Watching, waiting, hoping, saying to herself in the morning, "It will come before night," and saying to herself at night, "It will be here to-morrow morning." Such was Daisy's life, even before she had a right to expect an answer to her letter.

Of the nature of Guy's reply she had no doubt. He had loved her once, he loved her still, and he would take her back of course. There was no truth in that rumor of another marriage. Possibly her father, whom she understood now better than she once did, had gotten the story up for the sake of inducing her through pique to marry Tom; but if so, his plan would fail. Guy would write to her, "Come!" and she should go, and more than once she counted the contents of her purse and added to it the sum due her from Madame Lafarcade, and wondered if she would dare venture on the journey with so small a sum.

"You so happy and white, too, this morning," her little pupil, Pauline, said to her one day, when they sat together in the garden, and Daisy was indulging in a fanciful picture of her meeting with Guy.

"Yes, I am happy," Daisy said, rousing from her revery; "but I did not know I was pale, or white, as you term it, though, now I think of it, I do feel sick and faint. It's the heat, I suppose. Oh! there is Max, with the mail! He is coming this way! He has,—he certainly has something for me!"

Daisy's cheeks were scarlet now, and her eyes were bright as stars as she went forward to meet the man who brought the letters to the house.

"Only a paper!—is there nothing more?" she asked, in an unsteady voice, as she took the paper in her hand, and recognizing Guy's handwriting, knew almost to a certainty what was before her.

"Oh, you are sick, I must bring some water," Pauline exclaimed, alarmed at Daisy's white face and the peculiar tone of her voice.

"No, Pauline, stay; open the paper for me," Daisy said, feeling that it would be easier so than to read it herself, for she knew what was there, else he would never have sent her a paper and nothing more.

Delighted to be of some use, and a little gratified to open a foreign paper, Pauline tore off the wrapper, starting a little at Daisy's quick, sharp cry as she made a rent across the handwriting.

"Look, you are tearing into my name, which he wrote," Daisy said, and then remembering herself she sank back into her seat in the garden chair, while Pauline wondered what harm there was in tearing an old soiled wrapper, and why her governess should take it so carefully in her hand and roll it up as if it had been a living thing.

There were notices of new books, and a runaway match in high life, and a suicide on Sumner street, and a golden wedding in Roxbury, and the latest fashions from Paris, into which Pauline plunged with avidity, while Daisy listened like one in a dream, asking, when the fashions were exhausted, "Is that all? Are there no deaths or marriages?"

Pauline had not thought of that,—she would see; and she hunted through the columns till she found Guy's pencil mark, and read:

"Married, this morning, in——church, by the Rev. Dr.——, assisted by the rector, Guy Thornton, Esq., of Cuylerville, to Miss Julia Hamilton, of this city."

"Yes, yes, I see,—I know, it's very hot here, isn't it? I think I will go in," Daisy said, her fingers working nervously with the bit of paper she held.

But Pauline was too intent on the name Thornton to hear what Daisy said, and she asked: "Is Mr. Thornton your friend or your relative?"

It was natural enough question, and Daisy roused herself to answer it, and said, quickly: "He is the son of my husband's father."

"Oh, oui," Pauline rejoined, a little mystified as to the exact relationship existing between Guy Thornton and her teacher's husband, who she supposed was dead, as Daisy had only confided to madame the fact of a divorce.

"What date is the paper?" Daisy asked, and on being told she said softly to herself: "I see; it was too late."

There was in her mind no doubt as to what the result would have been had her letter been in time; no doubt of Guy's preference for herself, no regret that she had written to him, except that the knowledge that she loved him at last would make him wretched with thinking "what might have been," and with the bitter pain which cut her heart like a knife there was mingled a pity for Guy, who would perhaps suffer more than she did, if that were possible. She never once thought of retribution, or of murmuring against her fate, but accepted it meekly, albeit she staggered under the load and grew faint as she thought of the lonely life before her, and she so young.

Slowly she went back to her room, while Pauline walked up and down the garden, trying to make out the relationship between the newly-married Thornton and her teacher.

"The son of her husband's father?" she repeated, until at last a meaning dawned upon her, and she said: "Then he must be her brother-in-law; but why didn't she say so? Maybe, though, that is the English way of putting it;" and having thus settled the matter Pauline joined her mother, who was asking for Mrs. Thornton.

"Gone to her room, and her brother-in-law is married. It was marked in a paper, and I read it to her, and she's sick," Pauline said, without, however, in the least connecting the sickness with the marriage.

Daisy did not come down to dinner that night, and the maid who called her the next morning reported her as ill and acting very strangely. Through the summer a malarious fever had prevailed to some extent in and about Rouen, and the physician whom Madame Lafarcade summoned to the sick girl expressed a fear that she was coming down with it, and ordered her kept as quiet as possible.

"She seems to have something weighing on her mind. Has she heard any bad news from home?" he asked, as in reply to his question where her pain was the worst, Daisy always answered:

"It reached him too late—too late, and I am so sorry."

Madame knew of no bad news, she said, and then as she saw the foreign paper lying on the table, she took it up, and, guided by the pencil marks, read the notice of Guy Thornton's marriage, and that gave her the key at once to Daisy's mental agitation. Daisy had been frank with her and told as much of her story as was necessary, and she knew that the Guy Thornton married to Julia Hamilton had once called Daisy his wife.

"Excuse me, she is, or she has something on her mind, I suspect," she said to the physician, who was still holding Daisy's hand and looking anxiously at her flushed cheeks and bright, restless eyes.

"I thought so," he rejoined, "and it aggravates all the symptoms of her fever. I shall call again to-night."

He did call, and found his patient worse, and the next day he asked of Madame Lafarcade:

"Has she friends in this country? If so, they ought to know."

A few hours later and in his lodgings at Berlin, Tom read the following dispatch:

"Mrs. Thornton is dangerously ill. Come at once."

It was directed to Mr. McDonald, who with his wife had been on a trip to Russia, and was expected daily. Feeling intuitively that it concerned Daisy, Tom had opened it, and without a moment's hesitation packed his valise and leaving a note for the McDonalds when they should return, started for Rouen. Daisy did not know him, and in her delirium she said things to him and of him which hurt him cruelly. Guy was her theme, and the letter which went "too late, too late." Then she would beg of Tom to go for Guy, to bring him to her, and tell him how much she loved him and how good she would be if he would only take her back.

"Father wants me to marry Tom," she said in a whisper, and Tom's heart almost stood still as he listened; "and Tom wanted me, too, but I couldn't, you know, even if he were worth his weight in gold. I could not love him. Why, he's got red hair, and such great freckles on his face, and big feet and hands with frecks on them. Do you know Tom?"

"Yes, I know him," Tom answered, sadly, forcing down a choking sob, while the "big hand with the great frecks on it," smoothed the golden hair tenderly, and pushed it back from the burning brow.

"Don't talk any more, Daisy; it tires you so," he said, as he saw her about to speak again.

But Daisy was not to be stopped, and she went on:

"Tom is good, though; so good, but awkward, and I like him ever so much, but I can't be his wife. I cannot. I cannot."

"He doesn't expect it now, or want it," came huskily from Tom, while Daisy quickly asked:

"Doesn't he?"

"No, never any more; so, put it from your mind and try to sleep," Tom said, and again the freckled hands smoothed the tumbled pillows and wiped the sweat drops from Daisy's face, while all the time the great kind heart was breaking, and the hot tears were rolling down the sunburnt face Daisy thought so ugly.

Tom had heard from Madame Lafarcade of Guy's marriage and, like her, understood why Daisy's fever ran so high, and her mind was in such turmoil. But for himself he knew there was no hope, and with a feeling of death in his heart he watched by her day and night, yielding his place to no one, and saying to madame, when she remonstrated with him and bade him care for his own health:

"It does not matter for me. I would rather die than not."

Daisy was better when her mother came,—saved, the doctor said, more by Tom's care and nursing than by his own skill, and then Tom gave up his post, and never went near her unless she asked for him. His "red hair and freckled face" were constantly in his mind, making him loathe the very sight of himself.

"She cannot bear my looks, and I will not force myself upon her," he thought; and so he staid away, but surrounded her with every luxury money could buy, and as soon as she was able had her removed to a pretty little cottage which he rented and fitted up for her, and where she would be more at home and quieter than at Madame Lafarcade's.

And there one morning when he called to inquire for her, he, too, was smitten down with the fever which he had taken with Daisy's breath the many nights and days he watched by her without rest or sufficient food. There was a faint, followed by a long interval of unconsciousness, and when he came to himself he was in Daisy's own room lying on Daisy's little bed, and Daisy herself was bending anxiously over him, with a flush on her white cheeks and a soft, pitiful look in her blue eyes.

"What is it? Where am I?" he asked, and Daisy replied:

"You are here in my room; and you've got the fever, and I'm going to take care of you, and I'm so glad. Not glad you have the fever," she added, as she met his look of wonder, "but glad I can repay in part all you did for me, you dear, noble Tom! And you are not to talk," and she laid her hand on his mouth as she saw him about to speak. "I am strong enough; the doctor says so, and I'd do it if he didn't, for you are the best, the truest friend I have."

She was rubbing his hot, feverish hands, and though the touch of her cool, soft fingers was so delicious, poor Tom thought of the big frecks so obnoxious to the little lady, and drawing his hands from her grasp hid them beneath the clothes. Gladly, too, would he have covered his face and hair from her sight, but this he could not do and breathe, so he begged her to leave him, and send some one in her place. But Daisy would not listen to him.

He had nursed her day and night, she said, and she should stay with him, and she did stay through the three weeks when Tom's fever ran higher than hers had done, and when Tom in his ravings talked of things which made her heart ache with a new and different pain from that already there.

At first there were low whisperings and incoherent mutterings, and when Daisy asked him to whom he was talking he answered:

"To that other one over in the corner. Don't you see him? He is waiting for me till the fever eats me up. There's a lot of me to eat, I'm so big and awkward, overgrown,—that's what Daisy said. You know Daisy, don't you? a dainty little creature, with such delicacy of sight and touch. She doesn't like red hair; she said so, when we thought the man in the corner was waiting for her; and she doesn't like my freckled face and hands,—big hands, she said they were, and yet how they have worked like horses for her. Oh, Daisy, Daisy, I have loved her ever since she was a child, and I drew her to school on my sled and cut her doll's head off to tease her. Take me quick, please, out of her sight, where my freckled face won't offend her."

He was talking now to that other one, the man in the corner, who like some grim sentinel stood there day and night, while Daisy kept her tireless watch and Tom talked on and on,—never to her,—but always to the other one, the man in the corner, whom he begged to take him away.

"Bring out your boat," he would say. "It's time we were off, for the tide is at its height, and the river is running so fast. I thought once it would take Daisy, but it left her and I am glad. When I am fairly over and there's nothing but my big freckled hulk left, cover my face, and don't let her look at me, though I'll be white then, not red. Oh, Daisy, Daisy, my darling, you hurt me so cruelly."

Those were terrible days for Daisy, but she never left her post, and stood resolutely between the sick man and that other one in the corner, until the latter seemed to waver a little; his shadow was not so black, his presence so all-pervading, and there was hope for Tom, the doctor said. His reason came back at last, and the fever left him, weak as a little child, with no power to move even his poor wasted hands, which lay outside the counterpane and seemed to trouble him, for there was a wistful, pleading look in his gray eyes as they went from the hands to Daisy, and his lips whispered faintly: "Cover."

She understood him, and with a rain of tears spread the sheet over them, and then on her knees beside him, said to him, amid her sobs:

"Forgive me, Tom, for what I said when I was crazy. You are not repulsive to me. You are the truest, best, and dearest friend I ever had, and I—I—Oh, Tom, live for my sake, and let me prove how—Oh, Tom, I wish I had never been born."

Daisy did not stay with Tom that night. There was no necessity for it, and she was so worn and weary with watching that the physician declared she must have absolute rest or be sick again. So she staid away, and in a little room by herself fought the fiercest battle she had ever fought, and on her knees, with tears and bitter cries, asked for help to do right. Not for help to know what was right. She felt sure that she did know that, only the flesh was weak, and there were chords of love still clinging to a past she scarcely dared think of now, lest her courage should fail her. Guy was lost to her forever; it was a sin even to think of him as she must think if she thought at all, and so she strove to put him from her,—to tear his image from her heart, and put another in its place,—Tom, whom she pitied so much, and whom she could make so happy.

"No matter for myself," she said at last. "No matter what I feel, or how sharp the pain in my heart, if I only keep it there and never let Tom know. I can make him happy, and I will."

There was no wavering after that decision,—no regret for the "might have been,"—but her face was white as snow, and about the pretty mouth there was a quivering of the muscles, as if the words were hard to utter, when next day she went to Tom, and sitting down beside him, asked how he was feeling. His eyes brightened a little when he saw her, but there was a look on his face which made Daisy's pulse quicken with a nameless fear, and his voice was very weak, as he replied:

"They say I am better; but, Daisy, I know the time is near for me to go. I shall never get well, and I do not wish to, though life is not a gift to be thrown away easily, and on some accounts mine has been a happy one, but the life beyond is better, and I feel sure I am going to it."

"Oh, Tom, Tom, don't talk so. You must not leave me now," Daisy cried, all her composure giving way as she fell on her knees beside him, and taking both his hands in hers wet them with her tears. "Tom," she began, when she could speak, "I have been bad to you so often, and worried and wounded you so much; but I am sorry, so sorry,—and I've thought it all over real earnestly and seriously, and made up my mind, and I want you to get well and ask me that,—that—question again,—you have asked so many times,—and—and—Tom,—I will say—yes—to it now, and try so hard to make you happy."

Her face was crimson as if with shame, and she dared not look at Tom until his silence startled her. Then she stole a glance at him, and met an expression which prompted her to go on recklessly:

"Don't look so incredulous, Tom. I am in earnest. I mean what I say, though it may be unmaidenly to say it. Try me, Tom. I will make you happy, and though at first I cannot love you as I did Guy when I sent him that letter, the love will come, born of your great goodness and kindness of heart. Try me, Tom, won't you?"

She kissed his thin white hands where the freckles showed more plainly than ever, and which Tom tried to free from her; she held them fast and looked steadily into the face, which shone for a moment with a joy so great that it was almost handsome, and when she said again: "Will you, Tom?" the pale lips parted with an effort to speak, but no sound was audible, only the chin quivered and the tears stood in Tom's eyes as he battled with the temptation. Should he accept the sacrifice? It would be worth trying to live for, if Daisy could be his wife, but ought he to join her life with his? Could she ever learn to love him? No, she could not, and he must put her from him, even though she came asking him to take her. Thus Tom decided, and turning his face to the wall, he said with a choking sob:

"No, Daisy. It cannot be. Such happiness is not for me now. I must not think of it, for I am going to die. Thank you, darling, just the same. It was kind in you and well meant, but it cannot be. I could not make you happy. I am not like Guy; never could be like him, and you would hate me after a while, and the chain would hurt you cruelly. No, Daisy, I love you too well,—and yet, Daisy,—Daisy,—why do you tempt me so,—if it could be, I might perhaps get well, I should try so hard."

He turned suddenly toward her, and winding both his arms around her, drew her to him in a quick, passionate embrace, crying piteously over her, and saying:

"My darling, my darling, if it could have been, but it's too late now,—God is good and will take me to Himself. I thought a great deal before I was sick, and believe I am a better man, and that Jesus is my friend, and I am going to him. I'm glad you told me what you have. It will make my last days happier, and when I am gone, you will find that I did well with you."

He put her from him then, for faintness and exhaustion were stealing over him, and that was the last that ever passed between him and Daisy on the subject which all his life had occupied so much of his thoughts. The fever had left him, it is true, but he seemed to have no vital force or rallying power, and, after a few days, it was clear even to Daisy that Tom's life was drawing to a close. "The man in the corner," who had troubled him so much, was there again, and Tom was very happy. He had thought much of death and what lay beyond during those days when Daisy's life hung in the balance, and the result of the much thinking had been a full surrender of himself to God, who did not forsake him when the dark, cold river was closing over him.

Calm and peaceful as the setting of the summer sun was the close of his life, and up to the last he retained his consciousness, with the exception of a few hours, when his mind wandered a little, and he talked to "that other one," whom no one could see, but whose presence all felt so vividly.

"It would have been pleasant, and for a minute I was tempted to take her at her word," he said; "but when I remembered my hair, and face, and hands, and how she liked nothing which was not comely, I would not run the chance of being hated for my repulsive looks. Poor little Daisy! she meant it all right, and I bless her for it, and am glad she said it, but she must not look at me when I'm dead. The frecks she dislikes so much will show plainer then. Don't let her come near, or, if she must, cover me up,—cover me up,—cover me from her sight."

Thus he talked, and Daisy, who knew what he meant, wept silently by his side, and kept the sheet closely drawn over the hands he was so anxious to conceal. He knew her at the last, and bade her farewell, and told her she had been to him the dearest thing in life; and Daisy's arm was round him, supporting him upon the pillow, and Daisy's hand wiped the death moisture from his brow, and Daisy's lips were pressed to his dying face, and her ear caught his faint whisper:

"God bless you, darling! I am going home! Good-bye."

"The man in the corner,—that other one,"—had claimed him, and Daisy put gently from her the lifeless form which had once been Tom.

They buried him there in France, on a sunny slope, where the grass was green and the flowers blossomed in the early spring; and, when Mr. McDonald examined his papers, he found to his surprise that, with the exception of an annuity to himself, and several legacies to different charitable institutions, Tom had left to Daisy his entire fortune, stipulating only that one-tenth of all her income should be yearly given back to God, who had a right to it.