Papa and I seemed to walk on a new plane from that day. There
was a hidden sympathy between us, which had its root in the
deepest ground of our nature. We never had been one before, as
we were one from that time.
It was but a few days, and another thing happened. The mail
bag had come in as usual, and I had gathered up my little
parcel of letters and gone with it to my room, before I
examined what they were. A letter evidently from Mr. Dinwiddie
had just made my heart leap with pleasure, when glancing at
the addresses of the rest before I broke the seal of this, I
saw what made my heart stand still. It was the handwriting of
Mr. Thorold. I think my eyes grew dim and dazed for a minute;
then I saw clearly enough to open the envelope, which showed
signs of having been a traveller. There was a letter for me,
such a letter as I had wanted; such as I had thirsted for; it
was not long, for it was written by a busy man, but it was
long enough, for it satisfied my thirst. Enclosed with it was
another envelope directed to papa.
I waited to get calm again; for the joy which shot through all
my veins was a kind of elixir of life; it produced too much
exhilaration for me to dare to see anybody. Yet I think I was
weeping; but at any rate, I waited till my nerves were quiet
and under control, and then I went with the letter to papa. I
knew mamma was just gone out and there was no fear of
interruption. Papa read the letter, and read it, and looked up
at me.
"Do you know what this is, Daisy?"
"Papa, I guess. I know what it was meant to be."
"It is a cool demand of you," said papa.
I was glad, and proud; that was what it ought to be; that was
what I knew it suited papa that it should be. I stood by the
mantelpiece, waiting.
"So you knew about it?"
"Mr. Thorold said he would write to you, papa. I had been
afraid, and asked him not. I wanted him to wait till he could
see you."
"One sees a good deal of a man in his letters," said papa;
"and this is a man's letter. He thinks enough of himself,
Daisy."
"Papa, - not too much."
"I did not say too much; but enough; and a man who does not
think enough of himself is a poor creature. I would not have a
man ask me for you, Daisy, who did not in his heart think he
was worthy of you."
"Papa, you draw nice distinctions," I said half laughing.