"Oh, botheration!" broke out the Doctor. "I beg your pardon; but as to that, we at the hospital could raise enough to keep her somewhere. But that's not what I want. That poor little chick in a great bare asylum! No; what I want for her is a home." And he looked narrowly at her, but she avoided his gaze. "There's a children's home in Wainwright Street," she began, uneasily. "No, no; she wants change of air." "Oh, as to that, I am going out of town next week myself, and I can take her with me to the sea for a month if you like." "By all means; it will do you both good." He pushed back his chair, and stared at a distant corner of the frescoed ceiling. "But what's to become of her when the month's up?" and he tried to speak innocently. Mrs. Braithwaite faced round upon him indignantly. "I know what you mean; I understand you perfectly well," she cried. "You want me to adopt this child. How can you be so cruel? But I won't. Don't ask it. I never will do it." "Why not?" asked the Doctor, unmoved. "What! put another child in my own precious darling's place? I couldn't." "I don't see the need of that. There are such things as sisters." "And to see her about the house, and to hear her voice, just as I used to hear Daisy's! And perhaps there'd be something about her like my treasure. What color is her hair?--black?" "Red," said the Doctor, grimly. "_Red hair!_" with a sort of gasp. "Oh no, you must not ask me. I can't do it. I'll pay anything you like to get her a home--you know I always feel as if the Daisy Cot children had an especial claim on me--but I can not take her for my own." "As you please," said the Doctor, gruffly; rising to his feet. "Only you needn't trouble yourself to pay anything for her. We're not over-rich at the hospital, but I rather think we can raise enough ourselves for our little girl. It wasn't money I asked you for, but love." "What is her name, Doctor?" she asked, more quietly. [Illustration: THE MESSAGE OF THE DAISIES.] "Mercy. (Hallo!" thought the Doctor, "I almost said Daisy, and that would have ended the last chance, and no mistake.) 'The quality of mercy is not strained,' you know; 'it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,' and all that sort of thing. Well, madam, I'm disappointed, I confess; but saying so won't mend matters. Keep on taking that quinine." And he moved toward the door. "By-the-way," he said, coming back again, "I nearly forgot. What put it into the baby's head no mortal knows; but just as I was coming out of the hospital this morning she gave me these, and asked me to give 'em to you from her;" and he laid the little bunch of daisies on her lap. There was a sound between a sob and a cry, as she caught the poor faded little flowers to her lips; then both hands went up to hide the sudden storm of tears.