Читать книгу The Haven Children; or, Frolics at the Funny Old House on Funny Street онлайн

26 страница из 30

“I suppose I’ve got to,” and still another and a surer, when she turned her back and started to go up stairs, but still she had not wounded him mortally, so the little fellow limped up stairs after her, all unknown to the confident Daisy.

When Rosie triumphantly announced the good time “pic-nicking and story-telling,” and Daisy saw no prospect of cherries saved for her, her good resolutions grew fainter; then—then was the time for “self” to assert himself, and that time he conquered fully, and so uproarious did the little fellow grow, as Daisy turned her back upon the nursery path of duty, that Jack’s voice was nearly drowned, as little “self” hurled back his tiny cannon-balls of “good reasons” why in reply.

Somehow, the window-ledge with the story-book on it isn’t quite satisfying, after all. Goldy’s girlish face seems to turn, ever and anon, into that of a pleading little boy, and Daisy herself seems, in some strange manner, to be accountable for Goldy’s tribulations. A golden butterfly lights on her book, and as her eyes follow its upward course, they rest on the pure blue of the sky, and follow the floating summer clouds in their God-directed way. Then comes to the little Christian child, a remembrance of Him who can read our every thoughts, and then self seems to shrink lower and lower, and the upward glance becomes a little prayer for