Providence comes to her assistance, opening the way in the shape of Mrs. Craig, who stays to supper, as she has a matter to lay before M. de Ronville. And that is, that she has finished her visit, and desires to return before the autumnal rains set in, while the going is still good. And she will take Daffodil. "I am afraid we can't spare her," returned M. de Ronville. "She has become such a part of our household." "But I must go home sometime," said the child with a quick gasp in her breath. "Are you tired of us?" "Tired!" She came and placed her arm caressingly over his shoulder. "Oh, I have never been tired, but there is mother and--the rest," with a tremble in her voice, while her eyes had the softness of coming tears. "Think how long I have been away!" "And they've had many a heartache, I dare say. I don't know how they could spare you long. Of course, where your daughters marry it is a different thing. You resign yourself to that," said Mrs. Craig. "When did you think of starting?" "Well, so as to miss the equinoctial." People pinned their faith to its coming regularly in those days. "And perhaps no one would care to take such a journey if they had no need, and she couldn't come alone." "No;" in a grave, slow tone. "We must talk it over. I've thought of her staying in the winter and going to school, perhaps. And you might study music," glancing at her. "Oh, you are very good. But--I ought to go." "Yes. You've had a nice long time, and lots of going about, I've heard. I hope you have not been spoiled. And you are the only girl your mother has. Then she had you so long before Felix came and while your father was away, and I know she's missed you sorely." The tears did come into Daffodil's eyes then. After Mrs. Craig had gone, her guardian drew her down on the sofa beside him. "Daffodil," he began, "I have come to love you very dearly. There has been no one in my life to call forth any special affection. There might have been, I see now that there should have been. It is along the last of life that we feel most of the need of these ties. And if you could give me a little----" "Oh, I do love you. You have been so kind, and given me so many pleasures. But not altogether for that. I liked you when you first came, you know. There was something--I can't quite express it--even if I had not come to Philadelphia, I should have thought of you so often. And it has been such a delightful visit. But I know mother has missed me very much, and she has the first claim. And oh, I want to see her." The longing and piteousness in her tone touched him. She was not all lightness and pleasure-loving. "My dear, it is hard to give you up. Child, why can you not divide some time between us, and let me do for you as a father would. They have Felix--and each other. They have parents as well. And I am all alone. It would be a joy to my latter years to have some one to care for, to share my almost useless fortune, and my home."