and others ordered to be sent. But she was nearly through now, and just
as it was beginning to grow dark in the streets she bade her coachman
drive home, where dinner was waiting for her in the dining room, and
her mother was waiting in the parlor. Mrs. McDonald was not very well,
and had kept her room all day, but she was better that night, and came
down to dine with her daughter. The December wind was cold and raw, and
a few snowflakes fell on Daisy's hat and cloak as she ran up the steps
and entered the warm, bright room, which seemed so pleasant when
contrasted with the dreariness without.

"Oh, how nice this is, and how tired and cold I am!" she said, as she
bent over the blazing fire.

"Are you through with your shopping?" Mrs. McDonald asked, in a
half-querulous tone, as if she did not altogether approve of her
daughter's acts.

"Yes, all through, except a shawl for old Sarah Mackie and a few more
toys for Biddy Warren's blind boy," Daisy said, and her mother replied:
"Well, I'm sure I shall be glad for your sake when it is over. You'll
make yourself sick, and you are nearly worn out now, remembering
everybody in New York."

"Not quite everybody, mother," Daisy rejoined cheerfully; "only those
whom everybody forgets--the poor, whom we have with us always. Don't
you remember the text and the little kirk where we heard it preached
from? But come--dinner is ready, and I am hungry, I assure you."

She led the way to the handsome dining room, and took her seat at the
table, looking, in her dark street dress, as her mother had said, pale