Daisy in the Field | Page 7

and you are set free?"
I said I could not tell; I had received no directions. I was waiting for letters from somewhere, to tell me what I must do.
"Suppose you go with me to Washington."
"Washington!" - I ejaculated, and therewith the power of speech left me.
"Yes. You are not afraid, Daisy, that you look at me so? Some people are afraid, I know, and think Washington is going to be stormed by the Southern army; but that is all nonsense, Grant says; and I always trust Grant. He knows. He wants me to come. He says Washington is a novel sight just now, and I may never have such another chance; and I think I shall do as he says and go. Washington is full of soldiers, and no ladies in it. You are not afraid?"
"Oh, no. But - Dr. Sandford has not written to me to come."
"Yes, he has; or something very like it. He asked me to come and see you as I passed through the city - I was not likely to need his admonition, Daisy, my dear, for it always does me good to see you; - and he added that I might suggest to you that I was coming, and ask you if your curiosity inclined you to take the trouble of the journey. He said he thought it worth while, - and that we would both find it so."
I was dumb. Dr. Sandford little knew to what he was inviting me; and I - and Thorold - What a strange chance.
"Well, what are you pondering?" Mrs. Sandford cried gaily. "Dresses? You don't care for dresses; besides, we can have them made in two minutes. Don't you want to go, Daisy? I am sure you do; and I am sure Grant will take famous good care of us, and you specially, and show us the camps and everything. And don't you want to see the President?"
"I have seen him."
"When, and where?"
"In the street - when he went through, on his way to Washington."
"Well, I don't care much for Presidents; but this one they say so many different things about, that it makes me curious. Don't you want to see him again?"
"Yes - I would like it."
"Then you'll come with me - I see it; and I'll have everything in readiness. Thursday, does your school-work end? then we will go Saturday. You will want one day perhaps, besides, they say Friday is unlucky. I never go a journey on Friday."
"I would as lieve go Friday as any day," I said.
"Oh, well - Saturday will be soon enough; and now good-bye, my dear; you to your work and I to mine. You are beautiful, my dear Daisy!" she added, kissing me.
I wondered if it was true. If it was, I was glad, for Thorold's sake. I knew it would be a pleasure to him. And to my father and mother also; but that brought other thoughts, and I went off to my studies.
CHAPTER II.
AT THE RENDEZVOUS.
The examination was over and school ended for me, before I had one half hour to spare to go to see Miss Cardigan. The examination had passed as I could have wished it might; all had gone well; and I could afford to put by that whole train of thought, even as I put up my school-books and stowed them away; being things that I should not immediately want again. Some time would pass, it was likely, before I would need to refresh my memory with mathematics or philosophy. My music was another matter, and I kept that out.
I put my books hastily as well as securely away; and then took my hat and rushed over to Miss Cardigan's. It was a very warm June day. I remember now the cool feeling of her marble hall. Miss Cardigan sat in her matted parlour, busy as always, looking quiet and comfortable in a white muslin wrapper, and neat as a pin; also an invariable thing. Something in the peaceful, settled, calm air of the place impressed me, I suppose, with a feeling of contrast; of an uninvaded, undisturbed domain, which changes were not threatening. I had gone over the street hurriedly; I walked into the room with a slow step.
"Daisy! my dear child!" Miss Cardigan exclaimed, - "is it you? and is all over? I see it is. Just sit down, and you shall have some strawberries; you look tired, my love."
I sat still, and waited, and eat my strawberries.
"Miss Cardigan," I said at length, "what is Christian's address in Washington?"
"In Washington? I don't know. Did he never give it to you?"
"No, ma'am; nothing except 'Washington.' "
"I suppose that is enough. Haven't you written to him?"
"I have written once. - I have been thinking, Miss Cardigan, that I must stop the writing."
"Altogether?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"His