"What has kept you?" her mother asked, as Daisy came in to the
tea-table.

"I didn't know how late it was, mamma."

"Where have you been?"

"I was picking wintergreens with Nora Dinwiddie."

"I hope you brought me some," said Mr. Randolph.

"Oh, I did, papa; only I have not put them in order yet."

"And where did you and Nora part?"

"Here, at the door, mamma."

"Was she alone?"

"No, ma'am — Mr. Dinwiddie found us in the wood, and he took
her home, and he brought me home first."

Daisy was somewhat of a diplomatist. Perhaps a little natural
reserve of character might have been the beginning of it, but
the habit had certainly grown from Daisy's experience of her
mother's somewhat capricious and erratic views of her
movements. She could not but find out that things which to her
father's sense were quite harmless and unobjectionable, were
invested with an unknown and unexpected character of danger or