grow more and more infatuated every day. "She is such a sweet-tempered,
affectionate little puss," he says; and I admit to myself that she is
sweet-tempered, and that nothing ruffles her, but about the affectionate
part I am not so certain. Guy would pet her and caress her all the time
if she would let him, but she won't.

"Oh, please don't touch me. It is too warm, and you muss my dress," I
have heard her say more than once when he came in and tried to put his
arm about her or take her in his lap.

Indeed, her dress seems to be uppermost in her mind, and I have known
her to try on half a dozen different ones before she could decide in
which she looked the best. No matter what Guy is doing, or how deeply he
is absorbed in his studies, she makes him stop and inspect her from all
points and give his opinion, and Guy submits in a way perfectly
wonderful to me who never dared to disturb him when shut up with his
books.

Another thing, too, he submits to which astonishes me more than anything
else. It used to annoy him terribly to wait for anything or anybody. He
was always ready, and expected others to be, but Daisy is just the
reverse. Such dawdling habits I never saw in any person. With Zillah to
help her dress she is never ready for breakfast, never ready for dinner,
never ready for church, never ready for anything, and that, in a
household accustomed to order and regularity, does put things back so
and make so much trouble.

"Don't wait breakfast for me, please," she says, when she has been
called for the third or fourth time, and if she can get us to sit down
without her she seems to think it all right, and that she can dawdle as