“Will you, papa? Will you?” pleaded the child. “Right here where the double daisies grow?” “The garden will be gone, Waify.” “But won’t you keep it for me, and bring me here?” “Yes, darling. Yes, little one!” and they went home, the one light-hearted with the prospect of school again, the other saddened with a thought that seemed a prophecy. A few days of joyous life went by. The little school-girl seemed less fond of play, more clinging to her adopted father, more thoughtful; then a slow fever, that seemed to have been inherited rather than the result of contagion, came on, and Waify, now scarcely out of her babyhood, was going to sleep through a long night. Giles Mortimer watched her by day and by night, speechless; brought the toys she loved, and laid them beside her; brought the blocks of letters, and she took the “C” and put it under her pillow. “Papa, we’ve had nice times together. Who’ll be your little girl when Waify goes? Everybody has little girls. Perhaps somebody’ll bring you one.” While he blessed God that she had been given to make him the man he was, he asked for no other in her place. “But you must stay, Waify. I couldn’t be happy without you.” “No, papa, I must go to ask God about my mamma, and perhaps I’ll come back and tell you.” How little do children know of the land from whence there is no return! The day looked for, dreaded, came. “Where’s the ‘C,’ papa?” Clasping this tightly with one hand and Mortimer’s with the other, looking sadly at the tears upon his cheeks, then joyfully out into the space, she said, “Kiss Waify!” and was dead. Giles Mortimer’s heart was mangled. The only thing he loved was taken. There was a quiet gathering, and then he, with the sexton, took the little one to the cave, dug a grave under the daisies in the very centre of the garden, put a little tablet above it, and upon it the large marble “C” that stood for cave, and went back to his duties to work faithfully because her memory was something like her presence. The house was desolate, but sacred because Waify had been there. Business was interesting because entered upon for her; life was blessed because she had lived. Prosperity came to him. He loved other children, but there was only one Waify. She had done her work. Through her love a man had known and found his manhood—had taken his true place in the world, in genial intercourse, in business power, in Christian benevolence. He has grown in position with the growth of a large city, but he still calls it home where a heart is buried, by the cave in Oconomowoc. Perchance God told Waify of her mother, or told the mother of her child, for, weeks after her death, Giles Mortimer found upon the grave a touching token of a mother’s love—a wreath of immortelles wrought into the word “Mother.” THE BLACK AND TAN.