"A daisy wept in the moonlight pale, And bowed her beautiful head, And a little white moth came dancing by-- 'Why weep, sweet daisy?' it said. "'I weep for that which can never be, I sigh for a wider sphere-- Would, little moth, I had wings like thine! Instead, I am rooted here.' "'A moth, my life is a sweet content, But no worthy life for thee.' 'Change!' cried the daisy; 'take my place; A little white moth I'd be.' "And lo! the daisy took silver wings, And forth from the meadow flew; The little white moth became a flower, A daisy-cup dash'd with dew. "The wide earth blessed the changeling flower, The heavens smil'd down above; A boundless life was the daisy's life, Her mission, a lowly love. "A little white moth, with broken wings, Came home, when nights were drear, To breathe her last on the daisy's breast. She had missed her rightful sphere." "Yes, dear; it's not so much what we are, or where we are, but what we're doing, that makes a life of usefulness and fulness," said Madame Giche, when the ditty came to an end. "Yes; in filling others' lives we fill our own. Is that what you mean, Madame Giche?" inquired Inna, leaving the piano, and coming to kneel on the hearth. "Yes. The daisy wasn't thinking of what she was doing, but rather of herself; seeking great things for herself, not seeing--poor little thing!--that in just blooming where she was placed she was in a way blessing heaven and earth, and making her own crown; and missing that, her life was a failure." Just then in came the three little girls from the park, Miss Gordon with them. "Oh, grand-auntie, we've brought such a lovely bunch of marsh marigolds," cried Sybil. "Jenny has them;" and Jenny came forward, dropping on one knee to present them, and tossing her hat on the floor. The kindly old lady patted the yellow-haired fluffy head, taking the flowers from her, and touching their petals as in fond reverence. "Children, at the sight of these flowers I always see myself a child again," said she, a sweet far-away light in her dark eyes. "And what do you see, grand-auntie--what were you like?" inquired nimble-tongued Sybil. "Yes, dear Madame Giche, what were you like?" echoed Jenny. "My dear, I was just what Sybil is now. I half fancy, sometimes, that it must be myself, when I see her running about on the terraces." "But your home wasn't here, grand-auntie," said Olive, surprised out of her silence. "No, dear; 'tis the house recalls me to myself. Wyvern Court was very different from this." "Was that the name of your home, Madame Giche?" inquired matter-of-fact Jenny, out of the silence that followed. "The dearest spot on earth to you--wasn't it, grand-auntie?" prattled Sybil. "Yes; our childhood's home is that, I suppose, be it a cottage or a castle, revisited in imagination at life's close," sighed the old lady.