It was not the first word she had uttered, but it was her first word in a clear and natural voice. Long days and nights of stupor had passed, and when at length sense returned it came slowly. She began first to notice things about her with languid glances of interest, and then there was an occasional "thank you," or a faint smile of recognition. She showed no surprise at her own condition, or at the presence of her nurse. But she seemed to be gradually waking up, as if from a trance; and one day she opened her eyes, to say with unexpected distinctness:— "Father!" "He's in the other room, Miss Daisy," said Mary Davis. Daisy looked at Mary steadily. "I've been ill a very long time, haven't I, Nursie?" she asked, in her soft voice, which had become weak as well as soft. "No, Miss Daisy, dear, not so very long. It's a good many days." "Days! It seems—years," said Daisy, making a pause. "It has been so nice, Nursie. I thought I was a little child again, and you were taking care of me, only I was afraid it was a dream, and I didn't want to wake up. So I tried not." "But you're awake now, my dear," said Mary. "I suppose I am," murmured Daisy, shutting and opening her eyes with a rather distressed look. "My head is so strange, I feel as if I were somebody else. And my legs seem tied down to the bed. Isn't it funny?" "Very funny," said Mary, with a smile to hide a heart-ache. "You mustn't mind being weak for a time." "I suppose it was the rain made me so ill. It rained—hard," said Daisy slowly, with a puzzled expression, as if she were trying to recall something. Then she seemed quite tired out, and lay again as she had lain so much of late; only Mary Davis thought there was more of sleep and less of stupor about her unconsciousness. Later in the afternoon the doctor came in. He was the Parish doctor, a stout quick-mannered man, sometimes a little apt to be sharp as well as quick; but, like most people, he was gentle with Daisy. When she opened her eyes and smiled at him, he said, "Come, you are better to-day." "Mayn't I see father, please?" asked Daisy. "Well, yes, perhaps you may," said Mr. Bennet. "Do you think it would do you good?" "No," said Daisy, without any hesitation. "I only think I ought." "Why won't it do you good, my dear?" asked Mr. Bennet, bending down to look into her eyes. "I'm tired," Daisy said. "But there's nobody else to take care of father." "O yes; there's Mrs. Davis to take care of you both," said Mr. Bennet cheerily. "Where do you feel tired? All over?" "Yes, everywhere," said Daisy. "And my legs are so heavy, I can't move them,—and my head too." The doctor's broad hand was laid on Daisy's forehead, not pressing much; yet she moaned, and for an instant her eyes had a wandering look. "She can't bear that, sir," Mary Davis said. "Her head do seem very bad still."