The Lost Clue by O.F. Walton

THE year was passing on; day after day, week after week, month after month, following each other in quick succession, and Marjorie was keeping a private calendar of her own, and counting the days that must still pass before Christmas came, when she was to go home for her first holiday.

Daisy Bank did not alter much with the changing seasons: there was very little to mark the progression of spring, summer, and autumn. Barely a tree was in sight, and the few that were to be found were so stunted, blighted, and covered with smoke that the spring freshness of their leaves lasted but a few days. Upon the mounds grew a few coarse daisies-at least, the children called them daisies; they were a kind of feverfew with a daisy-like flower. Nothing else would grow there, which is perhaps why the place got its name, a name which had at first appeared to Marjorie to be utterly unsuitable.