She took the name again, and with it, also, Margaret, feeling that Daisy was far too girlish an appellation for one who clad herself in the deepest mourning, and felt, when she stood at poor Tom's grave, more wretched and desolate than many a wife has felt when her husband was buried from sight.

Tom had meant to make her parents independent of her so that she need not have them with her unless she chose to do so, for knowing Mr. McDonald as he did, he thought she would be happier without him; but God so ordered it that within three months after poor Tom's death, they made another grave beside his, and Daisy and her mother were alone.

It was spring time, and the two desolate women bade adieu to their dead, and made their way to England, and from there to Scotland, where among the heather hills they passed the summer in the utmost seclusion.

Here Daisy had ample time for thought, which dwelt mostly upon the past and the happiness she cast away when she consented to the sundering of the tie which had bound her to Guy Thornton.

"Oh, how could I have been so foolish and so weak," she said, as with intense contempt for herself, she read over the journal she had kept at Elmwood during the first weeks of her married life.

Guy had said it would be pleasant for her to refer to its pages in after years, little dreaming with what sore anguish of heart poor Daisy would one day weep over the senseless things recorded there.

"Can it be I was ever that silly little fool?" she said bitterly, as she finished her journal. "And how could Guy love me as he did. Oh, if I but had the chance again, I would make him so happy. Oh, Guy, Guy,—my husband still,—mine more than Julia's, if you could know how much I love you now; nor can I feel it wrong to do so, even though I never hope to see your face again, Guy, Guy, the world is so desolate, and I am young, only twenty-three, and life is so long and dreary with nothing to live for or to do. I wish almost that I were dead like Tom, only I dare not think I should go to the Heaven where he has gone."

In her sorrow and loneliness, Daisy was fast sinking into an unhealthy morbid state of mind from which nothing seemed to rouse her.

"Nothing to live for,—nothing to do," was her lament, until one golden September day, when there came a turning point in her life, and she found there was something to do.

There was no regular service that Sunday in the church where she usually attended, and as the day was fine and she was far too restless to remain at home, she proposed to her mother that they walk to a little chapel about a mile away, where a young Presbyterian clergyman was to preach.

She had heard much of his eloquence, and as his name was McDonald, he might possibly be some distant relative, inasmuch as her father was of Scotch descent, and she felt a double interest in him, and with her mother was among the first who entered the little humble building, and took a seat upon one of the hard, uncomfortable benches near the pulpit.

The speaker was young,—about Tom's age,—and with a look on his florid face and a sound in his voice so like that of the dead man that Daisy half started to her feet when he first took his stand in front of her, and announced the opening hymn. His text was, "Why stand ye here all the day idle?" and so well did he handle it, and so forcible were his gestures and eloquent his style of delivery, that Daisy listened to him spell-bound, her eyes fixed intently upon his glowing face, and her ears drinking in every word he uttered.

After dwelling a time upon the loiterers in God's vineyard, the idlers from choice, who worked not for lack of an inclination to do so, he spoke next of the class whose whole life was a weariness for want of something to do, and to these he said, "Have you never read how, when the disciples rebuked the grateful woman for wasting upon her Master's head what might have been sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor, Jesus said unto them, 'The poor ye have with you always,' and is it not so, my hearers? Are there no poor at your door to be fed, no hungry little ones to be cared for out of the abundance which God has only loaned for this purpose? Are there no wretched homes which you can make happier, no aching hearts which a kind word would cheer? Remember there is a blessing pronounced for even the cup of cold water, and how much greater shall be the reward of those who, forgetting themselves, seek the good of others and turn not away from the needy and the desolate. See to it, then, you to whom God has given much. See to it that you sit not down in idle ease, wasting upon yourself alone the goods designed for others; for to whom much is given of him much shall be required."

Attracted, perhaps, by the deep black of Daisy's attire, or the something about her which marked her as different from the mass of his hearers, the speaker seemed to address the last of his remarks directly to her, and had the dead Tom risen from his grave and spoken with her face to face, she could hardly have been more affected than she was. The resemblance was so striking and the voice so like her cousin's, that she felt as if she had received a message direct from him; or, if not from him, she surely had from God, whose almoner she henceforth would be.

That day was the beginning of a new life to her. Thenceforth there must be no more repining; no more idle, listless days, no more wishing for something to do. There was work all around her, and she found it and did it with a will,—first, from a sense of duty, and at last for the real pleasure it afforded her to carry joy and gladness to the homes where want and sorrow had been so long.

Hearing that there was sickness and destitution among the miners in Peru, where her possessions were, she went there early in November, and many a wretched heart rejoiced because of her, and many a lip blessed the beautiful lady whose coming among them was productive of so much good. Better dwellings, better wages, a church, a school-house followed in her footsteps, and then, when everything seemed in good working order, there came over her a longing for her native country, and the next autumn found her in New York, where in a short space of time everybody knew of the beautiful Miss McDonald, who was a millionaire and who owned the fine house and grounds in the upper part of the city not far from the Park.

Here society claimed her again, and Daisy, who had no morbid fancies now, yielded in part to its claims, and became, if not a belle, at least a favorite, whose praises were in every mouth. But chiefly was she known and loved by the poor and the despised whom she daily visited, and to whom her presence was like the presence of an angel.

"You do look lovely and sing so sweet; I know there's nothing nicer in Heaven," said a little piece of deformity to her one day as it lay dying in her arms. "I'se goin' to Heaven, which I shouldn't have done if you'se hadn't gin me the nice bun and told me of Jesus. I loves Him now, and I'll tell Him how you bringed me to Him."

Such was the testimony of one dying child, and it was dearer to Daisy than all the words of flattery ever poured into her ear. As she had brought that little child to God so she would bring others, and she made her work among the children especially, finding there her best encouragement and greatest success.

Once when Guy Thornton chanced to be in the city and driving in the Park, he saw a singular sight—a pair of splendid bays arching their graceful necks proudly, their silver-tipped harness flashing in the sunlight, and their beautiful mistress radiant with happiness as she sat in her open carriage, not with gayly-dressed friends, but amid a group of poorly-clad pale-faced little ones, to whom the Park was paradise, and she the presiding angel.

"Look,—that's Miss McDonald," Guy's friend said to him, "the greatest heiress in New York, and I reckon the one who does the most good. Why, she supports more old people and children and runs more ragged schools than any half-dozen men in the city, and I don't suppose there's a den in New York where she has not been, and never once, I'm told, was she insulted, for the vilest of them stand between her and harm. Once a miscreant on Avenue A knocked a boy down for accidently stepping in a pool of water and spattering her white dress in passing. Friday nights she has a reception for these people, and you ought to see how well they behave. At first they were noisy and rough, and she had to have the police, but now they are quiet and orderly as you please, Perhaps you'd like to go to one. I know Miss McDonald, and will take you with me."

Guy said he should not be in town on Friday, as he must, return to Cuylerville the next day, and with a feeling he could not quite analyze he turned to look at the turnout which excited so much attention. But it was not so much at the handsome bays and the bevy of queer-looking children he gazed, as at the lady in their midst, clad in velvet and ermine, with a long white feather falling among the curls of her bright hair. When Daisy first entered upon her new life, she had affected a nun-like garb as most appropriate, but after a little child said to her once: "I don't like your black gown all the time. I likes sumptin' bright and pretty," she changed her dress and gave freer scope to her natural good taste and love of what was becoming. And the result showed the wisdom of the change, for the children and inmates of the dens she visited, accustomed only to the squallor and ugliness of their surroundings, hailed her more rapturously than they had done before, and were never weary of talking of the beautiful woman who was not afraid to wear her pretty clothes into their wretched houses, which gradually grew more clean and tidy for her sake.

"It wasn't for the likes of them gownds to trail through sich truck," Bridget O'Donohue said, and on the days when Daisy was expected, she scrubbed the floor, which, until Daisy's advent had not known water for years, and rubbed and polished the one wooden chair kept sacred for the lady's use.

Other women, too, caught Biddy's spirit and scrubbed their floors and their children's faces on the day when Miss McDonald was to call, and when she came, she was watched narrowly, lest by some chance a speck of dirt should fall upon her, and her becoming dress and handsome face were commented on and remembered as some fine show which had been seen for nothing. Especially did the children like her in her bright dress, and the velvet and ermine in which she was clad when Guy met her in the Park were worn more for their sakes, than for the gaze of those to whom such things were no novelties. To Guy she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her before, and there was in his heart a feeling like a want of something lost, as her carriage disappeared from, view and he lost sight of the fair face and form which had once been his own.

The world was going well with Guy, for though Dick Trevylian had paid no part of the one hundred thousand dollars, and he still lived in the Brown Cottage on the hill, he was steadily working his way to competency, if not to wealth. His profession as lawyer, which he had resumed, yielded him a remunerative income, while his contributions to different magazines were much sought after, so that to all human appearance he was prosperous and happy. Prosperous in his business, and happy in his wife and little ones, for there was now a second child, a baby Guy of six weeks old, and when on his return from New York the father bent over the cradle of his boy, and kissed his baby face, that image seen in the Park seemed to fade away, and the caresses he gave to Julia had in them no faithlessness or insincerity. She was a noble woman, and had made him a good wife, and he loved her truly, though with a different, less absorbing, less ecstatic love than he had given to Daisy. But he did not tell her of Miss McDonald. Indeed, that name was never spoken now, nor was any reference ever made to her except when the little Daisy sometimes asked where was the lady for whom she was named, and why she did not send her a doll.

"I hardly think she knows there is such a chit as you," Guy said to her once, when sorely pressed on the subject; and then the child wondered how that could be; and wished she was big enough to write her a letter and ask her to come and see her.

Every day after that little Daisy played "make b'leve Miss Mack-Dolly" was there, said Mack-Dolly being represented by a bundle of shawls tied up to look like a figure and seated in a chair. At last there came to the cottage a friend of Julia's, a young lady from New York, who knew Miss McDonald, and who, while visiting in Cuylerville, accidentally learned that she was the divorced wife, of whose existence she knew, but of whom she had never spoken to Mrs. Thornton. Hearing the little one talking one day to Miss Mack-Dolly, asking her why she never wrote, nor sent a "sing" to her sake-name, the young lady said:

"Why don't you send Miss McDonald a letter? You tell me what to say and I'll write it down for you, but don't let mamma know till you see if you get anything."

The little girl's fancy was caught at once with the idea, and the following letter was the result:

"Brown Cottage, 'Most Tissmas time.

"Dear Miss Mac-Dolly:—I'se an 'ittle dirl named for you, I is, Daisy Thornton, an' my papa is Mr. Guy, an' mam-ma is Julia, and 'ittle brother is Guy, too—only he's a baby, and vomits up his dinner and ties awfully sometimes; an' I knows anoder 'ittle dirl named for somebody who dives her 'sings,' a whole lot, an' why doesn't youse dive me some, when I'se your sake-name, an' loves you ever so much, and why you never turn here to see me? I wish you would. I ask papa is you pretty, an' he tell me yes, bootiful, an' every night I pays for you and say God bress papa an' mam-ma, an' auntie, and Miss Mac-Dolly, and 'ittle brodder, an' make Daisy a dood dirl, and have Miss Mac-Dolly send her sumptin' for Tissmas, for Christ's sake. An' I wants a turly headed doll that ties and suts her eyes when she does to seep, and wears a shash and a pairesol, and anodder big dolly to be her mam-ma and pank her when she's naughty, an' I wants an' 'ittle fat-iran, an' a cook-stove, an' washboard. I'se dot a tub. An' I wants some dishes an' a stenshun table, an' 'ittle bedstead, an' yuffled seets, an' pillars, an' bue silk kilt, an' ever many sings which papa cannot buy, cause he hasn't dot the money. Vill you send them, Miss Mac-Dolly, pese, an' your likeness, too. I wants to see how you looks. My mam-ma is pretty, with back hair an' eyes, but she's awful old—I dess. How old is you? Papa's hair is some dray, an' his viskers, too. My eyes is bue.

"Yours, respectfully, "Daisy Thornton."

Miss McDonald had been shopping since ten in the morning, and her carriage had stood before dry goods stores, and toy shops, and candy stores, while bundle after bundle had been deposited on the cushions and others ordered to be sent. But she was nearly through now, and, just as it was beginning to grow dark in the streets, she bade her coachman drive home, where dinner was waiting for her in the dining-room, and her mother was waiting in the parlor. Mrs. McDonald was not very well, and had kept her room all day, but she was better that night, and came down to dine with her daughter. The December wind was cold and raw, and a few snowflakes fell on Daisy's hat and cloak as she ran up the steps and entered the warm, bright room, which seemed so pleasant when contrasted with the dreariness without.

"Oh, how nice this is, and how tired and cold I am!" she said, as she bent over the blazing fire.

"Are you through with your shopping?" Mrs. McDonald asked, in a half-querulous tone, as if she did not altogether approve of her daughter's acts.

"Yes, all through, except a shawl for old Sarah Mackie, and a few more toys for Biddy Warren's blind boy," Daisy said, and her mother replied: "Well, I'm sure I shall be glad for your sake when it is over. You'll make youself sick, and you are nearly worn out now, remembering everbody in New York."

"Not quite everybody, mother," Daisy rejoined, cheerfully; "only those whom everybody forgets,—the poor, whom we have with us always. Don't you remember the text, and the little kirk where we heard it preached from? But come,—dinner is ready, and I am hungry, I assure you."

She led the way to the handsome dining-room, and took her seat at the table, looking, in her dark street dress, as her mother had said, pale and worn, as if the shopping had been very hard upon her. And yet it was not so much the fatigue of the day which affected her as the remembrance of a past she did not often dare to recall.

It was at Christmas time years ago that she first met with Guy, and all the day long, as she turned over piles of shawls, and delaines, and flannels, or ordered packages of candy, and bonbons, and dollies by the dozen, her thoughts had been with Guy and the time she met him at Leiter and Field's and he walked home with her. It seemed to her years and years ago, and the idea of having lived so long made her feel old and tired and worn. But the nice dinner and the cheer of the room revived her, and her face looked brighter and more rested when she returned to the parlor, and began to show her mother her purchases.

Daisy did not receive many letters except on business, and, as these usually came in the morning, she did not think to ask if the postman had left her anything; and so it was not until her mother had retired and she was about going to her own room, that she saw a letter lying on the hall-stand. Miss Barker, who had instigated the letter, had never written to her more than once or twice, and then only short notes, and she did not recognize the handwriting at once. But she saw it was post-marked Cuylerville, and a sick, faint sensation crept over her as she wondered who had sent it, and if it contained news of Guy. It was long since she had heard of him,—not, in fact, since poor Tom's death; and she knew nothing of the little girl called for herself, and thus had no suspicion of the terrible shock awaiting her, when at last she broke the seal. Miss Barker had written a few explanatory lines, which were as follows:

"Cuylerville, Dec., 18—.

"Dear Miss McDonald:—Since saying good-bye to you last June, and going off to the mountains and seaside, while you, like a good Samaritan, stayed in the hot city to look after 'your people,' I have flitted hither and thither until at last I floated out to Cuylerville to visit Mrs. Guy Thornton, who is a friend and former schoolmate of mine. Here,—not in the house, but in town,—I have heard a story which surprised me not a little, and I now better understand that sad look I have so often seen on your face without at all suspecting the cause.

"Dear friend, pardon me, won't you, for the liberty I have taken since knowing your secret? You would, I am sure, if you only knew what a dear, darling little creature Mr. Thornton's eldest child is. Did you know he had called her Daisy for you? He has, and with her blue eyes and bright auburn hair, she might pass for your very own, with the exception of her nose, which is decidedly retrousse. She is three years old, and the most precocious little witch you ever saw. What think you of her making up a bundle of shawls and aprons, and christening it Miss Mac-Dolly, her name for you, and talking to it as if it were really the famous and beautiful woman she fancies it to be? She is your 'sake-name,' she says, and before I knew the facts of the case, I was greatly amused by her talk to the bundle of shawls which she reproached for never having sent her anything. When I asked Julia (that's Mrs. Thornton) who Miss Mac-Dolly was, she merely answered, 'the lady for whom Daisy was named,' and that was all I knew until the gossips enlightened me, when, without a word to any one, I resolved upon a liberty which I thought I could venture to take with you. I suggested the letter which I inclose, and which I wrote exactly as the words came from the little lady's lips. Neither Mr. Thornton, nor his wife, know aught of the letter, nor will they unless you respond, for the child will keep her own counsel, I am well assured.

"Again forgive me if I have done wrong, and believe me, as ever,

"Yours, sincerely, "Ella Barker."

Daisy's face was pale as ashes as she read Miss Barker's letter, and then snatching up the other devoured its contents almost at a glance, while her breath came in panting gasps, and her heart seemed trying to burst through her throat. She could neither move nor cry out for a moment, but sat like one turned to stone, with a sense of suffocation oppressing her, and a horrible pain in her heart. She had thought the grave was closed, the old wound healed by time and silence, and now a little child had torn it open, and it was bleeding and throbbing again with a pang such as she had never felt before, while there crept over her such a feeling of desolation and loneliness, a want of something unpossessed, as few have ever experienced.

But for her own foolishness that sweet little child might have been hers, she thought, as her heart went after the little one with an indescribable yearning which made her stretch out her arms as if to take the baby to her bosom and hold it there forever. Guy had called it for her, and that touched her more than anything else. He had not forgotten her then. She had never supposed he had, but to be thus assured of it was very sweet, and as she thought of it, and read again little Daisy's letter, the tightness about her heart and the choking sensation in her throat began to give way, and one after another the great tears rolled down her cheeks, slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster until they fell in torrents, and a tempest of sobs shook her frame, as with her head bowed upon her dressing-table she gave vent to her grief. It seemed to her she never could stop crying or grow calm again, for as often as she thought of the touching words, "I pays for you," there came a fresh burst of sobs and tears, until at last nature was exhausted, and with a low moan Daisy sank upon her knees and tried to pray, the words which first sprang to her lips framing themselves into thanks that somewhere in the world there was one who prayed for her and loved her too, even though the love might have for its object merely dolls, and candies, and toys. And these the child should have in abundance, and Miss McDonald found herself longing for the morrow in which to begin again the shopping she had thought was nearly ended.

It was in vain next day that her mother remonstrated against her going out, pleading her white, haggard face and the rawness of the day. Daisy was not to be detained at home, and before ten o'clock she was down on Broadway, and the dolly with the "shash," and "pairesol," which she had seen the day before under its glass case was hers for twenty-five dollars, and the plainer bit of china, who was to be dollie's mother and perform the parental duty of "panking her when she was naughty," was also purchased, and the dishes, and the table, and stove, and bedstead, with ruffled sheets, and pillow-cases, and blue satin spread, and the washboard, and clothes-bars, and tiny wringer, and diverse other toys, were bought with a disregard of expense which made Miss McDonald a wonder to those who waited on her. Such a Christmas-box was seldom sent to a child as that which Daisy packed in her room that night, with her mother looking on and wondering what Sunday-school was to be the recipient of all those costly presents, and suggesting that cheaper articles would have answered just as well.

Everything the child had asked for was there except the picture. That Daisy dared not send, lest it should look too much like thrusting herself upon Guy's notice and wound Julia his wife.

Daisy was strangely pitiful in her thoughts of Julia, who would in her turn have pitied her for her delusion, could she have known how sure she was that but for the tardiness of that letter Guy would have chosen his first love in preference to any other.

And it was well that each believed herself first in the affection of the man to whom Daisy wanted so much to send something as a proof of her unalterable love. They were living still in the brown cottage; they were not able to buy Elmwood back. Oh, if she only dared to do it, how gladly her Christmas gift should be the handsome place which they had been so proud of. But that would hardly do; Guy might not like to be so much indebted to her; he was proud and sensitive in many points, and so she abandoned the plan for the present, thinking that by and by she would purchase and hold it as a gift to her namesake on her bridal day. That will be better, she said, as she put the last article in the box and saw it leave her door, directed to Guy Thornton's care.

Great was the surprise at the Brown Cottage, when, on the very night before Christmas the box arrived and was deposited in the dining-room, where Guy and Julia, Miss Barker and Daisy, gathered eagerly around it, the later exclaiming:

"I knows where it tum from, I do. My sake-name, Miss Mac-Dolly, send it, see did. I writ and ask her would see, an' see hab."

"What!" Guy said, as, man-like, he began deliberately to untie every knot in the string which his wife in her impatience would have cut at once. "What does the child mean? Do you know, Julia?"

"I do. I'll explain," Miss Barker said, and in as few words as possible she told what she had done, while Julia listened with a very grave face, and Guy was pale to his lips as he went on untying the string and opening the box.

There was a letter lying on the top which he handed to Julia, who steadied her voice to read aloud:

"New York, December 22, 18—.

"Darling little sake-name Daisy:—Your letter made Miss Mack-Dolly very happy, and she is so glad to send you the doll with a shash, and the other toys. Write to me again and tell me if they suit you. God bless you, sweet little one, is the prayer of

"Miss McDonald."

After that the grave look left Julia's face, and Guy was not quite so pale, as he took out, one after another, the articles, which little Daisy hailed with rapturous shouts and exclamations of delight.

"Oh, isn't she dood, and don't you love her, papa?" she said, while Guy replied:

"Yes, it was certainly very kind in her, and generous. No other little girl in town will have such a box as this."

He was very white, and there was a strange look in his eyes, but his voice was perfectly natural as he spoke, and one who knew nothing of his former relations to Miss McDonald would never have suspected how his whole soul was moved by this gift to his little daughter.

"You must write and thank her," he said to Julia, who, knowing that this was proper, assented without a word, and when on the morning after Christmas Miss McDonald opened with trembling hands the envelope bearing the Cuylerville post-mark, she felt a keen pang of disappointment in finding only a few lines from Julia, who expressed her own and little Daisy's thanks for the beautiful Christmas box, and signed herself:

"Truly, Mrs. Guy Thornton."

Not Julia, but Mrs. Guy, and that hurt Daisy more than anything else.

"Mrs. Guy Thornton! Why need she thrust upon me the name I used to bear?" she whispered, and her lip quivered a little, and the tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered all that lay between the present and the time when she had been Mrs. Guy Thornton.

She was Miss McDonald now, and Guy was another woman's husband, and with a bitter pain in her heart, she put away Julia's letter, saying, as she did so, "And that's the end of that."

The box business had not resulted just as she hoped it would. She had thought Guy would write himself, and by some word or allusion assure her of his remembrance, but instead, there had come to her a few perfectly polite and well-expressed lines from Julia, who had the impertinence to sign herself Mrs. Guy Thornton! It was rather hard and sorely disappointing, and for many days Miss McDonald's face was very white and sad, and both the old and young whom she visited as usual wondered what had come over the beautiful lady, to make her "so pale and sorry."