"Something better than gold," said Daisy. "That is what I mean. As long as you had the gold you didn't seem able to think of anything else. And, father, the gold wasn't really yours,—not yours for always, for ever. You only had it for a little while. And if it hadn't been stolen from you now, you would have had to leave it soon. You couldn't have taken it with you when you died." "I'm not a-going to die yet. Whatever makes you talk about dying?" asked Isaac uneasily. "I think about it often," said Daisy gently. "You and I have both been so near death lately, father. We are both getting well now, but it won't be for very long, you know. Father, I don't think I should have been afraid to die. Should you?" Isaac's glances wandered about the room uncomfortably. "I don't know as I'd need," he said. "I haven't been so particular bad,—not like some folks. I've never took a thing that wasn't mine,—not like that thief that's stolen my money. He deserves to be hanged, he does." Daisy was looking so pale that the two women came to her side. "You've been here long enough," Mary said. "It's no use talking too long to him, Daisy. He don't half understand." "I wanted to say more," Daisy answered sadly. "But I suppose I am too tired. Yes, I'll go back. Only I must come again—every day. Poor father." CHAPTER XVI. ISAAC'S LOSS. DAISY came to her father again and yet again, day after day, as she had said; and as she grew better able to bear the fatigue, she stayed longer and longer with her father. The old man's recovery was very tardy. After a while he was able to totter into the parlour, and to spend some hours in his easy-chair every afternoon; but there improvement stood still. He was by no means the man he had been before his illness. There seemed to be failure of mind, as well as failure of body. Often his brain appeared to be surrounded by such a mist, that he could hardly grasp the sense of what was said to him. One day he would cry and sob like a child over his lost gold; and another day he would seem almost happy, in a sort of childish forgetfulness of his trouble. As weeks went on, one change became visible, which cheered Daisy's heart greatly, and that was that he no longer showed indifference to his little daughter—Daisy was always called "little" despite her seventeen years—but clung to her and leant upon her in a way he never had done before. Was it that the loss of his gold had left his poor old heart free to love? Daisy thought so, and the thought made her very joyous. She was feeble still, and could do little except sit for hours together by his side; but often, in her new happiness, she broke into soft scraps of singing, and Isaac's face showed that he liked to listen. Yet this was a time of grave anxiety to Daisy; she could not at all tell how she and her father were to live thenceforward. His money was gone. It seemed quite a necessity that his house should be sold.