One of the quiet evenings, the two men were playing chess and Daffodil was watching them; Susan came in and said in her most respectful manner:

"A gentleman wishes to see Miss Carrick. Here is his card."

Daffodil took it and read, "Archibald Langdale, M.D."

"Oh," in a glad, girlish tone, "it's my old friend, Archie, that I haven't seen in ever so long. Dr. Langdale;" with a pretty assumption of dignity.

"Yes."

"And, uncle, you must see him. Not that I want you to accept him for a family physician, for really I don't know what he is like. He may be the veriest prig;" and she gave a dainty half laugh. "If he is spoiled it will be the fault of your city, he was very nice at Pittsburg. And you, too, Mr. Bartram."

"I have met the young man. I didn't see that he was much puffed up with his honors."

"Thank you." She made a fascinating courtesy. How pleased she was, he could see that.

"We will soon be through with the game. Yes, I'll come," said M. de Ronville.

She would hardly have known Archie. He stood up straight and he was quite as tall as Ned. He had filled out somewhat, though he was still rather thin, but his face had lost that deprecating expression, and had a clear notion not only of truth and honor, but of his own power as well. It was a tender face also, with the light in it that draws one unconsciously. The eyes seemed to have grown darker, but the hair was light as in boyhood.

"I am so glad to see you again;" and he took both hands in a warm clasp. "I couldn't wait until some accidental meeting, where you might kindly invite me for old friendship's sake."

"That would not have been worth while. I have heard about you, and I wondered if you had outgrown childish remembrances."

"You would bring them all back if I had. How little you have changed, except to grow tall. And now tell me about yours and mine. Once in a great while Ned writes, and mother doesn't seem to have the gift of chatty letters. Hers are mostly about my humble self, her son rather, and how he must avoid certain things and do other certain things, and not grow hard-hearted and irreligious and careless of his health;" smiling with a touch of tenderness. "So, you see, I do not hear much about the real Pittsburg."

"Oh, you would hardly know it now, there are so many changes, and so much business. New streets, instead of the old lanes, and the old log houses are fast disappearing. We are making real glass, you know, and there is talk of a paper mill. And nearly all the girls are married; the older ones, I mean. Families are coming in from the country, others go out to Ohio and Kentucky. Why, it is a whirl all the time."

"I'd like to see it and mother. I've planned to go several times, but some study or lectures that I couldn't miss would crop up. And it takes so much time. Why doesn't some one invent a quicker way of travelling? Now, if we could fly."

"Oh, that would be just splendid!" eagerly.

"I used to watch the birds when I was a boy, and flying seemed so easy for them. Now, why can't some one think up a pair of wings that you could slip on like a jacket and work them with some sort of springs, and go sailing off? I'm learning to put people together, but I never was any hand for machinery."

"Oh, think of it! A winged jacket;" and they both laughed gleefully.

Then M. de Ronville entered and expressed his pleasure at meeting the young man, who was already distinguishing himself, and who was an old friend of Miss Carrick.

"Not that either of you are very old," he commented smilingly.

Mr. Bartram he recalled. And certainly the generally quiet student talked his best. Was Daffodil a sort of inspiration? Was that one of the graces of early friendship?

He apologized presently for his long stay. He so seldom made calls, that he must plead ignorance of the correct length, but he had enjoyed himself very much. And then M. de Ronville invited him to drop in to tea. He would like to discuss some new medical methods with him.

"A very intelligent, well-balanced young man," the host remarked. "If the other one is as sensible, they are sons to be proud of."

"Their mother is proud of them, but their father would rather have had them in business," said Daffodil.

Belinda Pemberton was quite fascinated with Daffodil. "You are such a sweet, quaint, honest little thing," she said, "and you do make such delightfully naÏve remarks. And Arthur declares you must have learned to dance in fairyland."

"I think I did," she returned gayly. "And I do love it so."

Then the little circle, and the wider one, had a fine surprise. Betty Wharton, now Madame Clerval, returned quite unexpectedly, as her husband had resigned his position.

"I had quite enough of Paris," she said to a friend. "One wants an immense fortune to truly enjoy it. And somehow things seem shaky. Then, too, one does have a longing for home when one gets past youth."

So she opened her house and set up a carriage. Monsieur Clerval found himself quite in demand by the government, as the country needed a multitude of counsellors.

She came in to see M. de Ronville, who gallantly said she had renewed her youth, and begged for the secret.

"It is simply to keep young, to resolve not to grow old;" with a gay emphasis.

"But time passes, my dear lady."

"And where is that pretty, golden-haired Daffodil?" she enquired.

The girl was summoned. Yes, she had outgrown childhood, but there was a delightful charm in her young womanhood.

"We were such friends—if you can remember so far back."

"And you were so good to me, and made everything so enjoyable. Wasn't I very ignorant?"

"You were very frank, and honest, and adaptable. So we must take up the old intimacy again. M. de Ronville, I shall drop in often and say, 'Lend me your daughter for this or that occasion.' Or is it your niece? And if some one falls in love with her you must not scold me. Young men have eyes, and really, I am too kindly-hearted to throw dust in them."

Daffodil turned scarlet.

"Is it quite right to go about so much?" she said to M. de Ronville afterward, and the tone had a great uncertainty in it, while the curves of her pretty mouth quivered. "For you know——"

He drew her down beside him on the sofa.

"I thought some time we would talk it over—your unfortunate marriage, I suppose, comes up now and then to haunt you. Yet, it was fortunate, too, that the explanation came just as it did. I honestly believe it was an ignorant child's fancy. You were not old enough to understand real love. I think he could hardly have been a thorough villain, but an incident like this has happened more than once. And I truly believe you have overlived it."

She shuddered, and her eyes were limpid with tears. It was good to feel his friendly arm about her.

"It is like a dream to me, most of the time. And I think now, if he had made a passionate, despairing protest, it would have gone much harder with me. But it was right for him to go away when his father sent, and he was the next in succession to Hurst Abbey. And there was his child, his boy. I could never have been his true wife, but it hurt to be given up so readily, yet it was best. It gave me courage. And what if he had tired of me later on? They all helped me to bear it. And there was the deception. For if he had told the truth, there might have been pity, but no love."

"It was a sad thing to happen. My heart ached for you. But you know, Daffodil, you never were a wife in the true sense of the word. You are quite free, you have always been free. And you must feel so. You must not carry about with you any uncertainty. It is something buried fathoms deep, that you need never draw up to the surface, unless in time to come you tell the story to the man you marry."

"I shall never marry," she returned gravely. "I have it all planned. Felix shall have the fortune, for what could a woman do with it in her own hands? And he has the name, he has only to leave off the Carrick. And it shall be my business to make every one as happy as I can. And if it is not wrong to take pleasure for myself—I do love joy and happiness, and I could not grieve forever, when I knew the thing I would grieve for was wrong."

There were tears dropping off the bronze lashes, but she was not really crying. He pressed her closer. There was an exquisite depth to her that did not often come to the surface.

"So you have it all planned for the years to come," he returned after a moment or two. "That is quite far off. Meanwhile you must have a good time with other young people. That will make me the happiest, if you care for me."

"Oh, indeed I do, indeed I do," she cried earnestly. Then, after quite a pause, she continued—

"I almost lost sight of what I wanted to ask. It was whether I ought to explain anything, whether it would be sailing under false colors when no one knew;" and she gave a tangled sort of breath that she would not allow to break into a sob.

"My dear child, there would be no use in explaining what could only be a matter of gossip. I think, nay, I am certain, Aldis and myself are the only ones who know, and if there had been any trouble I should have sent him to your assistance. I dare say, some of your friends and neighbors at home have wellnigh forgotten about it. And now, do not let it disturb you, but be as happy as God meant you should be, when He snatched you from the peril."

"Oh, thank you," she rejoined with a grateful emotion that he felt quiver through her slender body.

She wondered if she was too light-minded, too easily pleased. For every joyous thing seemed to come her way. The girls sought her out, the young men wanted to dance with her, and were willing to bore themselves going out to supper, if they knew she would be there. It was not because she was brighter or wittier than the others, or could think of more entertaining plays, but just that she seemed to radiate an atmosphere of happiness.

She did not give up all her time to pleasure. She drove with her guardian on pleasant days; he had left off riding now, but he sent her out occasionally with Mr. Bartram, lest she should get out of practice, he said. Then she read to him, or they took up French. She made merry over her blunders.

The autumn was long and warm. They sat in the garden in the sunshine, or walked up and down. Now and then he went to the office, when there were some important matters on hand.

Madame Clerval gave a dance after she had her house set in order. It might have been called a ball. It was mostly for the young people; she was just as fond of them as ever, and secretly admitted that she didn't enjoy prosy old people, who could talk of nothing but their pains and aches, and how fast the country was going to ruin.

"Do you think Mr. Bartram would consider it a nuisance to come for me?" she asked of her guardian, with a face like a peony.

"Why, no, child. Madame made quite a point of his coming. He is growing old too fast."

"Why, he isn't old," she said rather indignantly. "And you see—it's hard sometimes not to offend this one or that one, and if he is really coming, will you ask him to bring me home? Wouldn't you prefer it?"

"I think I would;" very gravely, though he wanted to smile.

Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton were pushing each other for her favors, and she tried to distribute them impartially.

The dance was a splendid success, and the dainty supper had a French air. Mr. Bartram came in just before that. Daffodil was engaged, of course. Madame provided him with a charming partner.

There was only a galop afterward. At private affairs it was not considered good taste to stay after midnight. Mr. Bartram made his way to Daffodil, and asked her if she was ready to go, and she nodded gracefully.

She looked so pretty as she came down the stairs, wrapped in something white and fleecy, smiling on this side and that.

"It was very enjoyable," he said, "at least to you young people. I'm not much of a dancer nowadays, so I didn't come early."

"It was just full of pleasure. Madame Clerval always plans admirably."

He smiled to himself. Most girls would have protested about his being late, even if they had not specially cared.

The young people took up the habit of calling in the evening, three or four of them, sometimes half a dozen. Mrs. Jarvis would send in some cake and nice home-made wine, which was quite a fashion then. They made merry, of course.

"Dear uncle," she said one morning, it was raining so they couldn't go out, "didn't we disturb you last evening with our noise and laughter? I don't know why they are so eager to come here, and think they have a good time, for I am not as full of bright sayings as some of the girls. And if it annoys you——"

"My child, no. I lay on the sofa and listened to it, and it almost made me young again. I had no merry youth like that. Oh, am I coming to second childhood?"

His eyes were bright, and she thought she had never seen them so merry, save at first, when he had laughed at some of Felix's pranks. And his complexion was less pallid, his lips were red.

"Then second childhood is lovely. And you have grown so interested in everything. You don't get tired as you used. Are you real happy, or are you doing it just to make me happy?"

She gave him such a sweet, enquiring look, that he was touched at her solicitude.

"It is both, I fancy. You see, last winter I was ill and alone a great deal. I missed Betty Wharton, who was always flying in with some fun, or a bright story that had been told. Aldis had all the business to attend to, and sometimes wrote in the evenings. Time hung very heavy on my hands, and I began to think it was time for me to go hence. And by spring I had quite lost heart, though I began to crawl about a little. And I kept thinking how I should live through another dreary winter, and be half sick. It kept looming up before me. Then I thought I ought to settle something about your business when your father wrote concerning the lease. You came into my mind. I thought how brave you had been through that unfortunate time, and wondered if you would not like a change. I wanted some one to bring in the sunshine of youth, and you had spent so many of your years with elderly people, I thought you must have some art. I could make it pleasant for you, and the reflected light would brighten me. So I begged a little of your sweet young life."

"I am glad if it has made you happy," she said, much moved.

"It has given me new zest, it has made me almost well. True, I have had some twinges of my old enemy, rheumatism, but they have not been severe. I have not been lonely. There was some pleasure within my reach all the time. Oh, old people do want a little of the sun of youth to shine on them. And if you had no dear ones at home, I should keep you always, golden-haired Daffodil."

She took his hand in hers, so full of fresh young life. "And I should stay," she said.

"So, do not think your little merry-makings annoy me at all. I am glad for you to have them, and next day it is like reading a page out of a book, a human book that we are apt to pass by, and say we have no pleasure in it, but it is what we need, and what we want, down in our very heart of hearts, but often we are ashamed to ask for it."

It was true, he was much better. The house was losing its grave aspect. Jane had been used to flinging about wise old saws, and comparisons, and finding things to enjoy; Susan was quiet, falling into routine, and staying there until some new duty fairly pushed her out in another direction. She had no sense of humor or enthusiasm, yet she performed all the requirements of her place with ease and industry.

Mrs. Jarvis was just as kindly solicitous as ever, but intellectually there was a great gulf between her and M. de Ronville. She entertained whatever guests came with an air of precision, never forgetting she was a higher sort of housekeeper. She enjoyed the quiet of her own room, where she sewed a little, and read a good deal, the old-fashioned English novels, such as "Children of the Abbey," "Mysterious Marriage," "The Cottage on the Cliff," and stories of the latter half of the century. She thought it no part of a woman's business to concern herself with politics, she would have preferred living under a real King and nobility, but she accepted the powers that ruled, and stayed in her own little world, though she, as well as M. de Ronville, enjoyed the stir and interest that Daffodil brought about.

After Madame Clerval came, there was more variety and gayety in Daffodil's life, and she helped to rouse M. de Ronville as well. Then came a reception at the Presidential mansion.

"Of course, you will go," Madame said to him, in her persuasive, yet imperious, manner. "We must not be a whit behind those New York people in the attention we pay our President. And one need not stay the whole evening through, you know. You will meet so many old friends. Come, I cannot have you getting old before your time."

"But I am an old man," he protested.

"In our new country we must not get old. It is to be the land of perennial youth," she answered gayly.

Aldis Bartram joined his persuasions as well, and M. de Ronville went almost in spite of himself. He had kept his delicate, high-bred air and French atmosphere, and looked well in the attire of that day, with his flowered waistcoat, his black velvet suit and silk stockings, with a jewelled buckle on his low shoes. His beautiful white hair was just tied in a queue, with a black ribbon. There was something dignified and gracious about him, and friends thronged around to congratulate him. And though he had seen Washington in many different phases of his eventful life, he had not as yet met him as President of the nation he had fought for and cemented together.

There were handsomer girls than Daffodil; indeed, the fame of the beauties of Philadelphia in that day has been the theme of many a song and story. But she was very pretty in her simple white frock that in the fashion of the day showed her exquisite neck and shoulders, though the golden curls, tied high on her head, shaded and dazzled about it in a most bewitching manner. Madame Clerval was wise, she was not trying to outshine any of the belles, yet there was a bevy of young men about her constantly, and most devoted to her and to M. de Ronville, was Dr. Langdale. In fact, he was really the favorite visitor at the house. He ran in now and then with news of some new book, or some old translation, and a talk of the progress of the library and the trend of general education. Why should Boston have it all? Or a new medical discovery, though he was in no sense M. de Ronville's physician.

Was it strange that both these young people, having passed their childhood in Pittsburg, should come to a nearer and dearer understanding? Aldis Bartram watched them with the sense of a new revelation. Yet he could not subscribe to it cordially. The medical enthusiast was hardly the one he would choose for a girl like Daffodil. Arthur Pemberton would do better, yet he was not quite up to her mark. She was a simple seeming girl, yet he was learning that she had a great deal of character and sweetness. Somehow she kept herself curiously enfranchised from lovers. Her friendly frankness gave them a status it was difficult to overcome.

"I never expected to enjoy myself so much again," said M. de Ronville, when they were in the carriage. "It is an excellent thing to go on moving with the world, to keep in touch with the things that make up the sum of life, instead of feeling they belong to the gone-by time, and you have no interest in them."

How much like his olden self he was, Aldis Bartram thought. He wondered if he had been at fault in letting him drop down. There was much perplexing business, and he had hated to bother the elder man with it. Sometimes it seemed tedious to explain. Had he grown selfish in certain ways, preferring to take the burthen, rather than the trouble of sharing it with another? He had much personal ambition, he was in full earnest of a man's aims and life purposes. Yet it was this man who had helped him to the place whereon he stood, and it was not honorable to crowd him out under the plea that his best days were over.

It seemed, indeed, as if days fairly flew by, there was so much crowded in them. When the morning was fine, Daffodil insisted they should drive out. It was delightful to keep bowing and smiling to friends, with this attractive girl beside him. He went to some meetings of the Philosophical Society, and he took a new interest in the Library plans.

"You certainly have worked a transformation," Bartram said to Daffodil, when M. de Ronville consented to go to a concert with them, to hear two remarkable singers, who had come from abroad. "You will have to stay. Didn't I hear you discussing Pittsburg with Mrs. Jarvis?"

"Oh, they are longing for me to return. And in two days March will come in, that will be spring. And I was only to stay through the winter."

"But March is a cruel and deceitful travesty on spring. February has been too short."

"But they want me. And, yes, I want to see them all, and the garden, and the woods, and what new things have happened to Pittsburg. For there is something new coming in all the time."

Her face was so eager and full of happy interest.

"Well—I don't know what we shall do without you"; and the inflection of his voice was disconsolate. "I am afraid we shall fall back to the old routine. I am a busy man, you know, and have to shoulder a great many cares not really my own. Perhaps, too, I haven't the divine art of making a house bright, a woman's province."

"Oh, Mr. Bartram, I will tell you;" in a clear, earnest tone. "Why do you not marry, and bring some one here to do it? There are so many charming girls, sometimes I feel quite unimportant and ignorant beside them."

She uttered it in the same manner she might have asked why he did not bring home some flowers to grace the study table. Her lovely eyes were raised to his in the utmost innocence, and not a tint of color wavered on her cheek. His flushed with sudden surprise.

"Perhaps the charming young girl would consider it a dull house for life, and then elderly people have whims and fancies—well, younger men do. I have myself. And it would be asking a good deal."

"I think uncle hasn't many whims, and he does keep them in the background. You almost have to watch for them. Why, think of grandad!" and she laughed with a soft musical sound. "What he liked yesterday he may not like at all to-day, so Norry does the new thing, and says nothing about the other. And he often disputes with father as to whether there was any real need for the war, and that we would be better off under King George. But uncle is so large-minded, and then he has so many refined and delightful tastes. But you would get lonesome if you were not very well, and no one came to cheer you up, or bring you new thoughts and bright bits of things, that were going on in the world outside."

She paused suddenly, and flushed like a culprit, looking more beguiling than ever, with her downcast eyes.

"I suppose I oughtn't have said it, but it seems true to me, only I'm not blaming you. You have a great many things to attend to, and you must do them in a man's way, devote your whole mind to them, and you can't be frivolous, or other people's business would suffer. If I hadn't any one I would come and stay, but—I love them, and sometimes, in spite of the pleasure, my heart is almost torn in two with the longing. I said I would come back in the spring, and I must go. Then it will not be quite so bad, for Madame Clerval will be in and out, and he is so much better. And you'll let him take an interest in business, when he feels like it—oh, I seem to be giving you advice, and I sincerely beg your pardon. After all, I am not much more than a little girl, and I am talking as if I was old and wise;" and a sudden shame flamed her cheeks with scarlet.

"I think you have been wise, and sweet, and patient, without growing old. You have done a great deal for your guardian this winter—I really was afraid we should not have him with us for very long, and he did seem to wish for you so. Perhaps we were selfish, he and I."

"Oh, I was ready to come, too. It has been a delightful winter, and everybody has been so good to me, I've been just full of pleasure. But when you love those you have left behind, you sometimes feel as if you could fly."

She winked very fast, then made a sudden dab at her eyes, and half laughed, too.

"I think I understand. I have had no one to love dearly since I was a little lad, and all I remember about my mother is that she was pale, and ill, and could not endure a noise. Then I was put in school, and my father went away and died. When I was eighteen I went in M. de Ronville's office, and finished my studies. He has been my best friend, really like a father to me. I ought to make all the return in my power."

"Oh;" and there was a bewildering sweetness in her tone. "I have been so happy most of my life, and had so many to love me."

Then that unfortunate episode had not cost her any deep-seated grief. Had she loved at all, or was it only a childish fancy? He hoped it was, for the sake of her future.

He turned then and went out of the room. M. de Ronville had been up in his dressing-room, with his valet, and now he went to the library, and she followed him. There were some reports to look over, then the carriage came for them. It was sunny, with very little wind, and they had plenty of wraps.

Aldis Bartram went his way to the office. The two clerks were there and busy. He opened his letters, and answered several, the others had need of some legal opinions to be looked up. Then he took up a rather complicated case, but he soon lost the thread of it, for Daffodil's almost upbraiding voice haunted him. He had been outwardly patient many a time when all was irritation within, for he was too manly and too really grateful to show impatience.

Had Daffodil's being there this winter proved the source of the reaction in M. de Ronville's health? Had loneliness intensified the disease and discomfort? Perhaps. And now two or three young men dropped in, and had entertaining talks with him. Or was it because they liked the byplay of the pretty, vivacious girl, who never made herself the first attraction.

"Marry some pretty, charming young girl!" Where would he find one to M. de Ronville's liking?