As she mounted the piazza
steps she heard her father's voice. He was there before the library
windows.
"Come here, Daisy. What are you about?" he said drawing her up in his
arms.
"Nothing, papa."
"How do you like doing nothing?"
"Papa, I think it is not at all agreeable."
"You do! So I supposed. What were you about yesterday afternoon?"
"I went to ride with Dr. Sandford."
"Did that occupy the whole afternoon?"
"O no, papa."
"Were you doing nothing the rest of the time?"
"No sir, not _nothing_."
"Daisy, I wish you would be a little more frank. Have you any objection
to tell me what you were doing?"
"No, papa;--but I did not think it would give you any pleasure. I was
only trying to do something."
"It would give me pleasure to have you tell about it."
"I must tell you more then, papa." And standing with her arm on her
father's shoulder, looking over to the blue mountains on the other side
of the river, Daisy went on.
"There is a poor woman living half a mile from here, papa, that I saw
one day when I was riding with Dr. Sandford. She is a cripple. Papa,
her legs and feet are all bent up under her, so that she cannot walk at
all; her way of moving is by dragging herself along over the ground on
her hands and knees; her hands and her gown all down in the dirt."
"That is your idea of extreme misery, is it not, Daisy?"
"Papa, do you not think it is--it must be--very uncomfortable?"
"Very, I should think."
"But that is not her worst misery.
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