face and tear-dimmed eyes, gazing after her. “Oh, dear, I wish I had never been born,” she sobbed, flinging herself down on her knees, and burying her face in the long, cool grass. “No one ever speaks a kind word to me but poor old Uncle John, and even he dare not be kind when Aunt Septima is near. She might have taken this heavy basket in her carriage,” sighed Daisy, bravely lifting the heavy burden in her delicate arms. “That is just what I think,” muttered Rex Lyon from his place of concealment, savagely biting his lip. In another moment he was by her side. “Pardon me,” he said, deferentially raising his cap from his glossy curls, “that basket is too heavy for your slender arms. Allow me to assist you.” In a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most graceful of courtesies as she raised to his a face he never forgot. Involuntarily he raised his cap again in homage to her youth, and her shy sweet beauty. “No; I thank you, sir, I have not far to carry the basket,” she replied, in a voice sweet as the chiming of silver bells––a voice that thrilled him, he could not tell why. 15 A sudden desire possessed Rex to know who she was and from whence she came. “Do you live at the Hall?” he asked. “No,” she replied, “I am Daisy Brooks, the overseer’s niece.” “Daisy Brooks,” said Rex, musingly. “What a pretty name! how well it suits you!” He watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face––she never once raised her dark-blue eyes to his. The more Rex looked at her the more he admired this coy, bewitching, pretty little maiden. She made a fair picture under the boughs of the magnolia-tree, thick with odorous pink-and-white tinted blossoms, the sunbeams falling on her golden hair. The sunshine or the gentle southern wind brought Rex no warning he was forging the first links of a dreadful tragedy. He thought only of the shy blushing beauty and coy grace of the young girl––he never dreamed of the hour when he should look back to that moment, wondering at his own blind
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