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“Who is she?” I inquired the great man when the storm of applause had somewhat subsided.

“We call her ‘Daisy of the Glen,'” was the reply. “She is a prodigy for her age. Her history is a little singular. She was found not far from here in a wild glen, or ravine, when about three years old, and has never been able to tell who or where her parents are. But I will relate the circumstances to you at another time. At present the trustees are pressing in their invitation to you to say something to the children.”

Whereupon the grandest orator of his day arose and addressed a few remarks in simple language to his youthful audience. He told them of the day, when on the highway from Virginia into the Blue Grass region, he rode into their woodland council on the rugged spot where their pretty little village now stood. And as their forefathers had cultivated the then dense wilderness, so he admonished them to study and improve their minds in school. Great men and noted women had already sprung into fame from their young city, and many a glorious achievement of word, of pen, and of sword, had given renown to the place whose birth he had incidentally witnessed in the long ago.

When he ceased speaking he had implanted the germ of honest ambition in the hearts of many of the little men and women whose future influence was to wield power for good or ill. That night, seated among friends in the best room the little tavern afforded, Henry Clay learned further particulars concerning wee, winsome Daisy of the Glen, whose appearance and address had so charmed his fancy. She was evidently a stolen child. Her dress, when she was discovered by a hunter, was fine, and her whole appearance indicative of an easy sphere of life. It was supposed that a band of gypsies had decoyed her away while carelessly straying too far from her home, but nothing definite was known. Mrs. Templeton, a kind, motherly woman, without children, had cheerfully given the little stranger shelter, and had in time grown so fond of her that she could not bear the thought of parting. Hence, after the first unsuccessful effort, no further attempt had been made to discover the parentage of the little waif. She called herself Daisy, in her lisping fashion, and her lovely disposition had won for her the poetical title of “Daisy of the Glen.”

Mr. Clay listened earnestly, and when about to leave, he deposited a sum of money for the benefit of the little girl’s education.

* * * * *

Ten years after, two figures sat in earnest conversation on the verdant cliff of a romantic ravine leading from the banks of Dix river. The one, a young girl of remarkably fair exterior, turned in an animated manner to impress some assertion upon her companion. The other, a youth so exceedingly handsome in face and figure, so lithe of person and eloquent of speech, that no girl of eighteen could long resist his attractions.

“Indeed, Roye, I knew it must be he and no other. He made an impression upon my memory when a little child of eight years, that can never be effaced. Who else would be so likely to interest himself in my fate?”

“Indeed, Daisy,” he echoed, “who is disposed to doubt the truth of your surmises? You are probably correct, yet on the other hand, what proof have you that Mr. Clay is your unknown benefactor?”

“None at all except the fact that he honored me so far on that memorable visit to the school, as to inquire all about me. More than that he came to the house and asked me a number of questions about my infancy. Without his help I could never have gone away to complete my education or possessed any accomplishments. Poor mamma always thought the money came from him, and almost her last injunction to me, was to hold him in profound veneration as long as I live.”