Daisy McDonald is her name, and she lives in Indianapolis, where her
father is a poor lawyer, and Guy met her last winter in Chicago and fell
in love at once, and made two or three journeys West on "important
business," he said, and then, some time in May, told me he was going to
bring me a sister, the sweetest little creature, with such beautiful
blue eyes and wonderful hair. I was sure to love her, he said, and when
I suggested that she was very young, he replied that her youth was in
her favor, as he could more easily mold her to the Thornton pattern.

Little he knows about girls, but then he was perfectly infatuated and
blind to everything but Daisy's eyes, and hair, and voice, which is so
sweet and winning that it will _speak_ for her at once; and he asked me
to see to the furnishing of the rooms on the west side of the house, two
which communicate with his own private library, where he spends a great
deal of time with his books and writing. The room adjoining this he
would have for Daisy's boudoir or parlor, where she could sit when he
was occupied and she wished to be near him. This he would have fitted up
in blue, as she had expressed a wish to that effect, and he said no
expense must be spared to make it as pretty and attractive as possible.
So the walls were frescoed and tinted, and I spent two entire days in
New York hunting for a carpet of the desirable shade, which should be
right both in texture and design.

Guy was exceedingly particular, and developed a wonderful proclivity to
find fault with everything I admired. Nothing was quite the thing for
Daisy until at last a manufacturer offered to get one up which should
suit, and so the carpet question was happily ended for the time being.
Then came the furniture, and unlimited orders were given to the
upholsterer to do his best, and matters were progressing finely when
order number two came from the little lady, who was sorry to seem so