That day was the beginning of a new life to her. Thenceforth there must be no more repining; no more idle, listless days, no more wishing for something to do. There was work all around her, and she found it and did it with a will,—first, from a sense of duty, and at last for the real pleasure it afforded her to carry joy and gladness to the homes where want and sorrow had been so long. Hearing that there was sickness and destitution among the miners in Peru, where her possessions were, she went there early in November, and many a wretched heart rejoiced because of her, and many a lip blessed the beautiful lady whose coming among them was productive of so much good. Better dwellings, better wages, a church, a school-house followed in her footsteps, and then, when everything seemed in good working order, there came over her a longing for her native country, and the next autumn found her in New York, where in a short space of time everybody knew of the beautiful Miss McDonald, who was a millionaire and who owned the fine house and grounds in the upper part of the city not far from the Park. Here society claimed her again, and Daisy, who had no morbid fancies now, yielded in part to its claims, and became, if not a belle, at least a favorite, whose praises were in every mouth. But chiefly was she known and loved by the poor and the despised whom she daily visited, and to whom her presence was like the presence of an angel. "You do look lovely and sing so sweet; I know there’s nothing nicer in Heaven," said a little piece of deformity to her one day as it lay dying in her arms. "I’se goin’ to Heaven, which I shouldn’t have done if you’se hadn’t gin me the nice bun and told me of Jesus. I loves Him now, and I’ll tell Him how you bringed me to Him." Such was the testimony of one dying child, and it was dearer to Daisy than all the words of flattery ever poured into her ear. As she had brought that little child to God so she would bring others, and she made her work among the children especially, finding there her best encouragement and greatest success. Once when Guy Thornton chanced to be in the city and driving in the Park, he saw a singular sight—a pair of splendid bays arching their graceful necks proudly, their silver-tipped harness flashing in the sunlight, and their beautiful mistress radiant with happiness as she sat in her open carriage, not with gayly-dressed friends, but amid a group of poorly-clad pale-faced little ones, to whom the Park was paradise, and she the presiding angel.