Randolph's
handsome face looked its usual calm impassiveness. What use to ask her
such a thing as leave to go to the cripple's cottage? No use at all,
Daisy knew. The request alone would probably move displeasure. Every
look at her mother's face settled this conviction more and more deeply
in Daisy's mind; and she ended by giving up the subject. There was no
hope. She could do nothing for any poor person, she was sure, under her
mother's permission, beyond carrying soup and jelly in her pony chaise
and maybe going in to give it. And that was not much; and there were
very few poor people around Melbourne that wanted just that sort of
attention.
So Daisy gave up her scheme. Nevertheless next morning it gave her a
twinge of heart to see her rose-bush laid by the heels, exactly like her
hopes. Daisy stood and looked at it. The sweet half-blown rose at the
top of the little tree hung ingloriously over the soil, and yet looked
so lovely and smelt so sweet; and Daisy had hoped it might win poor
Molly Skelton's favour, or at least begin to open a way for it to come
in due time.
"So ye didn't get your bush planted--" said Logan coming up.
"No."
"Your hands were not strong enough to make the hole deep for it, Miss
Daisy?"
"Yes, I think they could; but I met with an interruption yesterday,
Logan."
"Weel--it'll just bide here till ye want it."
Daisy wished it was back in its old place again; but she did not like to
say so, and she went slowly back to the house.
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