The light did not last as
long as it did a few months ago. Daisy was late. She must go
soon, if she did not see Molly; and to go without seeing her
was no part of Daisy's plan. Perhaps Molly was sick. At any
rate, the child's footsteps paused at the door of the poor
little house, and her fingers knocked. She had never been
inside of it yet, and what she saw of the outside was not in
the least inviting. The little windows, lined with paper
curtains to keep out sunlight and curious eyes, looked dismal;
the weatherboards were unpainted; the little porch broken.
Daisy did not like such things. But she knocked without a bit
of fear or hesitation, notwithstanding all this. She was
charged with work to do; so she felt; it was no matter what
she might meet in the discharge of it. She had her message to
carry, and she was full of compassionate love to the creature
whose lot in life was so unlike her own. Daisy went straight
on in her business.
Her knock got no answer, and still got none though it was
repeated and made more noticeable. Not a sign of an answer.
Daisy softly tried the door then to see if it would open.
There was no difficulty in that; she pushed it gently, and
gently stepped in.
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