DAISY was still crying when they entered. Her face was pressed into the pillow, and her sobs sounded through the room. Mary Davis motioned Isaac to the bedside, and he stood there, saying nothing, with a rather astonished look upon his face. Daisy had always been so cheery in her ways, that he could scarcely remember seeing her shed tears since she was quite a child. Mary waited a little while, and then said: "Daisy, here's your father come to see you." Daisy turned her head quickly, and lifted her tearful eyes to his. Then she wrung her hands together, and broke out anew into a passion of sobs. "O father, father," she cried, "I can't walk or stand. I've tried, and I can't. And you will get so tired of me; you will wish I was dead. O father, I don't know what to do; I don't know how to bear it." "Can't you stand yet, Daisy?" asked Isaac, in a perplexed and dubious tone. "No, no, no," sobbed Daisy. "I tried, and I fell down. My legs seem almost as if they were dead, father. I don't know if I shall ever be able to stand again." "Don't know if ever you'll be able to stand again!" echoed Isaac, in tones of dismay. "No," moaned Daisy. "Perhaps never—never." "Who's ever a-going to do your work?" asked Isaac. "I can't afford to keep a woman, Daisy. It's sheer ruination,—and I haven't got a penny to spare—not one penny." "Ah, I knew you'd say so," Daisy answered sorrowfully, yet struggling to be calmer. "Father, you'll get so tired of me soon; you'll wish I was dead. And I would rather die and go to Heaven—oh, much, much rather—if only I might. But I mustn't be in a hurry, if God doesn't wish it for me yet. Only—oh, father, I don't know what to do!" "You hear her, Mr. Meads," said Mary Davis slowly. "You hear what she's telling you. She thinks you'll be tired of her, and want her to die, because she can't slave for you any longer,—she that's your own little Daisy, the only child you've got. If she's taken, you'll have nobody left you then—not a soul in all the world to care for you. I wonder if you'd mind? You'd have your gold still—only your gold. Maybe that's all you want." "Who says I've got gold?" asked the old man tremblingly, an expression of fear coming over his face. "I tell you, woman, I ain't got one penny to spare,—not one penny. I'm only a poor old man." "O yes, I know," said Mary calmly, with a touch of contempt. "You and I know one another pretty well, Mr. Meads, by this time. You can't take me in, as you take most people in. Poor!—" and her voice suddenly changed. "Yes, it's true, that, and no mistake. You are a poor man, Mr. Meads,—poor and miserable too. Any man 'ud be poor who had his heart wrapped up in gold. But it'll be taken from you some day,—mind that. It's your idol, and it'll be taken from you." Isaac shook as if he had the palsy, and his lustreless eyes stared hard at Mary. "It'll be took!" he muttered hoarsely, "Who says it'll be took? I've got it all safe—all safe. There isn't a soul knows where I put it."