A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 66 CHAPTER I. "Upon her face was the tint of grief, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears." -BYRON. ARE you tired, Phillis? I don't think we have much further to go." The speaker was a lady clad in deep mourning, with a pale, sweet face, furrowed with lines of sorrow, not of old age; the place a railway carriage, into which the afternoon sun of a bright May day shone with almost more power than was quite pleasant to the travellers. But the face of the young girl to whom these words were addressed was as fresh and bright, when she raised it to her mother's, as if she had only set out on her journey, instead of having travelled since early morning. "No, I'm not tired a bit, mother," she answered brightly. "I have liked the journey so much, and there has been so much to look at all the way, that the time hasn't seemed long at all." Her mother smiled and watched her little daughter for some moments, till her eyes filled with tears and she turned them away. Phillis was a pretty picture. Her eyes, a deep violet colour, shaded by long thick lashes, seemed in their evervarying expression to have been made on purpose to reveal her thoughts. A quantity of rippling, golden-brown hair, tied back with a black ribbon, fell over her shoulders, and tumbled in little curls over her forehead-troublesome little curls, which defied all attempts to keep them in order; and in her whole face there was a particularly free, innocent expression, which made it a pleasant face for the eye to rest upon. "Oh, Phillis! What is that?" exclaimed her mother, as the engine gave a long, despairing shriek, apparently without cause, for no station was near. Phillis drew closer to her mother and sat very still for a moment, a vague terror creeping over her; then the shriek was repeated; there came a crash and a violent jolting--Phillis and her mother were thrown against the opposite seat and back again, and then came a yet more terrible shock-and Phillis knew no more. When she again opened her eyes, she found herself lying on a green bank in a meadow, a fresh breeze, wafting a sweet smell of wild flowers, blowing upon her, and an old lady bending over her—such a sweet-faced old lady, Phillis thought, while for a moment she tried to recollect where she was. Then it all came back to her, and turning her head, she saw a sight which haunted her for many a day after. Only a few yards off, separated from the field by a wooden fence, was the railway line, on which lay, completely overturned, the engine and three carriages; they had apparently become separated from the others, and had run violently off their own line to the next, where they lay hopelessly shattered. From among the ruins the inmates of the carriages were struggling to free themselves; some were evidently unhurt, but others were pale and bleeding, and two or three lay motionless. The other carriages, driven back by the shock, had run down the line to some little distance, but without overturning, and the guard and passengers were hurrying up to the assistance of their fellow-travellers. Phillis gazed round her with a bewildered expression, then uttering a cry of horror, 66 My mother! oh, my mother!" she started to her feet. The old lady held her back. "Stay still, my child," she said, "you must not go; you can do nothing." But Phillis did not heed her words. Breaking away from her, she rushed to the spot where she had seen those motionless figures lying, with such frantic eagerness that no one ventured to stop her. Then she knelt down beside the figure she had been searching for, and chafed the cold hands, murmuring :— "She is asleep; she does not hear me but she is not hurt." No wound was visible; the face was very calm and sweet, and the eyes closed; she might have been asleep, as Phillis said, but for the icy coldness of her brow. Phillis kissed her once or twice, and then turned imploringly to the guard, who stood near. "Can't you wake her?" she said. "It is my mother; I don't think she is hurt." The guard passed his hand across his eyes and tried to draw her away; his sorrowful look told the poor child the sad truth; one piercing shriek rent the air, and she had fallen at her mother's side insensible. The guard, a kindhearted man, gave a half-sob, and lifting her in his arms, carried her out of the crowd and gave her back into the charge of the old lady. "Poor little dear!" she said. water, and we'll soon bring her to. The guard shook his head. "You fetch me a little Who is she, I wonder?" "She and the lady got in at Westbrooks," he said. "The lady is killed." "Killed!" the old lady exclaimed in a shocked tone. "Poor child! Can you help me a few minutes, guard? There are not many killed, are there?" "Only one more," he said. "A good many are hurt, but a doctor is here. An engine will be down presently to help Yes, I'll do anything for you; what is it?" us. "You see that chaise there, in the road," said the old lady. "My husband is in it. I want to carry this young lady and put her in it, and then bring her too-only we must not let the child see. I am going to take them to my home to-night." The guard lifted Phillis gently and carried her through the field to the road, where a pony-chaise stood, in which sat a fine-looking silver-haired old gentleman. "John," the old lady said, "I am going to take this young lady home. We must do what we can for these poor sufferers, and I have taken this one into my care. She will be better presentiy," and Phillis, still only half-conscious, was placed on the front seat of the chaise. "Poor little thing!" the old gentleman said, looking compassionately at the sweet young face, shaded by the bright hair. "Don't let her look that way," said his wife, pointing to the train, "we are going to bring some one else;" and she nodded to her husband in a manner which said: "Don't ask me any more just now." About ten minutes later the chaise set off slowly with its mournful load. The movement, together with the fresh breeze which blew upon her temples, made Phillis open her eyes. She was not sufficiently herself to remember what had passed, and could only notice that she was sitting between two very kind, pleasant faces, and that the chaise was driving along a shady, quiet road, bordered by a low copse, in which were plenty of wild flowers. They went up a long hill, and across a heath-covered moor, and then down-hill again, past green fields, and over a bridge across a wide stream, from which a church spire and several thatched roofs were visible. Phillis noticed all this dreamily; she asked no questions, and scarcely felt any wonder as to where she was being taken. She seemed to have lost all power of thinking, and the words which passed occasionally between her two companions had no meaning for her. They did not drive on into the village, but turned up into a green lane, on one side of which lay a wide, peaceful-looking orchard. At the top of the lane was a gate; the old gentleman got down and opened it, and the carriage entered a farmyard, stopped after a few minutes at the honeysuckled porch of a pretty white house, where Phillis was lifted down and carried indoors before she had time to look round her. She sat still for a few moments in the easy-chair in which the old gentleman had placed her, in utter bewilderment; but suddenly full consciousness returned, and she cried out passionately:"Where have you brought me? You have taken me away from my mother!" "Hush, dearie, hush!" said the old lady, taking her in her arms; "you shall see your mother by-and-by, but you must stay here a few minutes; lay your head on this cushion and wait a bit. You won't go out of this room, will you, till I come back?" "No," said Phillis, with a violent shiver; "but you won't leave me alone very long, will you? You will take me to my mother?" "Yes-yes-very soon," said the old lady, soothing her, and gently placing her head against the cushion; "I will soon come again." And she left the room, and Phillis, overcome with strange terror, fell into a troubled sleep. When she awoke again, the room was growing dusky in the twilight; on a little |