“Please go away,” sobbed Daisy. “Leave me to myself, and I will get up.”

“Very well,” said Stanwick, involuntarily raising her little white hands courteously to his lips; “and remember, I warn you, for your own sake, not to dispute the assertion I have made––that you are my wife.”

“Why?” asked Daisy, wistfully. “They will forgive me when I tell them how it all came about.”

“You do not know women’s ways,” he replied. “They would hand you over at once to the authorities; you would bring disgrace and ruin upon your own head, and bitter shame to John Brooks’s heart. I know him well enough to believe he would never forgive you. On the other hand, when you feel well enough to depart, you can simply say you are going away with your husband. No one will think of detaining you; you will be free as the wind to go where you will. It will cost you but a few words. Remember, there are occasions when it is necessary to prevaricate in order to prevent greater evils––this is one of them.”

Daisy could not dispute this specious logic, and she suffered herself to be persuaded against her will and better judgment. 59 She was dreadfully homesick, poor little soul! and to go back to Allendale, to Rex, was the one wish of her heart. But would he clasp her in his arms if a shadow of disgrace blotted her fair name? She would go back to him and kneel at his feet, and tell him why she had left Mme. Whitney’s. She certainly meant to tell him of all that followed, and, with her little, warm cheek pressed close to his, ask him if she had done right.

At that moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and Lester observed the three ladies standing in a row in the door-way. He knew that three pairs of eyes were regarding him intently through as many pairs of blue glasses.

“Good-bye, my little wife,” he said, raising his voice for their benefit; “I’m off now. I shall see you again to-morrow;” and, before Daisy had the least idea of his intentions, he had pressed a kiss upon her rosy lips and was gone.

The three ladies quickly advanced to the couch upon which Daisy reclined.

“We are very glad to find you are so much better this morning,” they exclaimed, all in a breath. “Your husband has been almost demented about you, my dear.”

They wondered why the white face on the pillow turned so pink, then faded to a dead white, and why the tear-drops started to her beautiful blue eyes.

“I was telling my sisters,” pursued one of the ladies, softly, “you were so young to be married––hardly more than a child. How old are you, my dear––not more than sixteen, I suppose?”

“Sixteen and a few months,” answered Daisy.

“How long have you been married, my dear?” questioned another of the sisters.

A great sob rose in Daisy’s throat as she remembered it was just a week that very day since she had stood in the dim old parlor at the rectory, while Rex clasped her hands, his handsome, smiling eyes gazing so lovingly down upon her, while the old minister spoke the words that bound them for life to each other. It almost seemed to Daisy that long years had intervened, she had passed through so much since then.

“Just a week to-day, madame,” she made answer.

“Why, you are a bride, then,” they all chorused. “Ah! that accounts for your husband’s great anxiety about you. We all agreed we had never seen a husband more devoted!”

Daisy hid her face in the pillow. She thought she would go mad upon being so cruelly misunderstood. Oh! if she had only dared throw herself into their arms and sob out her heartaches on their bosoms. Yes, she was a bride, but the most 60 pitifully homesick, weary, disheartened little girl-bride that ever the sun shone on in the wide, wild world.

They assisted Daisy to arise, brushing out her long, tangled, golden curls, declaring to one another the pretty little creature looked more like a merry, rosy-cheeked school-girl than a little bride-wife, in her pink-and-white dotted muslin, which they had in the meantime done up for her with their own hands.

They wondered, too, why she never asked for her husband, and she looked almost ready to faint when they spoke of him.

“There seems to be something of a mystery here,” remarked one of the sisters when the trio were alone. “If that child is a bride, she is certainly not a happy one. I do not like to judge a fellow-creature––Heaven forbid! but I am sorely afraid all is not right with her. Twice this afternoon, entering the room quietly, I have found her lying face downward on the sofa, crying as if her heart would break! I am sorely puzzled!”

And the flame of suspicion once lighted was not easily extinguished in the hearts of the curious spinsters.

“‘Won’t you tell me your sorrow, my dear?’ I said.

“‘No, no; I dare not!’ she replied.

“‘Will you not confide in me, Mrs. Stanwick?’ I asked.

“She started up wildly, throwing her arms about my neck.

“‘Won’t you please call me Daisy?’ she sobbed, piteously; ‘just Daisy––nothing else.’

“‘Certainly, my dear, if you wish it,’ I replied. ‘There is one question I would like to ask you, Daisy––you have told me your mother is dead?’

“‘Yes,’ she said, leaning her golden head against the window, and watching the white clouds overhead in the blue sky––‘my poor, dear mother is dead!’

“‘Then will you answer me truthfully the question I am about to ask you, Daisy, remembering your mother up in heaven hears you.’

“She raised her blue eyes to mine.

“‘I shall answer truthfully any question you may put to me,’ she said; ‘if––if––it is not about Mr. Stanwick.’

“‘It is about yourself, Daisy,’ I said, gravely. ‘Tell me truthfully, child, are you really a wife?’

“She caught her breath with a hard, gasping sound; but her blue eyes met mine unflinchingly.

“‘Yes, madame, I am, in the sight of God and man; but I am such an unhappy one. I can not tell you why. My heart is breaking. I want to go back to Allendale!’

“‘Is that where you live, Daisy?’

“‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I am going to start to-morrow morning.’"

“How strange!” echoed the two sisters.

“The strangest part of the affair is yet to come. The little creature drew from her pocket a twenty-dollar bill.

“‘You have been kind and good to me,’ she said. I must take enough to carry me back to Allendale. You shall have all the rest, madame.’

“‘Put your money back into your pocket, Daisy,’ I replied. ‘Your husband has already paid your bill. He begged me to accept it in advance on the night you came.’

“She gave a great start, and a flood of hot color rushed over her face.

“‘I––I––did not know,’ she said, faintly, ‘how very good Mr. Stanwick has been to me.’”

The three sisters looked at one another in silent wonder over the rims of their spectacles and shook their heads ominously.

Dear reader, we must return at this period to Rex––poor, broken-hearted Rex––whom we left in the company of Pluma Hurlhurst in the spacious parlor of Whitestone Hall.

“Daisy Brooks is at this moment with Lester Stanwick! You must learn to forget her, Rex,” she repeated, slowly.

A low cry escaped from Rex’s lips, and he recoiled from her as though she had struck him a heavy blow. His heart seemed fairly stifled in his bosom, and he trembled in every limb with repressed excitement.

“Here is a letter from Madame Whitney,” she continued. “Read it for yourself, Rex. You see, she says: ‘Daisy fled. It has been since ascertained she went to Elmwood, a station some sixty miles from here, where she now is, at the cottage of the Burton sisters, in company with her lover. I shall not attempt to claim her––her retribution must come from another source.’”

The words seemed to stand out in letters of fire.

“Oh, my little love,” he cried, “there must be some terrible mistake! My God! my God! there must be some horrible mistake––some foul conspiracy against you, my little sweetheart, my darling love!”

He rose to his feet with a deep-drawn sigh, his teeth shut close, his heart beating with great strangling throbs of pain. Strong and brave as Rex was, this trouble was almost more than he could bear.

“Where are you going, Rex?” said Pluma, laying a detaining hand upon his arm.

“I am going to Elmwood,” he cried, bitterly, “to prove this accusation is a cruel falsehood. Daisy has no lover; she is as sweet and pure as Heaven itself! I was mad to doubt her for a single instant.”

“Judge for yourself, Rex––seeing is believing,” said Pluma, maliciously, a smoldering vengeance burning in her flashing eyes, and a cold, cruel smile flitting across her face, while she murmured under her breath: “Go, fond, foolish lover; your fool’s paradise will be rudely shattered––ay, your hopes crushed worse than mine are now, for your lips can not wear a smile like mine when your heart is breaking. Good-bye, Rex,” she said, “and remember, in the hour when sorrow strikes you keenest, turn to me; my friendship is true, and shall never fail you.”

Rex bowed coldly and turned away; his heart was too sick for empty words, and the heavy-hearted young man, who slowly walked down the graveled path away from Whitestone Hall in the moonlight, was as little like the gay, handsome Rex of one short week ago as could well be imagined.

There was the scent of roses and honeysuckles in the soft wind; and some sweet-voiced bird awakened from sleep, and fancying it was day, swung to and fro amid the green foliage, filling the night with melody. The pitying stars shone down upon him from the moonlighted heavens; but the still, solemn beauty of the night was lost upon Rex. He regretted––oh! so bitterly––that he had parted from his sweet little girl-bride, fearing his mother’s scornful anger, or through a sense of mistaken duty.

“Had they but known little Daisy is my wife, they would have known how impossible was their accusation that she was with Lester Stanwick.”

He shuddered at the very thought of such a possibility.

The thought of Daisy, his little girl-bride, being sent to school amused him.

“Poor little robin!” he murmured. “No wonder she flew from her bondage when she found the cage-door open! How pleased the little gypsy will be to see me!” he mused. “I will clasp the dear little runaway in my arms, and never let her leave me again! Mother could not help loving my little Daisy if she were once to see her, and sister Birdie would take to her at once.”

The next morning broke bright and clear; the sunshine drifted through the green foliage of the trees, and crimson-breasted 63 robins sung their sweetest songs in the swaying boughs of the blossoming magnolias; pansies and buttercups gemmed the distant hill-slope, and nature’s fountain––a merry, babbling brook––danced joyously through the clover banks. No cloud was in the fair, blue, smiling heavens; no voice of nature warned poor little Daisy, as she stood at the open window drinking in the pure, sweet beauty of the morning of the dark clouds which were gathering over her innocent head, and of the storm which was so soon to burst upon her in all its fury. Daisy turned away from the window with a little sigh. She did not see a handsome, stalwart figure hurrying down the hill-side toward the cottage. How her heart would have throbbed if she had only known Rex (for it was he) was so near her! With a strangely beating heart he advanced toward the little wicket gate, at which stood one of the sisters, busily engaged pruning her rose-bushes.

“Can you tell me, madame, where I can find the Misses Burton’s cottage?” he asked, courteously lifting his hat.

“This is the Burton cottage,” she answered, “and I am Ruth Burton. What can I do for you?”

“I would like to see Daisy Brooks, if you please. She is here, I believe?” he said, questioningly. “May I come in?”

Rex’s handsome, boyish face and winning smile won their way straight to the old lady’s heart at once.

“Perhaps you are the young lady’s brother, sir? There is evidently some mistake, however, as the young lady’s name is Stanwick––Daisy Stanwick. Her husband, Lester Stanwick––I believe that is the name––is also in Elmwood.”

All the color died out of Rex’s handsome face and the light from his brown eyes. He leaned heavily against the gate-post. The words seemed shrieked on the air and muttered on the breeze.

“Daisy is not his wife! My God, madame!” he cried, hoarsely, “she could not be!”

“It is very true,” replied the old lady, softly. “I have her own words for it. There may be some mistake, as you say,” she said, soothingly, noting the death-like despair that settled over the noble face. “She is a pretty, fair, winsome little creature, blue-eyed, and curling golden hair, and lives at Allendale. She is certainly married. I will call her. She shall tell you so herself. Daisy––Mrs. Stanwick––come here, dear,” she called.

“I am coming, Miss Ruth,” answered a sweet, bird-like voice, which pierced poor Rex’s heart to the very core as a girlish 64 little figure bounded through the open door-way, out into the brilliant sunshine.

“God pity me!” cried Rex, staggering forward. “It is Daisy––my wife!”