voice showed he did not enjoy the conversation; but it was needful for me to go on.

"Papa, they have been kept down. But suppose they were inferior, - since Christ died for them, does He not love them?"

"I have no doubt of it."

"Then, papa, what will He say to us, for keeping those whom He loves and died for, at arms' length or under our feet? and what will He say to us for keeping them out of the good He died to give them?"

"We do not, Daisy! They have their religious privileges."

"Papa, I have lived among them as you never did. They may not meet together to pray, on pain of the lash. They cannot have Bibles, for they are not allowed to read. They have no family life; for husbands and wives and parents and children are parted and torn from each other at the will or for the interest of their owners. They live like the animals."

"Not on my estates!" said papa, rousing himself again. "There is no selling and buying of the people there."

"Pete's wife was forcibly taken from him, papa, and then sent South."

"By whom?"

"By Edwards. And the rest of the hands were in mortal fear of him; utterly cowed. They dared not move without his pleasure."

"Abuses," papa muttered; - "nothing to do with the system."

"What must the system be where such things are possible? where one such thing is possible? And oh, papa, they suffer! there is no such thing as real comfort of life; there is no scope or liberty for the smallest upward tendency. Nothing is their own, not their own time; they have no chance to be anything but inferior."

"They have all the essentials of comfortable living, and they are comfortable," said my father.

"Papa, they do not think so."

"Few people do think so," said papa. "It is a vice of humanity."

I was silent a little bit, and then I ventured to say, -

"Papa, the Lord Jesus loved them well enough to die for them."

"Well," said papa, rather growlingly, "what then?"

"I am thinking, what will He say to us for handling them so."

"What would you do for them, Daisy?"

"All I could, papa," I said softly.

"How much could you, do you suppose?"

"Papa, I would not stop as long as there was anything more to be done."

"I suppose you would begin by setting them all free?"

"Wouldn't you wish it, papa, for yourself and me, if we were two of them? - and for mamma and Ransom, if they were two more?"

"You are mistaken in thinking it is a parallel case. They do not wish for liberty as we should."

"Then it only shows how much harm the want of liberty has done them already. But they wish for it quite enough, papa; quite enough. It breaks my heart to think how much they do wish for it."

"My child, you do not know what you are talking about!" papa answered; half worried, I thought, and half impatient. "In the first place, they would not be better off if they were set free; though you think they would; and in the second place, do you know how it would affect our own condition?"

"Papa," I said low, - "it has nothing to do with the question. I do not care."

"You would care."

"I care for this other more, papa."

"Daisy, understand. Instead of being well off, you would be poor; you would be poor. The Southern estates would be worth nothing without hands to cultivate them; and my Northern estates will go to your brother."

"I should never be rich in the way you think, papa."

"How so?"

"I would never be rich in that way."

"What would you do?"

"I would be poor."

"It is not so easy to do as to talk about," said my father. "At the present time, Daisy, - I suppose, if you had your will, you would set at liberty at once all the people on the Magnolia plantations?"

"Indeed I would, papa."

"Then we should be reduced to a present nothing. The Melbourne property brings in very little, nothing, in fact, without a master on the spot to manage it. I dare say some trifling rent might be obtained for it; and the sale of Magnolia and its corresponding estates would fetch something if the times admitted of sale. You know it is impossible now. We should have scarce anything to live upon, my child, to satisfy your philanthropy."

"Papa, there was a poor woman once, who was reduced to a handful of meal and a little oil as her whole household store. Yet at the command of the prophet of the Lord, she took some of it to make bread for him, before she fed herself and her child - both of them starving. And the Lord never let her want either meal or oil all the time the famine lasted."

"Miracles do not come for people's help, now-a-days, Daisy."

"Papa, yes! God's ways may change, His ways of doing the same thing; but He does not change. He takes care of His people now without miracles, all the same."

"All the same!" repeated papa. "That is an English expression, that you have caught from your friends."

We were both silent for a while.

"Daisy, my child, your views of all these things will alter by and by. You are young, and have slight experience of the things of life. By and by, you will find it a much more serious thing than you imagine to be without wealth. You would find a great difference between the heiress and the penniless girl; a difference you would not like."

"Papa," I said slowly, - "I hope you will not be displeased or hurt, - but I want it to be known, and I wanted you should know, that I never shall be an heiress. I never will be rich in that way. I will take what God gives me."

"First throwing away what He has given you," said papa.

"I do not think He has given it, papa."

"What then? have we stolen it?"

"Not we; but those who have been before us, papa; they stole it. All we are doing, is keeping that which is not ours."

"Enough too, I should think!" said papa. "You will alter your mind, Daisy, about all this, if you wait a while. What do you think your mother would say to it?"

"I know, papa," I said softly. "But I cannot help thinking of what will be said somewhere else. I would like that you and I, and she too, might have that 'Well done' - which the Lord Jesus will give to some. And when they enter into the joy of their Lord, will they care what His service has cost them?"

My eyes were full of tears, and I could scarcely speak; for I felt that I had gained very little ground, or better no ground at all. What indeed could I have expected to gain? Papa sat still, and I looked over at Jerusalem, where the westing sun was making a bath of sunbeams for the old domes and walls. A sort of promise of glory, which yet touched me exceedingly from its contrast with present condition. Even so of other things, and other places besides Jerusalem. But Melbourne seemed to be in shadow. And Magnolia? -

I wondered what papa would say next, or whether our talk had come to a deadlock then and there. I had a great deal more myself to say; but the present opportunity seemed to be questionable. And then it was gone; for Mr. Dinwiddie mounted the hill and came to take a seat beside us.

"Any news, Mr. Dinwiddie?" was papa's question, as usual.

"From America."

"What sort of news?"

"Confused sort - as the custom is. Skirmishes which amount to nothing, and tell nothing. However, there is a little more this time. Fort Henry has been taken, on the Tennessee river, by Commander Foote and his gunboats."

"Successes cannot always be on one side, of course," remarked my father.

"Roanoke Island has been taken, by the sea and land forces under Burnside and Goldsborough."

"Has it!" - said papa. "Well, - what good will that do them?"

"Strengthen their hearts for continuing the struggle," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "It will do that."

"The struggle cannot last very long," said my father. "They must see sooner or later how hopeless it is."

"Not in the light of these last events," said Mr. Dinwiddie. "What does my other friend here think about it?"

"About what, Mr. Dinwiddie?"

"The length of the struggle."

"Do you think Daisy has some special means of knowledge?" asked my father, carelessly.

"Well - yes," said Mr Dinwiddie. "She has been among Northern friends a good while; perhaps she can judge better of their tone and temper than I can, - or you, sir."

"I cannot hold just the view that you do, Mr. Dinwiddie, - or that papa does."

"So I supposed. You think there are some good soldiers in the Northern army."

"It would be absurd to suppose there are not," said my father; "but what they do want, is a right understanding of the spirit of the South. It is more persistent and obstinate, as well as strong, than the North takes any account of. It will not yield. It will do and endure anything first."

I thought I had heard papa intimate a doubt on that issue; however I said nothing.

"If _spirit_ would save a people," Mr. Dinwiddie rejoined, "those walls over against us would not bear the testimony they do. No people ever fought with more spirit than this people. Yet Jerusalem is a heap of ruins."

"You do not mean that such a fate can overtake the whole South?" said my father.

"I mean, that the race is not always to the swift. The South have right on their side, however."

"Right?" said I.

"I thought that would bring you out," Mr. Dinwiddie said, with a kindly look at me.

"Daisy is an abolitionist," said papa. "Where she got it, is out of my knowledge. But I think, Mr. Dinwiddie, there are minds so constituted that they take of choice that view of things which is practically the most adverse to their own interest."

"Tell papa, Mr. Dinwiddie, that that cannot be."

"What cannot be, if you please?"

"I mean, that which is the _right_ cannot be the wrong in any sense; cannot be even the wrong view for anybody's interest that adopts it."

"Fair theories -" said papa.

"Something else, it must be, papa. There is a promise - 'With what measure ye measure, it shall be measured to you again.' 'Give, and it shall be given unto you; full measure, pressed down, heaped up, and running over, shall men give into your bosom.' "

"Why into my bosom?" said papa. "I would rather it were into my hands, or a basket, or anything."

We went off into a laugh upon that, and Mr. Dinwiddie explained, and the conversation turned. We went into the house to have tea; and there we discussed the subject of our further journey and when we should set off. Mr. Dinwiddie was engaged to go with us to Lebanon. But it was concluded that we would wait yet a little for the season to be further advanced. For me, I was in no hurry to leave the Mount of Olives and Jerusalem.

We sat on the roof that evening and watched the lights kindle in Jerusalem, and talked of the old-time scenes and changes; till I supposed the question of home troubles and our poor Magnolia people was pretty well driven from papa's mind. But when Mr. Dinwiddie was gone, and I was bidding him good-night, he held me fast in his arms, looking down into my face.

"Little Daisy!" - he said.

"Not just now, papa."

"The very same!" he said. "My little Daisy! - who was always forgetting herself in favour of any poor creature that came in her way."

"Papa - what did our Lord do?"

"Daisy, do you expect to conform yourself and everybody to that pattern?"

"Myself, papa. Not everybody."

"Me? -"

I could not answer papa. I hid my face on his breast; - for he still held me. And now he kissed me fondly.

"We must not do what mamma would never agree to," he said very kindly. Again I could make no answer. I knew all about mamma.

"Daisy," said papa presently, we had not changed our position, - "is Mr. Dinwiddie your friend, or mine?"

"Of us both, papa!" I said in astonishment. "Of me; particularly, perhaps; because he knows me best and has known me longest."

"Then he comes here to see you?"

"And you, papa."

"I am afraid he does not come to see me," papa said. "Do you like to see him very much, Daisy?"

"Certainly, papa; very much; because he is an old, old, very good friend. That is all."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure, papa."

"I believe that _is_ all," said papa, looking into my face.

"I am afraid, however, that our friend wishes he were not quite so old a friend."

"No, papa," I said; "you are, mistaken. I am sure Mr. Dinwiddie does not think so. He knows better."

"How does he know better?"

"I think he understands, papa."

"What?"

"Me."

"What about you?"

"I think he thinks only that, - what I said, papa."

"And how came you to think he thinks anything about it?"

"Papa -"

"Has he ever told you his thoughts?"

"No, sir; certainly."

"Then what do you mean, Daisy."

"Papa - we have talked."

"But not about that?"

"No, papa; not about Mr. Dinwiddie's feelings, certainly. But I am sure he understands."

"What, my pet?"

"My feelings, papa."

"Your feeling about himself?"

"Yes."

"How should he understand it, Daisy?"

"I think he does, papa -"

"You say, you 'have talked'? What course did your talk take?"

My heart beat. I saw what was coming now, - what ought to come. It was my time.

"It was a very general course, papa. It did not touch, directly, my feeling for Mr. Dinwiddie, or anybody."

"Indirectly?"

"I think - I do not know - I half fancied, Mr. Dinwiddie thought so."

"Thought what?"

"That it did touch some feeling of mine."

"Not for himself. For some other?"

"Yes -" I whispered.

"For whom?" he said abruptly. And then as I hesitated, -

"For one of those two?"

"What two?"

"De Saussure or Marshall?"

"Oh, no, papa!"

"Your cousin Gary?"

"Oh, no, papa!"

"Have I lost you, Daisy?" he said then in a different tone, gentle and lingering and full of regret. My breath was gone; I threw my arms around his neck.

"Why did you never tell me before, Daisy?"

"Papa, - I was afraid."

"Are you afraid now?"

"Yes."

"Let us have it over then, Daisy. Who is it that has stolen you from me?"

"Oh no one, papal" I cried. "No one could. No one can."

"Who has tried, then?"

"A great many people, papa; but not this person."

"How has it come to pass then, my pet? And who is this person?"

"Papa, it came to pass without anybody's knowing it or meaning it; and when I knew it, then I could not help it. But not what you say has come to pass; nobody has stolen or could steal me from you."

"I have only lost, without any other being the gainer," said papa a little bitterly.

"No, papa, you have not lost; you cannot; I am not changed, papa, do you not see that I am not changed? I am yours, just as I always was, - only more, papa."

Papa kissed me, but it cut me to the heart to feel there was pain in the kiss. I did what my lips could to clear the pain away.

"Half is not as much as the whole, Daisy," he said at length.

"It may be, papa. Suppose the whole is twice as large as it used to be?"

"That is a good specimen of woman's reasoning. But you have not told me all yet, Daisy. Who is it that holds the other half?"

There was so much soreness and disappointment shown in papa's words, rather in the manner of them, that it was extremely difficult for me to carry on the conversation. Tears are a help, I suppose, to other women. They do not come to me, not at such times. I stood still in papa's arms, with a kind of dry heartache. The pain in his words was a terrible trial to me. He folded me close again and kissed me over and over, and then whispered, -

"Who is it, Daisy?"

"Papa, it was at West Point. I never meant it, and never knew it, until I could not help it."

"At West Point!" said papa.

"Two years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me there."

"It is not Dr. Sandford!"

"Oh, no, papa! He is not to blame. He did everything he could to take care of me. He knows nothing it all about it."

"Who is it, then?"

"He was a cadet then, papa; he is in the army now."

"Who is he?"

"He is from Vermont; his name is Thorold."

"Not a Southerner?"

"No, papa. Do you care very much for that?"

"Is he in the _Northern_ army, Daisy?"

"He could not help that, papa; being a Vermonter."

Papa let me go; I had been standing in his arms all this while; and took several turns up and down our little room. I sat down, for my joints trembled under me. Papa walked and walked.

"Does your mother know?" he said at last.

"I dared not tell her."

"Who does know?"

"Nobody, papa, but you, and an old friend of mine in New York, - an aunt of Mr. Thorold's."

"Daisy, what is this young man?"

"Papa, I wish you could know him."

"How comes it that he, as well as you, has kept silence?"

"I don't know, papa. His letter must have miscarried. He was going to write to you immediately, just before I left Washington. I was afraid to have him do it, but he insisted that he must."

"Why were you afraid?"

"Papa, I knew you and mamma would not be I pleased; that it would not be what you would wish; and I feared mamma, and perhaps you, would forbid him at once."

"Does he write to you?"

"I would not let him, papa, without your permission; and I was afraid I could not get that."

"What did you expect to do then, Daisy, if I was never to be told?"

"I thought to wait only till the war should be over, papa, - when he might see you himself and you might see him. I thought that would be the best way."

"_He_ did not?"

"No; he insisted on writing."

"He was right. What is the young man's name, Daisy? you have not told me yet."

"Christian Thorold."

"Thorold," said papa. "It is an English name. Have you heard nothing from him, Daisy, since you came to Switzerland?"

"Nothing," - I said.

Papa came over again to where I sat on the divan, bent down and kissed me.

"Am I such a terror to you, Daisy?"

"Oh, no, papa," I said, bursting into tears at last; - "but mamma - you know if mamma said a word at first, she would never go back from it."

"I know," he said. "And I choose, for the present, that this matter should remain a secret between you and me. You need not tell your mother until I bid you."

"Yes, papa. Thank you."

"And, Daisy," said he stroking my hair fondly, - "the war is not ended in America yet, and I am afraid we have a long time to wait for it. Poor child! - But for the present there are no storms ahead."

I rose up and kissed papa, with a very tender good-night given and exchanged; and then I went to my room. The Jerusalem lights were out. But a peace, deep and wide as the blue arch of the sky, seemed to have spanned my life and my heart.