It was the old dame that caused the sisters' quarrel. A few miles from the cabin she appeared, creeping through the dusty road, with a bundle of sticks three times as big as herself on her head.

"Pretty well!" exclaimed Maud. "The old creature could not find strength enough to walk a little way with me; but she can pick up sticks all day for herself, and carry home more than I could even lift."

The dame made no reply; perhaps she did not hear the beauty's words; but Maud was so vexed that she brushed roughly past, and upset all her sticks, and the poor old dame in the midst of them.

The fairy lifted her wrinkled arm, which was covered with bleeding scratches, and shook her finger angrily at Maud, who only laughed, and said, "It is good enough for you; take care, next time, how you stand in my way. I am the one to be angry, after you've scattered your sharp old sticks all over the road to fray my new silk stockings. Come, Daisy, make a path for me through them."

Daisy helped the dame to her feet again, and wiped away the dust and blood, and bound the arm up with her own handkerchief, and then began patiently to pick up all the sticks, and fasten them in a bundle.

She did this while Maud and the fairy were quarrelling and reproaching each other. We could often make up for a fault or accident in the time which we spend mourning over it and deciding whose was the fault.

Maud, in her heart, was not sorry for what her sister had now done, because she feared the fairy, and knew, if she went too far in offending her, that she might never appear again; and then Miss Maud would eat coarse food, and wear shabby clothes, like her sister Daisy.

Still she pretended to be angry, and scolded Daisy well for undoing what she had done, and comforting the old woman when she chose to punish her.

Yet more vexed was she when Daisy took the sticks on her own head; for the dame seemed tired and faint, and trembled like a leaf from the fright and pain of her fall.

Maud drew herself up haughtily, and asked if she was expected to walk in a public road in company with a lame old hag and a fagot girl. Her eyes flashed, and the color glowed in her delicate cheeks, as she spoke; Daisy thought she had never seen her sister look so beautiful, and even took out the glasses that she might look more closely at the handsome face.

Alas, what a change! Serpents seemed coiling and hissing about Maud's breast; her eyes were like the eyes of a wolf; the color on her cheeks made Daisy think of the fires she had seen burning so far down in the centre of the earth; and the ivory whiteness of her forehead was the dead white of a corpse.

It was not strange that, Maud's beauty gone, her sister grew less submissive; for Daisy, even with her spectacles, had found nothing except beauty to love in her sister. She thought a lovely heart must be hidden somewhere underneath the lovely face.

But now she had looked past the outside, and all was deformed and dreadful.

"I should like to know if you mean to answer," said Maud pettishly; "I told you either to throw down the sticks, or else I would walk home alone."

"I must help the poor dame; and as for our walk, we both know the way," was Daisy's quiet answer.

So they parted; and Daisy began to cheer the dame, who groaned dreadfully, by telling of all the fine things at the fair, and the use she had made of her spectacles, and how grateful she must always be for such a wondrous gift.

It pleased the dame to have her glasses praised; and so she forgot to limp and grumble about her wounds, and walked on gayly enough by Daisy's side, telling sometimes the wisest, and sometimes the drollest, stories she had ever heard.

But their mirth was interrupted by the sound of sobs; and Daisy's quick eyes discovered, sitting among the bushes by the way, a little girl, all rags and dust, crying as if her heart would break.

"Never mind her; she will get over it soon enough," said the dame.

"I wonder how you would have liked it, had I said that about you, an hour ago," thought Daisy, but made no reply, except to turn and ask the child what she could do for her.

"O, give me food, for I am starved, and clothes, for I am cold, and take me with you, for I am so lonely," sobbed the child.

"Then don't cry any more, but take my hand; and here are some wild grapes I picked just now – taste how fresh and sweet they are."

The little girl laughed for joy, with the tears still glistening on her face, and soon leaving Daisy's hand, skipped about her, flying hither and thither like a butterfly, filling her hands with flowers, and then coming back, to look up curiously in the strange old face of the dame.

"You are a good soul, after all," said the fairy, when Daisy returned to her side. "See how happy you have made that little wretch!"

"Yes, and how easily, too! O, why do not all people find out what a cheap comfort it is to help each other? I think, if they only knew this, that every one would grow kind and full of charity."

Daisy did not dream that the child listened, or would understand what she was saying; but the little girl, tears springing into her eyes again, answered softly, "O, no, not all."

"Why, have you found so many wicked people, my poor child?"

"Perhaps they are not wicked; but they are not kind;" and the girl's voice grew sadder. "Some time before you came, a beautiful lady passed; she was not dressed like you, but a hundred times handsomer; and I thought she would have ever so much to give away; so I asked her for a penny to buy bread."

"And did she give you one?" asked Daisy, who saw that the lady must have been her sister Maud.

"Not she; she called me names, and pushed me away so roughly that I fell into a bunch of nettles; and they stung till it seemed as if bees were eating me up. Look there!"

So she held up her poor little arms, that were pinched with poverty, as the dame's with age; they were mottled, white and red or purple, with the nettle stings; and only looking at them made her cry again.

But Daisy comforted her. "There, I wouldn't mind; she did not mean to hurt you. And, besides, you must blame me; for I offended her, and made her cross. She is my sister."

"O, dear, then I don't want to go home and live with you; let me go back and die, if I must. That lady would beat me, and pull my hair, I know. When you met me, I was not crying for hunger, though I was so hungry, nor for cold, though my clothes were all worn out, but because she was so unkind. Don't make me live with her."

Here the fairy drew the little girl towards her, and whispered, "Daisy has to live with her, and be fretted at and worked hard all the time; if you go, Maud will have another to torment, and will leave her sister in peace sometimes."

Then the tears were dried at once; and the child, taking Daisy's hand, said firmly, "Wherever you lead me I will go."

Daisy never knew what made her change her mind, for she had not heard the fairy's whisper; but angels in heaven knew it, and saw how, at that moment, the child unconsciously stepped into one of the golden paths that lead to the beautiful city on high.

For no good deed, no good thought or intention even, is lost. Few, perhaps, behold them here; but hosts of the heavenly people may always be looking on.

And even if they were not, it is better to be good and kind: the good deed brings its own reward; it makes our hearts peaceful; it makes us respect ourselves, so that we can look serenely in the face of every one, and, if they blame us, answer, "I have done the best I could."

CHAPTER XX.
TWILIGHT

When Maud had gone far enough to lose sight of Daisy and the dame, she slackened her pace, and looked about to see how beautiful the path had grown.

The trees met in green arches above her head; the road side was sprinkled with lovely flowers, fragrant in the evening air; and the breeze, stirring freshly, gave motion and a sweet, low sound to every thing. Insects were chirping merrily, and stars began to twinkle through the boughs.

Even Maud did not feel lonely; she had much to remember about the fair – all her purchases, all the compliments she had heard paid to her beauty, all Daisy's usefulness, and how sure she would be to make her go again.

But the scene about her grew every moment quieter and more beautiful; so that, leaving her worldly thoughts, a solemn feeling came over Maud, and she began to think of the still more beautiful place which was some time to be her home, —

And then of that Glorious One whom she was to love; mean and coarse seemed her earthly lovers when she thought of him, and their compliments vulgar and idle beside his gracious words.

"Ah, if I could but see this Christ once," thought Maud, "so that I might know what would please him, and could always remember him just as he really is! It is strange that he does not come when he must know how I am longing to behold his face."

And, in truth, Maud had never for an hour forgotten her sister's vision, but was constantly thinking what more she could do to make herself attractive when the Beautiful One should come.

She would not go out at noon, for fear of tanning her complexion; she hardly ate enough to live, because of a fancy that angels have very poor appetites; she gave up the sweet smile which she had preserved with so much care, and looked serious, and even sad. And the foolish girl made it an excuse for not doing her share of the household work, that she could not go to heaven with the stains of labor on her hands.

"What more can he require of me?" thought Maud. "Let him but say, and I will do any thing to serve this greatest of all the angels – will die – will be his slave!"

In the twilight, Maud saw, all at once, beside her a being more beautiful than she had even thought her Christ. He was thin and pale; he looked tired, and there were drops of blood on his forehead and tears in his eyes.

Yet was there something noble and good about him, that seemed grander than all the beauty of this earth, and melted the heart of the haughty Maud; so that she asked him to come to her cabin for food, and promised to make the old dame give him clothes.

He shook his head, and answered, "I have come to you before, naked, and hungry, and tired, and sad; but you drove me away."

"O, no, you are mistaken," said Maud; "I never saw you in my life before."

"When you refused food and shelter to the poor, old, and wretched, you were starving and freezing me."

"How could I know that?" said Maud, a little peevishly. "But, come, take my hand, and I will lead you where there is shelter and food."

He drew back from the hand she offered. "I cannot touch these fingers; wicked words are written over them."

"No such thing!" said Maud, thoroughly vexed. "There is not a man at the fair but would be proud to take my hand. Read the wicked words, if you can."

"Waste, weakness, indolence, selfishness, scorn, vanity," he read, as if the hand were a book spread out before him.

And then the beautiful being disappeared; and Maud, never dreaming that she had spoken with Christ, and hearing her sister's voice not far behind, hurried on quickly, so as to be in the cabin first.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE FAIRY LETTERS

Maud was so tired of being alone, and so anxious, besides, to ask if Daisy had seen the stranger who disappeared from her, that she ran good naturedly enough to the door, to welcome her sister.

But when she saw the dame's wretched old face, and the little beggar whom she had thrust away so scornfully, and Daisy herself bending under the heavy load of sticks, Maud's wrath came back again.

"Here I shall have to wait an hour for my supper," she complained, "because you chose to lag behind, and tire yourself with bringing burdens for other folks. I should like to know where you will put your precious friends: not in our house – be very sure of that."

But the dame quickly silenced her by asking, "Who has fed, and clothed, and taken care of you and all your kith and kin? Who gave you the gown on your back and the beauty in your cheeks? And when you found your sister lying half dead by the roadside, – as you would have been but for my care, – what were you willing to do for her? O Maud, for shame!"

"She is no sister of mine," answered Maud, making way; however, as she spoke, for the beggar to enter her door.

"Ask Daisy," was the dame's reply.

"O Maud, I was so sorry that you left us," Daisy said; "for the beautiful man I saw in heaven, whom you are to love, came and spoke to me, with a look and words I can never forget in all my life."

"Where was it?" asked the sister eagerly.

"In that part of the road which our father used to call the Church, because the trees made such grand arches overhead, and it was so still and holy, with the stars looking through the boughs. You remember the elm, with the grape vine climbing up among its boughs, and hanging full of fruit: I met him there."

"But he could not be half so beautiful as the man I saw in that very place," boasted Maud. "I talked with him a while; then I suppose he heard you coming, for he went away."

The old dame's bright, sharp eyes were fixed upon her; and Maud cast her own eyes down in shame, as Daisy continued, —

"The dame's bundle of wood was very heavy, and this little girl dragged so upon my skirts as we toiled on, that I knew she must be tired. I was feeling glad that I happened to meet them, because I am both young and strong, you know, and used to work, when, as I told you, Christ appeared, standing beneath the elm."

"How ashamed you must have felt! I suppose he thought you the old dame's daughter, or a beggar, perhaps. I'm glad you did not bring him to our cabin; how it would look beside his palace in the golden city above! What did he say to you?"

"'Blessed, O Daisy, are the merciful,' he said; I was hungry, and you gave me food; thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was sad, and you cheered me; tired, and I rested on your arm.'

"'O, no,' I answered, 'you must be thinking of some one else. I never saw you before, except in my vision once.'

"He took my hand, and looked into my face with such a gentle smile that I did not feel afraid, and pointed at the wood: 'This burden was not the old dame's, but mine; the blood you wiped away was mine; when you fed and comforted this little one, you were feeding and comforting me. You never can tell how much good you are doing, Daisy; poor girl as you are, you may give joy to my Father's angels. Look through your spectacles.'

"So I looked, and there sat the poor little beggar, (see, she has fallen asleep from weariness!) moaning and sobbing in the grass, as when we found her first; and an angel stood beside her, weeping, too."

"An angel beside her?" interrupted Maud.

"Yes, a beautiful angel, with the calm, holy look which they all wear in heaven, but I never saw upon this earth; he wept because she had no friend; and, just then, I was so fortunate as to come past, and, not seeing the angel, I asked her to take my hand, and run along beside me.

"But now I saw that, when the child began to smile, the angel also smiled, and lifted his white wings and flew – O, faster than lightning – over the tree tops, and past the clouds; and the sky parted where he went, until I saw him stand before the throne, in the wonderful city above.

"And Christ said, 'He stands there always, watching her, unless she needs him here; and when her earthly life is over, he will lead her back, to dwell in my Father's house. For the great God is her Father, and yours, and mine; she is my sister: should I not feel her grief?'"

Maud's heart fell, for she felt that the being whom she had met must also have been Christ, and asked Daisy if he looked sad and tired, and had wounds in his hands.

"O, no – what could tire him, Maud? He looked strong, and noble, and glad, and seemed, among the dark trees, like a shining light."

"Alas! then it was I who tired him, and made him sorrowful," thought Maud; then said, aloud, "But, Daisy, are you sure he took your hand? See, it is smeared with the old dame's blood, and soiled with tears you wiped from the beggar's face, and stained and roughened with hard work: are you sure he touched it?"

"The whole was so strange, that I dare not be sure whether any part of it was real," replied Daisy, who was so modest that she did not wish to tell all Christ had said.

"I am sure, then," outspoke the dame. "He took her hand, and – listen to me, Maud! – he said, 'This blood, these tears, these labor stains, will be the brightest jewels you can wear in heaven; have courage, and be patient, Daisy – for beautiful words are written here, that never will fade away.'"

And when Maud asked what they were, the dame replied sharply, "Exactly the opposite of words that are written on somebody's fine hands: self-sacrifice, and generosity, and faith, and earnestness, and love. Such words as these make Daisy's rough hands beautiful."