Daisy saw her face then; it was a bad face; so disagreeable that she looked away from it instantly to the balsams.
"What are you doing to your flowers ?" she asked gently.

The gentle little child voice seemed to astonish the woman, although after an instant she made surly answer,-- "Whose business is it ?" "Wouldn't it be easier," said Daisy, not looking at her, "if you had something to help you get the weeds up?
Don't you want a fork, or a hoe, or something ?" "I've got forks," said the cripple sullenly.

"I use 'em to eat with." "No, but I mean, something to help you with the weeds," said Daisy--"that sort of fork, or a trowel." The woman spread her brown fingers of both hands, like birds' claws, covered with the dirt in which she had been digging.

"I've got forks enough," she said savagely--"them's what goes into my weeds.

Now go 'long!--" The last words were uttered with a sudden jerk, and as she spoke them she plunged her hands into the dirt, and bringing up a double handful cast it with a spiteful fling upon the neat little black shoes.