the race is not always to the swift. The Southhave right on their side, however."
"Right?" said I.
"I thought that would bring you out," Mr. Dinwiddie said, witha kindly look at me.
"Daisy is an abolitionist," said papa. "Where she got it, isout of my knowledge. But I think, Mr. Dinwiddie, there areminds so constituted that they take of choice that view ofthings which is practically the most adverse to their owninterest."
"Tell papa, Mr. Dinwiddie, that that cannot be."
"What cannot be, if you please?"
"I mean, that which is the _right_ cannot be the wrong in anysense; cannot be even the wrong view for anybody's interestthat adopts it."
"Fair theories -" said papa.
"Something else, it must be, papa. There is a promise - 'Withwhat measure ye measure, it shall be measured to you again.''Give, and it shall be given unto you; full measure, presseddown, heaped up, and running over, shall men give into yourbosom.' "
"Why into my bosom?" said papa. "I would rather it were intomy hands, or a basket, or anything."
We went off into a laugh upon that, and Mr. Dinwiddieexplained, and the conversation turned. We went into the houseto have tea; and there we discussed the subject of our furtherjourney and when we should set off. Mr. Dinwiddie was engagedto go with us to Lebanon. But it was concluded that we wouldwait yet a little for the season to be further advanced. Forme, I was in no hurry to leave the Mount of Olives andJerusalem.
We sat on the roof that evening and watched the lights kindlein Jerusalem, and talked of the old-time scenes and changes;till I supposed the question of home troubles and our poorMagnolia people was pretty well driven from papa's mind. Butwhen Mr. Dinwiddie was gone, and I was bidding him good-night,he held me fast in his arms, looking down into my face.
"Little Daisy!" - he said.
"Not just now, papa."
"The very same!" he said. "My little Daisy! - who was alwaysforgetting herself in favour of any poor creature that came inher way."
"Papa - what did our Lord do?"
"Daisy, do you expect to conform yourself and everybody tothat pattern?"
"Myself, papa. Not everybody."
"Me? -"
I could not answer papa. I hid my face on his breast; - for hestill held me. And now he kissed me fondly.
"We must not do what mamma would never agree to," he said verykindly. Again I could make no answer. I knew all about mamma.
"Daisy," said papa presently, we had not changed our position,- "is Mr. Dinwiddie your friend, or mine?"
"Of us both, papa!" I said in astonishment. "Of me;particularly, perhaps; because he knows me best and has knownme longest."
"Then he comes here to see you?"
"And you, papa."
"I am afraid he does not come to see me," papa said. "Do youlike to see him very much, Daisy?"
"Certainly, papa; very much; because he is an old, old, verygood friend. That is all."
"You are sure?"
"Quite sure, papa."
"I believe that _is_ all," said papa, looking into my face.
"I am afraid, however, that our friend wishes he were notquite so old a friend."
"No, papa," I said; "you are, mistaken. I am sure Mr.Dinwiddie does not think so. He knows better."
"How does he know better?"
"I think he understands, papa."
"What?"
"Me."
"What about you?"
"I think he thinks only that, - what I said, papa."
"And how came you to think he thinks anything about it?"
"Papa -"
"Has he ever told you his thoughts?"
"No, sir; certainly."
"Then what do you mean, Daisy."
"Papa - we have talked."
"But not about that?"
"No, papa; not about Mr. Dinwiddie's feelings, certainly. ButI am sure he understands."
"What, my pet?"
"My feelings, papa."
"Your feeling about himself?"
"Yes."
"How should he understand it, Daisy?"
"I think he does, papa -"
"You say, you 'have talked'? What course did your talk take?"
My heart beat. I saw what was coming now, - what ought tocome. It was my time.
"It was a very general course, papa. It did not touch,directly, my feeling for Mr. Dinwiddie, or anybody."
"Indirectly?"
"I think - I do not know - I half fancied, Mr. Dinwiddiethought so."
"Thought what?"
"That it did touch some feeling of mine."
"Not for himself. For some other?"
"Yes -" I whispered.
"For whom?" he said abruptly. And then as I hesitated, -
"For one of those two?"
"What two?"
"De Saussure or Marshall?"
"Oh, no, papa!"
"Your cousin Gary?"
"Oh, no, papa!"
"Have I lost you, Daisy?" he said then in a different tone,gentle and lingering and full of regret. My breath was gone; Ithrew my arms around his neck.
"Why did you never tell me before, Daisy?"
"Papa, - I was afraid."
"Are you afraid now?"
"Yes."
"Let us have it over then, Daisy. Who is it that has stolenyou from me?"
"Oh no one, papal" I cried. "No one could. No one can."
"Who has tried, then?"
"A great many people, papa; but not this person."
"How has it come to pass then, my pet? And who is thisperson?"
"Papa, it came to pass without anybody's knowing it or meaningit; and when I knew it, then I could not help it. But not whatyou say has come to pass; nobody has stolen or could steal mefrom you."
"I have only lost, without any other being the gainer," saidpapa a little bitterly.
"No, papa, you have not lost; you cannot; I am not changed,papa, do you not see that I am not changed? I am yours, justas I always was, - only more, papa."
Papa kissed me, but it cut me to the heart to feel there waspain in the kiss. I did what my lips could to clear the painaway.
"Half is not as much as the whole, Daisy," he said at length.
"It may be, papa. Suppose the whole is twice as large as itused to be?"
"That is a good specimen of woman's reasoning. But you havenot told me all yet, Daisy. Who is it that holds the otherhalf?"
There was so much soreness and disappointment shown in papa'swords, rather in the manner of them, that it was extremelydifficult for me to carry on the conversation. Tears are ahelp, I suppose, to other women. They do not come to me, notat such times. I stood still in papa's arms, with a kind ofdry heartache. The pain in his words was a terrible trial tome. He folded me close again and kissed me over and over, andthen whispered, -
"Who is it, Daisy?"
"Papa, it was at West Point. I never meant it, and never knewit, until I could not help it."
"At West Point!" said papa.
"Two years ago, when Dr. Sandford took me there."
"It is not Dr. Sandford!"
"Oh, no, papa! He is not to blame. He did everything he couldto take care of me. He knows nothing it all about it."
"Who is it, then?"
"He was a cadet then, papa; he is in the army now."
"Who is he?"
"He is from Vermont; his name is Thorold."
"Not a Southerner?"
"No, papa. Do you care very much for that?"
"Is he in the _Northern_ army, Daisy?"
"He could not help that, papa; being a Vermonter."
Papa let me go; I had been standing in his arms all thiswhile; and took several turns up and down our little room. Isat down, for my joints trembled under me. Papa walked andwalked.
"Does your mother know?" he said at last.
"I dared not tell her."
"Who does know?"
"Nobody, papa, but you, and an old friend of mine in New York,- an aunt of Mr. Thorold's."
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"Daisy, what is this young man?"
"Papa, I wish you could know him."
"How comes it that he, as well as you, has kept silence?"
"I don't know, papa. His letter must have miscarried. He wasgoing to write to you immediately, just before I leftWashington. I was afraid to have him do it, but he insistedthat he must."
"Why were you afraid?"
"Papa, I knew you and mamma