"She loves _you_, Maureen," said Dominic, in his solemn way.
"Yes," replied Maureen, very gently. "I went to Felicity last week to see them both, and she told me, poor darling, that she was perfectly happy, and all the people were so nice to her, and she could manage the naughty girls, oh, quite wonderfully. She told me also that she loved as much as ever she _could_ Mrs. Faithful and Dinah, but, she added, and, oh, Dom, I declare she looked quite _beautiful_, she _said_, 'I have to _force_ myself to love them, but I do manage a little bit; whereas, _you_, Maureen, _you_ and Daisy, without any effort, have _all the love of my heart_.'"
And Daisy, what became of her in the future? What did she see in that deep, trance-like slumber, which even the clever doctors and the professional nurses took for death? Something surely which she was never to forget, which, in fact, she never did forget. For, as a matter of fact, the love of Maureen, her passionate devotion to the White Angel, had entered down deep into her heart and stayed there forever and ever.
The Daisy of the present is a quiet girl. She has perhaps a little of the mantle of Maureen flung over her. She is remarked in the school for her great gentleness; the sly look so apparent once in her face has utterly departed. She is sweet and grave and noted for her unselfishness.
Henrietta must always retain her fire, but Daisy, by a look or word, can compel her. Daisy is happy of the happy. She knows the very solemn things of life, for has she not in very truth stood at the entrance to the gate of death with the White Angel?