They buried him there in France, on a sunny slope, where the grass was green and the flowers blossomed in the early spring; and, when Mr. McDonald examined his papers, he found to his surprise that, with the exception of an annuity to himself, and several legacies to different charitable institutions, Tom had left to Daisy his entire fortune, stipulating only that one-tenth of all her income should be yearly given back to God, who had a right to it.
She took the name again, and with it, also, Margaret, feeling that Daisy was far too girlish an appellation for one who clad herself in the deepest mourning, and felt, when she stood at poor Tom's grave, more wretched and desolate than many a wife has felt when her husband was buried from sight.
Tom had meant to make her parents independent of her so that she need not have them with her unless she chose to do so, for knowing Mr. McDonald as he did, he thought she would be happier without him; but God so ordered it that within three months after poor Tom's death, they made another grave beside his, and Daisy and her mother were alone.
It was spring time, and the two desolate women bade adieu to their dead, and made their way to England, and from there to Scotland, where among the heather hills they passed the summer in the utmost seclusion.
Here Daisy had ample time for thought, which dwelt mostly upon the past and the happiness she cast away when she consented to the sundering of the tie which had bound her to Guy Thornton.
"Oh, how could I have been so foolish and so weak," she said, as with intense contempt for herself, she read over the journal she had kept at Elmwood during the first weeks of her married life.
Guy had said it would be pleasant for her to refer to its pages in after years, little dreaming with what sore anguish of heart poor Daisy would one day weep over the senseless things recorded there.
"Can it be I was ever that silly little fool?" she said bitterly, as she finished her journal. "And how could Guy love me as he did. Oh, if I but had the chance again, I would make him so happy. Oh, Guy, Guy,--my husband still,--mine more than Julia's, if you could know how much I love you now; nor can I feel it wrong to do so, even though I never hope to see your face again, Guy, Guy, the world is so desolate, and I am young, only twenty-three, and life is so long and dreary with nothing to live for or to do. I wish almost that I were dead like Tom, only I dare not think I should go to the Heaven where he has gone."