"Shall I be the medium?" said Mrs. Gary. "These things are to

travel up to Daisy, I suppose."

"I will represent the rolling stock of this road, and

undertake to carry parcels safely," said Mr. McFarlane. "Any

message with the goods, Mrs. Gary?"

"I believe they carry their own message with them," said the

lady; — "or else I don't see what is the use of these little

white tickets. Where shall I begin, Mr. Randolph?"

"I do not think the order of proceedings will be criticized,

provided it does not delay," said Daisy's father.

"Then transmit this, Gary."

"Literary freight" —said Gary McFarlane, handing over to Daisy

a little parcel of books. Five or six little volumes, in

pretty binding — Daisy looked eagerly to see what they might

be. "Marmion" — "The Lady of the Lake" — "Scott's Poetical

Works."

"Oh, thank you, papa!" said Daisy, looking delighted.

"Not me," said Mr. Randolph. "I am not to be thanked."

"There's no name in them —" said Daisy.

"That's Preston's gift," said her aunt. Preston was Daisy's

oldest cousin; a fine boy of sixteen.

"I like it so much, Preston!" said Daisy, sending a grateful

look down the table to where he sat.

"Is Daisy fond of poetry?" inquired Mr. McFarlane, with a

grave look.

"Very fond," Mrs. Randolph said.

"Dangerous taste!" said Gary. "What is this new consignment?"

"Something valuable — take care of it."

"To be taken with care — right side up," said Gary, putting

before Daisy by a stretch of his long arm a little paper

covered package. Daisy's cheeks were beginning to grow pink.

She unfolded the package.

A little box — then white cotton — then a gold bracelet.

"Mamma? —" said Daisy instantly. Mrs. Randolph stooped and

kissed her. "It's beautiful, mamma!" Daisy spoke very

earnestly; however, her face did not show the light of

pleasure which the first gift had called into it.

"How did you know so well?" said Mr. McFarlane. "Mrs.

Randolph, I am afraid you are not literary. Now Daisy,

exercise your discernment upon that."

It was a little box containing a Chinese puzzle, with the

plans and keys belonging to it.

"Where do you think that comes from?"

Daisy looked up. "I think — perhaps — from you, Mr.

McFarlane."

"Do you think I am anything like a puzzle?"

"I think — perhaps — you mean to be," — Daisy said,

innocently. But a shout from the whole tableful answered to

this chance hit. Daisy didn't know what they could mean.

"I have done!" said Gary. "I have got more than my match. But

I know who will plague people worse than a puzzle, if she gets

well educated. There's a pair of gloves, you little fencer."

It was a nice little thick pair of riding or driving gloves;

beautifully made and ornamented. These came from Eloise,

Daisy's other cousin. Mrs. Gary had brought her two beautiful

toilet bottles of Bohemian glass. Daisy's end of the table was

growing full.

"What is this?" said Mrs. Gary, taking from the épergne a

sealed note directed to Daisy.

"That is Ransom's present. Give her mine first," said Mr.

Randolph.

"Which is yours? I don't see anything more."

"That little Proserpine in the middle."

"_This?_ Are you going to give this to Daisy? But why is she

called Proserpine? I don't see."

"Nor I," said Mr. Randolph, "only that everything must have a

name. And this damsel is supposed to have been carrying a

basket, which might easily have been a basket of flowers, I

don't see how the statement could be disproved. And Daisy is

fonder of the little nymph, I believe, than any one else in

the house.

"Oh, papa! thank you," exclaimed Daisy, whose eyes sparkled.

"I like to have her very much!"

"Well, here she goes," said Mrs. Gary. "Hand her over. You

have a variety, Daisy. Chinese playthings and Grecian art."

"_Some_ modern luxury," said Gary McFarlane. "Just a little."

"Egyptian art, too," said Captain Drummond.

"Oh, where's my spoon?" cried Daisy. "Has papa got it?"

"Here is Ransom's present," said her aunt, handing the note.

"Nobody knows what it is. Are we to know?"

Daisy opened and read, read over again, looked very grave, and

finally folded the note up in silence.

"What is it?" said her aunt.

Daisy hesitated, wishing, but in doubt if she would be

permitted to keep it to herself. Her father answered for her.

"It is all of Ransom's part, share, and possession in a

certain small equipage known about these premises; the intent

and understanding being, that henceforth the pony carriage and

pony are Daisy's sole property, and to be by her used and

appropriated without any other person's interference

whatever."

"But, papa —" Ransom began.

"I think it is a very poor arrangement, Mr. Randolph," said

Ransom's mother. "Daisy cannot use the pony half enough for

his good."

"She will make more use of him now," said Mr. Randolph.

Ransom looked very glum. His mother rose, with the ladies, and

went to the drawing-room.

CHAPTER VII.

A SOLDIER.

A day or two after the birthday, it happened that Captain

Drummond was enjoying the sunshine in a way that gentlemen

like to enjoy it; that is, he was stretched comfortably on the

grass under the shade of some elm trees, looking at it.

Perhaps it was not exactly the sunshine that he was enjoying,

but the soft couch of short grass, and the luxurious warm

shadow of the elms, and a little fanciful breeze which played

and stopped playing, and set the elm trees all a flutter and

let them be still, by turns. But Captain Drummond was having a

good time there, all by himself, and lying at length in a most

lazy luxurious fashion; when he suddenly was "ware" of a fold

of white drapery somewhere not very far from his left ear. He

raised himself a little up, and there to be sure, as he had

guessed, was Daisy. She was all alone too, and standing there

looking at him.

Now Captain Drummond was a great favourite of Daisy's. In the

first place he was a handsome fellow, with a face which was

both gentle and manly; and his curly light brown hair and his

slight well-trimmed moustache set off features that were

pleasant for man or woman to look upon. Perhaps Daisy liked

him partly for this, but I think she had other reasons. At any

rate, there she stood looking at him.

"Can you command me, Daisy?" said the young officer.

"Are you at leisure, Captain Drummond?"

"Looks like it!" said the gentleman rousing himself. "What

shall I give you? a camp-chair? or will you take the — Oh!

that is a better arrangement."

For Daisy had thrown on the ground a soft shawl for a carpet,

and took her place upon it beside Captain Drummond, who looked

at her in a pleased kind of way.

"Are you quite at leisure, Captain Drummond?"

"Gentlemen always are — when ladies' affairs are to be

attended to."

"Are they?" said Daisy.

"They ought to be!"

"But I am not a lady."

"What do you call yourself?"

"I don't know," said Daisy, gravely. "I suppose I am a little

piece of one."

"Is that it?" said Captain Drummond, laughing. "Well, I will

give you as large a piece of my leisure as you can make use of

— without regard to proportions. What is on hand, Daisy?"

"Captain Drummond," said Daisy, with a very serious face, —

"do soldiers have a very hard time?"

"Not always. Not when they are lying out under the trees at

Melbourne, for example."

"But I mean, when they are acting like soldiers?"

He was ready with a laughing answer again, but seeing how

earnest Daisy's face was, he controlled himself; and leaning

on his elbow, with just a little smile of amusement on his

face, he answered her.

"Well, Daisy — sometimes they do."

"How, Captain Drummond?"

"In a variety of ways."

"Will you please tell me about it?"

He looked up at her. "Why, Daisy, what makes you curious in

the matter? Have you a friend in the army?"

"No other but you," said Daisy.

"That is a kind speech. To reward you for it, I will tell you

anything you please. What is the question, Daisy?"

"I would like to know in what way soldiers have a hard time?"

"Well, Daisy, to begin with, a soldier can't do what he has a

mind."

"Not about anything?"

"Well — no; not unless he gets leave. I am only at Melbourne

now because I have got leave; and I must go when my leave is

up. A soldier does not belong to himself."

"To whom does he belong?"

"To his commander! He must go and come, do or not do things,

just as his General bids him; and ask no questions."

"Ask no questions?" said Daisy.

"No; only do what he is ordered."

"But why mayn't he ask questions?"

"That isn't his business. He has nothing to do with the reason

of things; all he has got to do is his duty. The _reason_ is his

General's duty to look after."

"But suppose he had a very good General — then that wouldn't

be much of a hardship," said Daisy.

"Well, that is a very material point," said the Captain.

"_Suppose_ he has a good General — as you say; that would make a

great difference, certainly."

"Is that all, Captain Drummond?"

"Not quite all."

"What else?"

"Well, Daisy, a soldier, even under a good General, is often

ordered to do hard things."

"What sort of things?"

"What do you think," said the Captain, lolling comfortably on

the green bank, "of camping out under the rain-clouds — with

no bed but stones or puddles of mud and wet leaves — and rain

pouring down all night, and hard work all day; and no better

accommodations for week in and week out?"

"But Captain Drummond!" said Daisy, horrified, "I thought

soldiers had tents?"

"So they do — in fine weather —" said the Captain. "But just

where the hardest work is to do, is where they can't carry

their tents."

"Couldn't that be prevented?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I should think they'd get sick?"

"_Think_ they would! Why, they do, Daisy, by hundreds and

hundreds. What then? A soldier's life isn't his own; and if he

has to give it up in a hospital instead of on the field, why

it's good for some other fellow."

So this it was, not to belong to oneself! Daisy looked on the

soldier before her who had run, or would run, such risks, very

tenderly; but nevertheless the child was thinking her own

thoughts all the while. The Captain saw both things.

"What is the 'hard work' they have to do?" she asked,

presently.

"Daisy, you wouldn't like to see it."

"Why, sir?"

"Poor fellows digging and making walls of sand or sods to

shelter them from fire — when every now and then comes a shot

from the enemy's batteries, ploughs up their work, and knocks

over some poor rascal who never gets up again. That's one kind

of hard work."

Daisy's face was intent in its interest; but she only said,

"Please go on."

"Do you like to hear it?"

"Yes, I like to know about it."

"I wonder what Mrs. Randolph would say to me?"

"Please go on, Captain Drummond!"

"I don't know about that. However, Daisy, work in the trenches

is not the hardest thing — nor living wet through or frozen

half through — nor going half fed — about the hardest thing I

know, is in a hurried retreat to be obliged to leave sick and

wounded friends and poor fellows to fall into the hands of the

enemy. That's hard."

"Isn't it hard to fight a battle?"

"You would not like to march up to the fire of the enemy's

guns, and see your friends falling right and left of you —

struck down?"

"Would you?" said Daisy.

"Would I what?"

"Don't _you_ think it is hard, to do that?"

"Not just at the time, Daisy. It is a little tough afterwards,

when one comes to think about it. It is hard to see fellows

suffer too, that one cannot help."

Daisy hardly knew what to think of Captain Drummond. His

handsome pleasant face looked not less gentle than usual, and

_did_ look somewhat more sober. Daisy concluded it must be

something about a soldier's life that she could not

understand, all this coolness with which he spoke of dreadful

things. A deep sigh was the testimony of the different

feelings of her little breast. Captain Drummond looked up at

her.

"Daisy, women are not called to be soldiers."

Daisy passed that.

"Have you told me all you can tell me, Captain Drummond?"

"I should not like to tell you all I could tell you."

"Why? Please do! I want to know all about soldiers."

He looked curiously at her. "After all," he said, "it is not

so bad as you think, Daisy. A good soldier does not find it

hard to obey orders."

"What sorts of orders does he have to obey?"

"All sorts."

"But suppose they were wrong orders?"

"Makes no difference."

"_Wrong_ orders?"

"Yes," said Captain Drummond, laughing. "If it is something he

can do, he does it; if it is something he can't do, he loses

his head trying."

"Loses his head, sir?"

"Yes — by a cannon ball; or his heart, by a musket ball; or

maybe he gets off with losing a hand or a leg; just as it

happens. That makes no difference, either." He watched Daisy

as he spoke, seeing a slight colour rise in her cheeks, and

wondering what made the child's quiet grey eyes look at him so

thoughtfully.

"Captain Drummond, is he ever told to do anything he _can't_

do?"

"A few years ago, Daisy, the English and the French were

fighting the Russians in the Crimea. I happened to be there on

business, and I saw some things. An order was brought one day

to an officer commanding a body of cavalry — you know what

cavalry is?"

"Yes, I know."

"The order was brought in — Hallo! what's that?" For a voice

was heard shouting at a little distance, "Drummond! Ho,

Drummond! Where are you?"

"It's Mr. McFarlane!" said Daisy. "He'll come here. I'm very

sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said the Captain. "Come, — let us disappoint

him. He can't play hide and seek."

He jumped up and caught Daisy's willing hand, with the other

hand caught up her shawl, and drew her along swiftly under

cover of the trees and shrubbery towards the river, and away

from the voice they heard calling. Daisy half ran, half flew,

it seemed to her; so fast the strong hand of her friend pulled

her over the ground. At the edge of the bank that faced the

river, at the top of a very steep descent of a hundred feet or

near that, under a thick shelter of trees, Captain Drummond

called a halt and stood listening. Far off, faint in the

distance, they could still hear the shout, — "Drummond! —

where are you? Hallo!"

"We'll go down to the river," said the Captain; "and he is too

lazy to look for us there. We shall be safe. Daisy, this is a

retreat — but it is not a hardship, is it?"

Daisy looked up delighted. The little face so soberly

thoughtful a few minutes ago was all bright and flushed. The

Captain was charmed too.

"But we can't get down there," — said Daisy, casting her eye

down the very steep pitch of the bank.

"That is something," said the Captain, "with which as a

soldier you have nothing to do. All you have to do is to obey

orders; and the orders are that we charge down hill."

"I shall go head first, then," said Daisy, "or over and over.

I couldn't keep my feet one minute."

"Now you are arguing," said the Captain; "and that shows

insubordination, or want of discipline. But we have got to

charge, all the same; and we'll see about putting you under

arrest afterwards."

Daisy laughed at him, but she could not conceive how they

should get to the bottom. It was very steep, and strewn with

dead leaves from the trees which grew thick all the way.

Rolling down was out of the question, for the stems of the

trees would catch them; and to keep on their feet seemed

impossible. Daisy found, however, that Captain Drummond could

manage what she could not. He took hold of her hand again; and

then — Daisy hardly believed it while she was doing it, — but

there she was, going down that bank in an upright position;

not falling nor stumbling, though it is true she was not

walking neither. The Captain did not let her fall, and his

strong hand seemed to take her like a feather over the stones

and among the trees, giving her flying leaps and bounds down

the hill along with him. How he went and kept his feet

remained always a marvel to Daisy; but down they went, and at

the bottom they were in a trifle of time.

"Do you think he will come down there after us?" said the

Captain.

"I am sure he won't," said Daisy.

"So am I sure. We are safe, Daisy. Now I am your prisoner, and

you are my prisoner; and we will set each other at any work we

please. This is a nice place."

Behind them was the high, steep, wooded bank, rising right up.

Before them was a little strip of pebbly beach, and little

wavelets of the river washing past it. Beyond lay the broad

stream, all bright in the summer sunshine, with the great blue

hills rising up misty and blue in the distance. Nothing else;

a little curve in the shore on each side shut them in from all

that was above or below near at hand.

"Why, this is a fine place," repeated the Captain. "Were you

ever here before?"

"Not in a long time," said Daisy. "I have been here with

June."

"June! Aren't we here with June now?"

"_Now?_ — Oh, I don't mean the month — I mean mamma's black

June," said Daisy, laughing.

"Well, that is the first time I ever heard of a black June!"

muttered the Captain. "Does she resemble her name or her

colour?"

"She isn't much like the month of June," said Daisy. "I don't

think she is a very cheerful person."

"Then I wouldn't come here any more with her — or anywhere

else."

"I don't," said Daisy. "I don't go with her, or with anybody

else — much. Only I go with Sam and the pony."

"Where's Ransom. Don't he go with you?"

"Oh, Ransom's older, you know; and he's a boy."

"Ransom don't know his advantages. This is pleasant, Daisy.

Now let us see. What were you and I about?"

"You were telling me something, Captain Drummond."

"What was it? Oh, I know. Daisy, you are under arrest, you

know, and sentenced to extra duty. The work you are to

perform, is to gather as many of these little pebbles together

— these white ones — as you can in five minutes."

Daisy went to work; so did the Captain; and very busy they

were, for the Captain gathered as many pebbles as she did. He

made her fetch them to a place where the little beach was

clean and smooth, and in the shadow of an overhanging tree

they both sat down. Then the Captain, throwing off his cap,

began arranging the white pebbles on the sand in some

mysterious manner — lines of them here and lines of them there

— whistling as he worked. Daisy waited with curious patience;

watched him closely, but never asked what he was doing. At

last he stopped, looked up at her, and smiled.

"Well! —" he said.

"What is it all, Captain Drummond?"

"This is your story, Daisy."

"My story!"

"Yes. Look here — these rows of white stones are the Russians;

— these brown stones are the English," said he, beginning to

marshal another set into mysterious order some distance from

the white stones. "Now what shall I do for some guns?"

Daisy, in a very great state of delight, began to make search

for something that would do to stand for artillery; but

Captain Drummond presently solved the question by breaking

some twigs from the tree overhead and cutting them up into

inch lengths. These little mock guns he distributed liberally

among the white stones, pointing their muzzles in various

directions; and finally drew some lines in the sand which he

informed Daisy were fortifications. Daisy looked on; it was

better than a fairy tale.

"Now Daisy, we are ready for action. This is the battle of

Balaklava; and these are part of the lines. An order was

brought to an officer commanding a body of cavalry stationed

up here — you know what cavalry is."

"Yes, I know."

"The order was brought to him to charge upon the enemy down

_there_, — in a place where he could do no good and must be cut

to pieces; — the enemy had so many guns in that place and he

had so few men to attack them with. The order was a mistake.

He knew it was a mistake, but his General had sent it — there

was nothing for him to do but to obey. So he charged."

"And his men?"

"Every one. They knew they were going to their death — and

everybody else knew it that saw them go — but they charged!"

"Did you see it, Captain Drummond?"

"I saw it."

"And did they go to their death?" said Daisy, awe-stricken,

for Captain Drummond's look said that he was thinking of

something it had been grave to see.

"Why, yes. Look here, Daisy — here were cannon; there were

cannon; there were more cannon; cannon on every side of them

but one. They went into death they knew, when they went in

there."

"How many of them went there?"

"Six hundred."

"Six hundred! — were they _all_ killed?"

"No. There were a part of them that escaped and lived to come

back."

Daisy looked at the pebbles and the guns in profound silence.

"But if the officer knew the order was a mistake, why must he

obey it?"

"That's a soldier's duty, Daisy. He can do nothing but follow

orders. A soldier can't know, very often, what an order is

given for; he cannot judge; he does not know what his General

means to accomplish. All he has to think of is to obey orders;

and if every soldier does that, all is right."

What was little Daisy thinking of? She sat looking at her

friend the Captain. He was amused.

"Well, Daisy — what do you think? — will it do? Do you think

you will stand it and be a soldier?"

Daisy hesitated a good deal, and looked off and on at the

Captain's face. Then she said very quietly, "Yes."

"You will!" he said. "I wish you would join my branch of the

service. Suppose you come into my company?"

"Suppose you join mine?"

"With all my heart!" said the Captain, laughing; "if it is not

inconsistent with my present duties. So you have enlisted

already? Are you authorised to receive recruits?"

Daisy shook her head, and did not join in his laugh.

"Honestly, Daisy, tell me true; what did you want to know

about soldiers for? I have answered you; now answer me. I am

curious."

Daisy did not answer, and seemed in doubt.

"Will you not honour me so far?"

Daisy hesitated still, and looked at the Captain more than

once. But Captain Drummond was a great favourite, and had

earned her favour partly by never talking nonsense to her; a

great distinction.

"I will tell you when we get back to the house," she said, —

"if you will not speak of it, Captain Drummond."

The Captain could get no nearer his point; and he and Daisy

spent a good while longer by the river-side, erecting

fortifications and studying the charge of the Light brigade.

CHAPTER VIII.

GEOGRAPHY.

The Captain was not able to claim Daisy's promise immediately.

On their return to the house he was at once taken up with some

of the older people, and Daisy ran off to her long delayed

dinner.

The next day in the course of her wanderings about the

grounds, which were universal, Daisy came upon her cousin

Preston. He sat in the shade of a clump of larches under a

great oak, making flies for fishing; which occupation, like a

gentlemanly boy as he was, he had carried out there where the

litter of it would be in nobody's way. Preston Gary was a very

fine fellow; about sixteen, a handsome fellow, very spirited,

very clever, and very gentle and kind to his little cousin

Daisy. Daisy liked him much, and was more entirely free with

him perhaps than with any other person in the family. Her

seeing him now was the signal for a joyous skip and bound

which brought her to his side.

"Oh, Preston, are you going fishing?"

"Perhaps — if I have a good day for it."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"Who's going with you?"

"Nobody, I reckon. Unless you want to go, Daisy."

"Oh, Preston, may I go with you? Where are you going?"

"Daisy, I'm bound for the Hillsdale woods, back of Crum Elbow

— they say there are first-rate trout streams there; but I am

afraid you can't go so far."

"Oh, I can go anywhere, Preston! — with Loupe, you know.

You're going to ride, aren't you?"

"Yes, but Loupe! What shall we do with Loupe? You see, I shall

be gone the whole day, Daisy — it's likely. You'd get tired."

"Why, we could find somewhere to put Loupe — Sam could take

care of him. And I should like to go, Preston, if you think I

would not frighten the fish."

"Oh, if Sam's going along, that is another matter," said

Preston. "You frighten the fish, Daisy! I don't believe you

can do that for anything. But I won't let you get into

mischief."

So it was settled, and Daisy's face looked delighted; and for

some time she and Preston discussed the plan, the fish, and

his flies. Then suddenly Daisy introduced another subject.

"Preston, where is the Crimea?"

"The Crimea!" said Preston.

"Yes; where the English and the French were fighting with the

Russians."

"The Crimea! Why, Daisy, don't you know where it is? You'll

find it in the Black Sea somewhere."

Daisy hesitated.

"But Preston, I don't know where the Black Sea is."

"Why, Daisy, what has become of your geography?"

"I never had much," said Daisy, humbly, and looking serious; —

"and lately mamma hasn't wanted me to do anything but run

about."

"Well, if you take the map of Europe, and set out from the

north of Russia and walk down, you'll find yourself in the

Crimea after a while. Just hold that, Daisy, will you."

Daisy held the ends of silk he put in her fingers; but while

he worked, she thought. Might it not be possible that a good

knowledge of geography might have something to do with the use

or the improvement of her _talents?_ And if a knowledge of

geography, why not also a knowledge of history, and of

arithmetic, and of everything! There could not be a reasonable

doubt of it. What would Preston be, — what would Mr. Dinwiddie

or Captain Drummond be, — if they knew nothing? And by the

same reasoning, what would Daisy Randolph be? What could she

do with her talents, if she let them lie rusty with ignorance?

Now this was a very serious thought to Daisy, because she did

not like study. She liked knowledge right well, if she could

get it without trouble, and if it was entertaining knowledge;

but she did not think geography at all entertaining, nor

arithmetic. Yet — Daisy forgot all about Preston's artificial

flies, and her face grew into a depth of sobriety.

"Preston —" she began, slowly, — "is it hard?"

"Not just that," said Preston, busy in finishing a piece of

work, — "it is a little ticklish to stroke this into order —

but it isn't hard, if you have the right materials, and know

how."

"Oh, no — I don't mean flies — I mean geography."

"Geography!" said Preston. "Oh, you are at the Crimea yet, are

you? I'll show it to you, Daisy, when we go in."

"Preston, is the use of geography only to know where places

are?"

"Well, that's pretty convenient," said Preston. "Daisy, just

look for that bunch of grey silk — I had it here a minute

ago."

"But Preston, tell me what _is_ the use of it?"

"Why, my dear little Daisy — thank you! — you'd be all abroad

without it."

"All abroad!" exclaimed Daisy.

"It comes to about that, I reckon. You wouldn't understand

anything. How can you? Suppose I show you my pictures of the

North American Indians — they'll be as good as Chinese to you,

if you don't know geography."

Daisy was silent, feeling puzzled.

"And," said Preston, binding his fly, "when you talk of the

Crimea, you will not know whether the English came from the

east or the west, nor whether the Russians are not living

under the equator and eating ripe oranges."

"Don't they eat oranges?" said Daisy, seriously. But that

question set Preston off into a burst of laughter, for which

he atoned as soon as it was over by a very gentle kiss to his

little cousin.

"Never mind, Daisy," he said; "I think you are better without

geography. You aren't just like everybody else — that's a

fact."

"Daisy," said Captain Drummond, coming upon the scene, "do you

allow such things?"

"It is Preston's manner of asking my pardon, Captain

Drummond," Daisy answered, looking a little troubled, but in

her slow, womanly way. The Captain could not help laughing in

his turn.

"What offence has he been guilty of? — tell me, and I will

make him ask pardon in another manner. But, Daisy, do you

reckon such a liberty no offence?"

"Not if I am willing he should take it," said Daisy.

The Captain seemed much amused. "My dear little lady!" he

said, "it is good for me you are not half a score of years

wiser. What were you talking about the Crimea? — I heard the

word as I came up."

"I asked Preston to show it to me on the map — or he said he

would."

"Come with me, and I'll do it. You shouldn't ask anybody but

me about the Crimea."

So getting hold affectionately of Daisy's hand, he and she

went off to the house. No one was in the library. The Captain

opened a large map of Russia; Daisy got up in a chair, with

her elbows on the great library table, and leaned over it,

while the Captain drew up another chair and pointed out the

Crimea and Sebastopol, and showed the course by which the

English ships had come, for Daisy took care to ask that. Then,

finding so earnest a listener, he went on to describe to her

the situation of other places on the Peninsula, and the

character of the country, and the severities of the climate in

the region of the great struggle. Daisy listened, with her

eyes varying between Captain Drummond's face and the map. The

Black Sea became known to Daisy thence and forever.

"I never thought geography was so interesting!" she remarked

with a sigh, as the Captain paused. He smiled.

"Now, Daisy, you have something to tell me," he said.

"What?" said Daisy, looking up suddenly.

"Why, you wanted to know about soldiers — don't you remember

your promise?"

The child's face all changed; her busy, eager, animated look

became on the instant thoughtful and still. Yet changed, as

the Captain saw with some curiosity, not to lesser but to

greater intentness.

"Well, Daisy?"

"Captain Drummond, if I tell you, I do not wish it talked

about."

"Certainly not!" he said, suppressing a smile, and watched her

while she got down from her chair and looked about among the

book-shelves.

"Will you please put this on the table for me?" she said — "I

can't lift it."

"A Bible!" said the Captain to himself. "This is growing

serious." But he carried the great quarto silently and placed

it on the table. It was a very large volume, fall of

magnificent engravings, which were the sole cause and

explanation of its finding a place in Mr. Randolph's library.

He put it on the table and watched Daisy curiously, who,

disregarding all the pictures, turned over the leaves

hurriedly, till near the end of the book; then stopped, put

her little finger under some words, and turned to him. The

Captain looked and read — over the little finger — "Thou

therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."

It gave the Captain a very odd feeling. He stopped, and read

it two or three times over.

"But Daisy!" — he said.

"What, Captain Drummond?"

"What has this to do with what we were talking about?"

"Would you please shut this up and put it away, first."

The Captain obeyed, and as he turned from the bookshelves

Daisy took his hand again, and drew him, child-fashion, out of

the house and through the shrubbery. He let her alone till she

had brought him to a shady spot, where, under the thick growth

of magnificent trees a rustic seat stood, in full view of the

distant mountains and the river.

"Where is my answer, Daisy?" he said, as she let go his hand

and seated herself.

"What was your question, Captain Drummond?"

"Now you are playing hide and seek with me. What have those

words you showed me, — what have they to do with our

yesterday's conversation?"

"I would like to know," said Daisy, slowly, "what it means, to

be a good soldier?"

"Why?"

"I think I have told you," she said.

She said it with the most unmoved simplicity. The Captain

could not imagine what made him feel uncomfortable. He

whistled.

"Daisy, you are incomprehensible!" he exclaimed, and, catching

hold of her hand, he began a race down towards the river. Such

a race as they had taken the day before. Through shade and

through sun, down grassy steeps and up again, flying among the

trees as if some one were after them, the Captain ran; and

Daisy was pulled along with him. At the edge of the woods

which crowned the river bank, he stopped and looked at Daisy

who was all flushed and sparkling with exertion and merriment.

"Sit down there!" said he, putting her on the bank and

throwing himself beside her. "Now you look as you ought to

look!"

"I don't think mamma would think so," said Daisy, panting and

laughing.

"Yes, she would. Now tell me — do you call yourself a

soldier?"

"I don't know whether there can be such little soldiers," said

Daisy. "If there can be, I am."

"And what fighting do you expect to do, little one?"

"I don't know," said Daisy. "Not very well."

"What enemies are you going to face?"

But Daisy only looked rather hard at the Captain, and made him

no answer.

"Do you expect to emulate the charge of the Light Brigade, in

some tilt against fancied wrong?"

Daisy looked at her friend; she did not quite understand him,

but his last words were intelligible.

"I don't know," she said, meekly. "But if I do, it will not be

because the order is a _mistake_, Captain Drummond."

The Captain bit his lip. "Daisy," said he, "are you the only

soldier in the family?"

Daisy sat still, looking up over the sunny slopes of ground

towards the house.

The sunbeams showed it bright and stately on the higher

ground; they poured over a rich luxuriant spread of greensward

and trees, highly kept; stately and fair; and Daisy could not

help remembering that in all that domain, so far as she knew,

there was not a thought in any heart of being the sort of

soldier she wished to be. She got up from the ground and

smoothed her dress down.

"Captain Drummond," she said, with a grave dignity that was at

the same time perfectly childish too, — "I have told you about

myself — I can't tell you about other people."

"Daisy, you are not angry with me!"

"No, sir."

"Don't you sometimes permit other people to ask your pardon in

Preston Gary's way?"

Daisy was about to give a quiet negative to this proposal,

when perceiving more mischief in the Captain's face than might

be manageable, she pulled away her hand from him, and dashed

off like a deer. The Captain was wiser than to follow.

Later in the day, which turned out a very warm one, he and

Gary McFarlane went down again to the edge of the bank, hoping

to get if they could a taste of the river breeze. Lying there

stretched out under the trees, after a little while they heard

voices. The voices were down on the shore. Gary moved his

position to look.

"It's that child — what under the sun is she doing! I beg

pardon for naming anything warm just now, Drummond — but she

is building fortifications of some sort, down there."

Captain Drummond came forward too. Down below them, a little

to the right, where a tiny bend in the shore made a spot of

shade, Daisy was crouching on the ground apparently very busy.

Back of her a few paces was her dark attendant, June.

"There's energy," said Gary. "What a nice thing it is to be a

child and play in the sand!"

The talk down on the shore went on; June's voice could

scarcely be heard, but Daisy's words were clear — "Do, June!

Please try." Another murmur from June, and then Daisy — "Try,

June — do, please!" The little voice was soft, but its

utterances were distinct; the words could be heard quite

plainly. And Daisy sat back from her sand-work, and June began

to sing something. _What_, it would have been difficult to tell

at the top of the bank, but then Daisy's voice struck in. With

no knowledge that she had listeners, the notes came mounting

up to the top of the bank, clear, joyous and strong, with a

sweet power that nobody knew Daisy's voice had.

"Upon my word, that's pretty!" said the Captain.

"A pretty thing, too, faith," said Gary. "Captain, let's get

nearer the performers. Look out, now, and don't strike to

windward."

They went, like hunters, softly down the bank, keeping under

shelter, and winding round so as to get near before they

should be seen. They succeeded. Daisy was intent upon her

sand-work again, and June's back was towards them. The song

went on more softly; then in a chorus Daisy's voice rang out

again, and the words were plain.

"Die in the field of battle,

Die in the field of battle,

Die in the field of battle,

Glory in your view."

"Spirited!" whispered Gary.

"I almost think it is a Swedish war song," said the Captain.

"I am not sure."

"Miss Daisy!" — said June — "the gentlemen —"

Daisy started up. The intruders came near. On the ground

beside her lay an open map of Europe; in the sand before her

she had drawn the same outlines on a larger scale. The shore

generally was rough and pebbly; just in this little cove there

was a space of very fine sand, left wetted and adhesive by the

last tide. Here the battle of Inkermann had been fought, and

here Daisy's geography was going on. Captain Drummond, who

alone had the clue to all this, sat down on a convenient stone

to examine the work. The lines were pretty fairly drawn, and

Daisy had gone on to excavate to some depth the whole area of

the Mediterranean and Black Seas, and the region of the

Atlantic to some extent; with the course of the larger rivers

deeply indented.

"What is all this gouging for, Daisy?" he said. "You want

water here now, to fill up."

"I thought when the tide came, Captain Drummond, I could let

it flow in here, and see how it would look."

"It's a poor rule that don't work both ways," said the

Captain. "I always heard that 'time and tide wait for no man;'

and we won't wait for the tide. Here Gary — make yourself

useful — fetch some water here; — enough to fill two seas and

a portion of the Atlantic Ocean."

"What shall I bring it in, if you please?"

"Anything! — your hands, or your hat, man. Do impossibilities

for once. It is easy to see you are not a soldier."

"The fates preserve me from being a soldier under you!" said

Gary — "if that's your idea of military duty! What are you

going to do while I play Neptune in a bucket."

"I am going to build cities and raise up mountains. Daisy,

suppose we lay in a supply of these little white stones, and

some black ones."

While this was done, and Daisy looked delighted, Mr. McFarlane

seized upon a tin dipper which June had brought, and filled it

at the river. Captain Drummond carefully poured out the water

into the Mediterranean, and opened a channel through the

Bosphorus and Dardanelles, which were very full of sand, into

the Black Sea. Then he sent Gary off again for more; and began

placing the pebbles.

"What is that for, Captain Drummond?" asked Daisy.

"These are the Alps — white, as they should be, for the snow

always lies on them."

"Is it so cold there?"

"No, — but the mountains are so high. Their tops are always

cold, but flowers grow down in the valleys. These are very

great mountains, Daisy."

"And what are those black ones, Captain Drummond?"

"This range is the Pyrénées — between France and Spain; — they

are great too, and beautiful. And here go the Carpathians —

and here the Ural mountains, — and these must stand for the

Apennines."

"Are they beautiful too?"

"I suppose so — but I can't say, never having been there. Now

what shall we do for the cities? As they are centres of

wealth, I think a three-cent piece must mark them. Hand over,

Gary; I have not thrips enough. There is St. Petersburg — here

is Constantinople — here is Rome — now here is Paris. Hallo!

we've no England! can't leave London out. Give me that spoon,

Daisy —" and the Captain, as he expressed it, went to work in

the trenches. England was duly marked out, the channel filled,

and a bit of silver planted for the metropolis of the world.

"Upon my word!" said Gary, — "I never knew geography before. I

shall carry away some ideas."

"Keep all you can get," said the Captain. "Now, there's

Europe."

"And here were the battles," — said Daisy, touching the little

spot of wet sand which stood for the Crimea.

"_The_ battles!" said Gary. "What battles?"

"Why, where the English and French fought the Russians."

"_The_ battles! Shades of all the heroes! Why, Daisy, Europe has

done nothing but fight for a hundred thousand years. There

isn't a half inch of it that hasn't had a battle. See, _there_

was one, — and there was another — tremendous; — and there, —

and there, — and there, — and there, — and all over! This

little strip here that is getting swallowed up in the

Mediterranean — there has been blood enough shed on it to make

it red from one end to the other, a foot deep. That's because

it has had so many great men belonging to it."

Daisy looked at Captain Drummond.

"It's pretty much so, Daisy," he said; "all over the south of

Europe, at any rate."

"Why over the south and not the north?"

"People in the north haven't anything to fight for," said

Gary. "Nobody wants a possession of ice and snow — more than

will cool his butter."

"A good deal so, Daisy," said Captain Drummond, taking the

silent appeal of her eyes.

"Besides," continued Gary, "great men don't grow in the north.

Daisy, I want to know which is the battle-field you are going

to die on."

Daisy sat back from the map of Europe, and looked at Gary with

unqualified amazement.

"Well?" said Gary. "I mean it."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I hear you are going to die on the field of battle — and I

want to be there that I may throw myself after you, as Douglas

did after the Bruce's locket; saying 'Go thou first, brave

heart, as thou art wont, and I will follow thee!' "

"Daisy," said the Captain, "you were singing a battle-song as

we came down the hill — that is what he means."

"Oh! —" said Daisy, her face changing from its amazed look.

But her colour rose, too, a little.

"What was it?"

"That?" said Daisy. "Oh, that was a hymn."

"A hymn!" shouted Gary. "Good! A hymn! That's glorious! Where

did you get it, Daisy? Have you got a collection of Swedish

war-songs? They used to sing and fight together, I am told.

They are the only people I ever heard of that did — except

North American Indians. Where did you get it?"

"I got it from June."

"June! what, by inspiration? June is a fine month, I know —

for strawberries — but I had no idea —"

"No, no," said Daisy, half laughing, — "I mean my June — there

she is; I got it from her."

"Hollo!" cried Gary. "Come here, my good woman — Powers of

Darkness! Is your name June?"

"Yes sir, if you please," the woman said, in her low voice,

dropping a courtesy.

"Well, nobody offers more attractions — in a name," said Gary;

— "I'll say that for you. Where did you get that song your

little mistress was singing when we came down the hill? Can

you sing it?"

June's reply was unintelligible.

"Speak louder, my friend. What did you say?"

June made an effort. "If you please, sir, I can't sing," she

was understood to say. "They sings it in camp meeting."

"In camp meeting!" said Gary. "I should think so! What's that!

You see I have never been there, and don't understand."

"If you please, sir — the gentleman knows" — June said,

retreating backwards as she spoke, and so fast that she soon

got out of their neighbourhood. The shrinking, gliding action

accorded perfectly with the smothered tones and subdued face

of the woman.

"Don't _she_ know!" said Gary. "Isn't that a character now? But,

Daisy, are you turning Puritan?"

"I don't know what that is," said Daisy.

"Upon my word, you look like it! It's a dreadful disease,

Daisy; — generally takes the form of — I declare I don't know!

— fever, I believe, and delirium; and singing is one of the

symptoms."

"You don't want to stop her singing?" said Captain Drummond.

"That sort? yes I do. It wouldn't be healthy, up at the house.

Daisy, sing that gipsy-song from 'The Camp in Silesia,' that I

heard you singing a day or two ago."

" 'The Camp in Silesia'?" said Captain Drummond. "Daisy, can

you sing _that?_"

"Whistles it off like a gipsy herself," said Gary. "Daisy,

sing it."

"I like the other best," said Daisy.

But neither teasing nor coaxing could make her sing again,

either the one or the other.

CHAPTER IX.

AFTER TROUT.

It was bright morning, the pony-chaise at the door, and Daisy

in it; standing to arrange matters.

"Now, Daisy, have you got all in there? I don't believe it."

"Why don't you believe it?"

"How much will that concern hold?"

"A great deal more than you want. There's a big box under all

the seat."

"What have you got in it?"

Daisy went off into a laugh, such a laugh of glee as did her

father's heart good. Mr. Randolph was standing in the doorway

to see the expedition set forward.

"What's the matter, Daisy?" he said.

"Papa, he don't think anybody is a person of forethought but

himself."

It was Preston's turn to laugh, and Mr. Randolph joined him.

"Shows he don't know you, Daisy, as well as I do. When do you

expect to be home again?"

Mr. Randolph had come down to the side of the chaise, and was

looking with a very pleased face at what was in it. Daisy said

she supposed they would stay till Preston had caught as many

fish as he wanted.

"And won't you be tired before that?"

"Oh, no, papa! I am going to fish too."

"I'll have all you catch, Daisy, — for my own eating!"

He bent his head down as he spoke, to kiss the little

fisherwoman; but Daisy, answering some unusual tenderness of

face or manner, sprung up and threw her arms round his neck,

and only released him after a very close pressure.

"She is in a fair way to be cured of her morbid seriousness,"

— Mr. Randolph thought as he saw the cavalcade set forth; and,

well pleased, he went in to breakfast. Daisy and Preston had

breakfasted already, before the family; and now were off to

the hills just as other people were stirring sugar into cups

of coffee.

Preston led the way on a fine bay of his uncle's; taking good

gallops now and then to ease his own and his horse's spirits,

and returning to go quietly for a space by the side of the

pony-chaise. Loupe never went into anything more exciting than

his waddling trot; though Daisy made him keep that up briskly.

"What a thing it is, to have such short legs!" said Preston,

watching the movements of the pony.

"_You_ go over the road without seeing it," said Daisy.

"I don't want to see it. What I want to see is Hillsdale."

"So do I; but I want to see everything."

Preston smiled, he could not help it, at the very happy and

busy little face and spirit down in the pony-chaise.

"What do you see, Daisy, that you have not seen a hundred

times before?"

"That makes no difference," said Daisy. "I have seen you a

hundred times before."

Preston laughed, set spurs to his horse, and went off for

another gallop.

Daisy enjoyed her morning's drive. The light was clear and the

air was fresh; Preston galloping before and Sam jogging on

behind; everything was fine! Then it was quite true that she

liked to see everything; those grey eyes of hers were

extremely busy. All the work going on in the fields had

interest for her, and all the passers-by on the road. — A

strange interest, often, for Daisy was very apt to be

wondering whether any of them knew and loved the name she

loved best; wondering who among all those rough-looking,

unknown people, might be her fellow-servants. And with that a

thought which, if Mr. Randolph had known it, would have

checked his self-congratulations. He had not guessed what made

the clasp of Daisy's arms round his neck so close that

morning.

Till they passed through Crum Elbow everything had been, as

Preston said, seen a hundred times before. A little way beyond

that everything became new. Mrs. Randolph's carriage never

came that road. The country grew more rough and broken, and

the hills in their woody dress showed more and more near.

"Do you see that break in the woods?" said Preston, pointing

with his whip; "that is where the brook comes out, — that is

where we are going."

"What time is it, Preston?"

"Time? — it is half past nine. What about it?"

"I'm hungry — that's all. I wanted to know what time it was."

"Hungry! Oh, what a fisher you will make, Daisy! Can't stand

fasting for two hours and a half."

"No, but Preston, I didn't eat much breakfast. And I've had

all this ride since. I am going to stand fasting; but I am

going to be hungry too."

"No, you aren't," said Preston. "Just let Loupe take you up to

that little gate, will you? I'll see if we can leave the

horses here. Sam! — take this fellow!"

Preston jumped down from the saddle and went into the house,

to the front yard of which the little gate opened. Daisy

looked after him. It was a yard full of grass and weeds, among

which a few poppies and hollyhocks and balsams grew straggling

up where they could. Nothing kept them out of the path but the

foot-tread of the people that went over it; hoe and rake were

never known there since the walk was first made. The house was

a little, low, red-front house, with one small window on each

side the door.

"All right!" said Preston, coming back. "Sam, take the horses

round to the barn; and bring the baskets out of the chaise-

box, and wait at this gate for us."

"Why is he to wait? where are we going?"

"Going in to get some breakfast."

"_Here_, Preston? — Oh, I can't."

"What's the matter?"

"I can't eat anything in there. I can wait."

"Why, it looks clean," said Preston; "room and table and woman

and all." — But Daisy still shook her head, and was not to be

persuaded; and Preston, laughing, went back to the house. But

presently he came out again, bearing a tray in his hand, and

brought it to Daisy. On the tray was very nice looking brown

and white bread, and milk and cheese and a platter of

strawberries. Preston got into the chaise and set the tray on

his knees. After him had come from the house a woman in a fly-

away cap and short-gown. She stood just inside the gate,

leaning her arms on it. If she had not been there, perhaps

Daisy would still have refused to touch the food; but she was

afraid of offending or hurting the woman's feelings; so first

she tried a strawberry, and found it of rare flavour; for it

was a wild one; then she broke a morsel of bread, and that was

excellent. Daisy discovered that breakfast in a pony-chaise,

out in the air, was a very fine thing. So did Preston.

"So you're agoin' afishin'?" said the woman at the gate.

"Yes, ma'am," Preston said.

"And that little one too?"

"Certainly."

"I declare! I never see nobody so little and gauzy as was

willin' to do such indelicate work! But I shouldn't wonder,

now, if she was to catch some. Fishes — and all things — is

curious creeturs, and goes by contrairies."

"Hope they won't to-day!" said Preston, who was eating

strawberries and bread and milk at a great rate.

"Where's the rest of your party?" the woman went on.

"We're all here, ma'am," said Preston.

"Well, I see a horse there that haint nobody on top of him?"

"I was on top of him a little while ago," said Preston.

"Well, I expect that little creetur hain't druv herself?"

"Drove the pony, anyhow," said Preston. "Now, ma'am, what do

we owe you, besides thanks, for your excellent hospitality?"

"I reckon you don't owe me much," said the woman, as Preston

got out of the chaise. "You can set the tray in there on the

table, if you're a mind to. We always calculate to set a good

meal, and we're allowed to; but we don't never calculate to

live by it, and we've no dispensary. There's only my husband

and me, and there's a plenty for more than us."

Preston had handed the tray to Sam to carry in, and as soon as

he could get a chance bade good morning, and went forward with

Daisy. On foot now they took their way to the woods, and

presently plunged into then. It was very pleasant under the

deep shade, for the sun had grown warm, and there was hardly

air enough to flutter the leaves in the high branches. But

Daisy and Preston pushed on briskly, and soon the gurgle of

the brook gave its sweet sound to their ears. They followed up

the stream then, over stones and rocks, and crossing from side

to side on trunks of trees that had fallen across the water;

till a part of the brook was reached far enough back among the

hills to be wild and lonely; where the trout might be supposed

to be having a good time.

"Now, Daisy," said Preston, "I think this will do. Can't have

a better place. I'll try and get you to work here."

"And now, how must I manage, Preston?" said Daisy, anxiously.

"I'll show you."

Daisy watched while Preston took out and put together the

light rod which she was to use, and fixed a fly for the bait.

"Do you see that little waterfall, Daisy?"

"Yes."

"And you see where the water curls round just under the fall?"

"Yes."

"That is where you must cast your fly. I should think there

must be some speckled fellows there. What glory, Daisy, if you

should catch one!"

"Well, what must I do, Preston?"

"Throw your fly over, so that it may light just there, and

then watch; and if a fish jumps up and catches it, you pull

your line away and catch the fish."

"But I can't throw it from here? I must go nearer."

"No, you mustn't — you're near enough; stand just here. Try if

you can't throw your fly there. If you went nearer, you would

frighten the fish. They are just about as shy as if they were

Daisies. Now I will go a little further off, and see what I

can do. You'll catch the first fish!"

"No, I shall not," said Daisy, gravely. She tried with a

beating heart to throw her line; she tried very hard. The

first time it landed on the opposite side of the brook. The

next time it landed on a big stone this side of the waterfall.

The third trial fastened the hook firmly in Daisy's hat. In

vain Daisy gently sought to release it; she was obliged at

last to ask help of Sam.

"That ar's no good, Miss Daisy," said Sam, as he got the fly

out of its difficulty.

"If I could only throw it in," said Daisy. And this time, with

a very great effort she did succeed in swinging the bait by a

gentle motion to the very spot. No statue was more motionless

than Daisy then. She had eyes and ears for nothing but the

trout in the brook. Minutes went by. The brook leaped and sang

on its way the air brought the sweet odours of mosses and

ferns; the leaves flapped idly overhead; you could hear every

little sound. For there sat Daisy, and there stood Sam, as

still as the stones. Time went by. At last a sigh came from

Daisy's weary little body, which she had not dared to move an

inch for half an hour.

"Tain't no good, Miss Daisy," whispered Sam.

"I can't keep it still," said Daisy, under her breath, as if

the fishes would hear and understand her.

"Suppos'n you try t'other bait, Miss Daisy."

"What bait?"

"Oh, t'other kind, Miss Daisy. Will I put it on for you to

try?"

Daisy sat awhile longer, however, in silence and watching,

until every joint was weary and her patience too. Then she

left the rod in Sam's hands, and went up to see what Preston

was doing. He was some distance higher up the stream. Slowly

and carefully Daisy crept near, till she could see his basket,

and find out how much he had in it. That view loosed her

tongue.

"Not one yet, Preston!" she exclaimed.

"Not a bite," said Preston.

"I hadn't either."

"I don't believe that there are any fish," said Preston.

"Oh, but Sam said he saw lots of them."

"Lots of them! It's the flies then. Sam! — Hollo, Sam! — Sam!

—"

"Here, sir," said Sam, coming up the brook.

"Just find me some worms, will you? — and be spry. I can't get

a bite."

Daisy sat down to look about her, while Preston drew in his

line and threw the fly away. It was a pretty place! The brook

spread just there into a round pool several feet across; deep

and still; and above it the great trees towered up as if they

would hide the sun. Sam came presently with the bait. Preston

dressed his hook, and gave his line a swing, to cast the bait

into the pool; rather incautiously, seeing that the trees

stood so thick and so near. Accordingly the line lodged in the

high branches of an oak on the opposite side of the pool.

Neither was there any coaxing it down.

"What a pity!" said Daisy.

"Not at all," said Preston. "Here, Sam — just go up that tree

and clear the line — will you?"

Sam looked at the straight high stem of the oak, which had

shot up high before it put forth a single branch, and he did

not like the job. His slow motions said so.

"Come!" said Preston, — "be alive and do it quick, will you."

"He can't —" said Daisy.

"Yes, he can," said Preston. "If he can't, he isn't worth his

bread and salt. That's it, Sam — hand over hand, and you'll be

there directly."

Sam showed what he _could_ do, if he did not like it; for he

worked himself up the tall tree like a monkey. It was not so

large but he could clasp it; so after a little rough work on

his part, and anxious watching on Daisy's, he got to the

branches. But now the line was caught in the small forks at

the leafy end of the branch. Sam lay out upon it as far as he

dared; he could not reach the line.

"Oh, he'll fall!" cried Daisy, softly. "Oh, Preston, let him

come down! — he can't get it."

"He'll come to no harm," said Preston, coolly. "A little

further, Sam — it's oak wood, it will hold you; a little

further, and you will have it — a little further! —"

And Daisy saw that Sam had gone too far. The bough swayed, —

Sam made a lunge after the line, lost his hold, and the next

minute his dark body was falling through the air and splashed

into the pool. The water flew all over the two fishers who

stood by its side; Preston awe-struck for the moment, Daisy

white as death. But before either of them could speak or move,

Sam's head reappeared above water.

"Oh, get him out! get him out, Preston!" was Daisy's

distressed cry. Preston spoke nothing, but he snatched a long

stick that lay near, and held it out to Sam; and so in a few

minutes drew him to the shore and helped him out. Sam went to

a little distance and stood dripping with water from head to

foot; he did not shake himself, as a Newfoundland dog would

have done.

"Are you hurt, Sam?" said Preston.

"No, sir —" Sam answered, in a tone as if he felt very wet.

"Well, you've cleared the line for me at last," said Preston.

"All's well that ends well. Hollo! — here's my hook gone, —

broken off, float and all. Where's that basket, Sam?"

"It's below, sir."

"Below? where? just fetch it here, will you? This misfortune

can be mended."

Sam moved off, dripping from every inch of him.

"Oh, Preston," said Daisy, "he's all wet as he can be — do let

him go right down to that house and dry himself! We can get

the basket."

"Do him good to move about," said Preston. "Nonsense, Daisy! —

a ducking like that won't do anybody any harm in a summer's

day."

"I don't think _you'd_ like it," said Daisy; "and all his

clothes are full of water, and the sun don't come down here.

Tell him to go and get dry!"

"I will, as soon as I've done with him. Here, Sam — just bend

on this hook for me, while I see how the brook is further up.

I've no time to lose, — and then you can go sun yourself

somewhere."

Preston bounded off; Sam stood with the tackle in hand,

silently at work. Daisy sat still on a stone near by, looking

at him.

"Were you hurt, Sam?" she asked, tenderly.

"No, Miss Daisy." This answer was not discontented, but

stoical.

"As soon as you have done that, Sam, run down to Mrs.

Dipper's, and maybe she can give you something dry to put on

while your clothes can be hung out."

Silence on Sam's part.

"Have you almost finished that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then run off, Sam! Make haste to Mrs. Dipper's and get

yourself dry — and don't come back till you are quite dry,

Sam."

Sam finished his piece of work, flung down the line, and with

a grateful "Thank you, Miss Daisy!" set off at a bound. Daisy

watched him running at full speed down the brook till he was

out of sight.

"Has he done it?" said Preston returning. "The rascal hasn't

put any bait on. However, Daisy, it's no use coaxing the trout

in _this_ place at present — and I haven't found any other good

spots for some distance up; — suppose we have our lunch and

try again?"

"Oh, yes!" said Daisy. "The other basket is down by my

fishing-place — it's just as pleasant there, Preston."

They went back to the basket, and a very convenient huge rock

was found on the edge of the brook, which would serve for

table and seats too, it was so large and smooth. Preston took

his place upon it, and Daisy at the other end with the basket

began to unpack.

"Napkins?" said Preston — "you have no right to be so

luxurious on a fishing party."

"Why not?"

"Why, because a fisher is a kind of a Spartan animal, while he

is about his business."

"What kind of an animal is that?" said Daisy, looking up from

her arrangements.

She had set out a plate of delicate rolls, and another with

bread and butter folded in a napkin; and still she paused with

her hand in the basket.

"Go on, Daisy. I want to see what comes next."

"I don't know," said Daisy. "Why, Joanna has made us a lemon

pie!"

"Capital!" said Preston. "And what have you got in that dish?"

"I know," said Daisy. "Joanna has put in some jelly for me.

What sort of an animal is that, Preston?"

"It is a sort I shall not be to-day — with jelly and lemon

pie. But what has Joanna put in for me? nothing but bread?"

"Why, there are sandwiches."

"Where?"

"Why, there! Those rolls are stuffed with meat, Preston."

"Splendid!" said Preston, falling foul of the rolls

immediately. "What sort of an animal is a Spartan? My dear

little Daisy, don't you know?"

"I don't believe I know anything," said Daisy, humbly.

"Don't you want to?"

"Oh, yes, Preston! if I had anybody to help me, — I do."

"Well — we'll see. How perfect these sandwiches are! when

one's hungry."

"I am hungry too," said Daisy. "I think the sound of the water

makes me hungry. Oh, I wish I had given Sam some! — I never

thought of it. How hungry he must be!"

"He'll get along," said Preston, helping himself to another

roll.

"But how could I forget!" said Daisy. "And _he_ did not have a

second breakfast either. I am so sorry!" Daisy's hands fell

from her own dainties.

"There is nothing here fit for him," said Preston. "I dare say

he has his own pockets full."

"They were full of water, the last thing," said Daisy,

quaintly.

Preston could not help laughing. "My dear Daisy," he said, "I

hope you are not getting soft-hearted on the subject of

servants?"

"How, Preston?"

"Don't; — because it is foolish."

"But, Preston," said Daisy, looking earnestly at his handsome

pleasant face which she liked very much, "don't you know what

the Bible says?"

"No."

"It says, 'The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is

the maker of them all.' "

"Well," said Preston, "that don't mean that He made them all

alike."

"Then, if they are not made alike, what is the difference?"

"Good gracious!" said Preston; "do you often ask such

questions, Daisy? I hope you are not going to turn out a Mrs.

Child, or a philanthropist, or anything of that sort?"

"I am not going to be a Mrs. Anybody," said Daisy; "but why

don't you answer me?"

"Where did you get hold of those words?"

"What words?"

"Those words that you quoted to me about rich and poor."

"I was reading them this morning."

"In what?"

"Why, in the Bible of course," said Daisy, with a little check

upon her manner.

"This morning! Before we started! How came you to be reading

the Bible so early in the morning?"

"I like to read it."

"Well, I'd take proper times for reading it," said Preston.

"Who set you to reading it at five o'clock in the morning?"

"Nobody. Oh, Preston, it was a great deal after five o'clock.

What are proper times for reading it?"

"Are you going to cut that lemon pie? — or shall I? Daisy, I

thought you were hungry. What is the use of jelly, if you

don't eat it? You'll never catch fish at that rate. Fishers

must eat."

"But, Preston, what do you mean by proper times for reading

the Bible?"

"Daisy, eat some lemon pie. It's capital. It melts in your

mouth. Joanna Underwood is an excellent woman!"

"But, Preston, what do you mean?"

"I don't mean you shall be religious, Daisy, if I can help

it."

"What do you mean by being religious?"

"I declare!" said Preston, laughing at her grave little face,

"I believe you've begun already. I am come in good time. I

won't let you be anything but just what you ought to be,

Daisy. Come — eat some jelly, or some pie, or something."

"But, tell me then, Preston!" Daisy persisted.

"It is something ridiculous, — and you would not wish to be

ridiculous."

"I do not think I have ever seen ridiculous religious people,"

said Daisy, steadily; "and they couldn't be ridiculous _because_

they were religious."

"Couldn't they?" said Preston. "Look out well, Daisy — I shall

watch you. But they won't like it much down at Melbourne

House, Daisy. If I were you, I would stop before you begin."

Daisy was silent. One thing was clear, she and Preston were at

issue; and the value she set upon his favour was very high.

She would not risk it by contending. Another thing was as

clear, that Preston's last words were truth. Among her

opposers, Daisy must reckon her father and mother, if she laid

herself open at all to the charge of being "religious." And

what opposition that would be, Daisy did not let herself

think. She shrunk from it. The lunch was finished, and she set

her attention to pack the remainder of the things back into

the basket. Suddenly she stopped.

"Preston, I wish you to consider my words confidential."

"Perfectly!" said Preston.

"You are honourable," — said Daisy.

"Oh, Daisy, Daisy! you ought to have lived hundreds of years

ago! You have me under command. Come," said he, kissing her

grave little face, "are all these things to go in here? Let me

help — and then we will go up stream."

He helped her with a delicate kind of observance which was not

like most boys of sixteen, and which Daisy fully relished. It

met her notions. Then she went to get her fishing-rod which

lay fallen into the water.

"Oh, Preston!" she exclaimed, "there is something on it! —

it's heavy! — it's a fish!"

"It _is_ a fish!" repeated Preston, as a jerk of Daisy's line

threw it out high and dry on the shore — "and what's more,

it's a splendid one. Daisy, you've done it now!"

"And papa will have it for breakfast! Preston, put it in a

pail of water till we come back. There's that tin pail — we

don't want it for anything — won't you. Oh, I have caught

one!"

It was done; and Daisy and Preston set off on a charming walk

up the brook; but though they tried the virtue of their bait

in various places, however it was, that trout was the only one

caught. Daisy thought it was a fine day's fishing.

They found Sam, sound and dry, mounting guard over the tin

pail when they came back to it. And I think Daisy held to her

own understanding of the text that had been in debate; for

there was a fine portion of lemon pie, jelly, and sandwiches,

laid by for him in the basket, and by Sam devoured with great

appreciation.

CHAPTER X.

A FIELD OF BATTLE.

June came the next morning to dress her young mistress as

usual. Daisy was not soon done with that business on this

particular day; she would break off, half dressed, and go to

lean out of her window. There was a honey-suckle below the

window; its dewy sweet smell came up to her, and the breath of

the morning was sweet beside in all the trees and leaves

around; the sun shone on the short turf by glimpses, where the

trees would let it. Daisy leaned out of her window. June stood

as often before, with comb and brush in hand.

"Miss Daisy — it's late."

"June," said Daisy, — "it's Sunday."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It'll be hot too," Daisy went on. "June, are you glad when

Sunday comes?"

"Yes ma'am," said June, shifting her position a little.

"I am," said Daisy. "Jesus is King to-day. To be sure, He is

King always; but to-day _everything_ is His."

"Miss Daisy, you won't be dressed."

Daisy drew her head in from the window, and sat down to submit

it to June's brush; but she went on talking.

"What part of the Bible do you like best to read, June."

"Miss Daisy, will you wear your white muslin to-day — or the

one with blue spots?"

"White. But tell me, June — which part of the Bible do you

like best?"

"I like where it tells about all they had to go through," —

June answered, rather unwillingly.

"They? — who?"

"The people, Miss Daisy — Christians, I s'pose."

"What did they have to go through?"

"Things, ma'am," said June, very confusedly. "Miss Daisy,

please don't turn your head round."

"But what things? and what for? Where is it, June?"

"I can't tell — I can find it for you, Miss Daisy. But you

won't be ready."

June, however, had to risk that and find the chapter; and then

Daisy read perseveringly all through the rest of her dressing,

till it was finished. All the while June was fastening her

frock, and tying her sash, and lacing her boots, Daisy stood

or sat with the Bible in her hands and her eyes on the

eleventh of Hebrews.

"June, I wonder when all this happened?"

"A great while ago, it's likely, Miss Daisy — but it's good to

read now" — June added, but half distinctly, as it was her

manner often to speak. Daisy was accustomed to her, and heard

it. She did not answer except by breaking out into the chorus

she had learnt from June: —

"Die in the field of battle,

Die in the field of battle,

Die in the field of battle,

Glory in your view!"

"Miss Daisy — I wouldn't sing that in the house," June

ventured. For the child's voice, clear and full, raised the

sweet notes to a pitch that might have been heard at least

through several of the large rooms. Daisy hushed her song.

The trout was to be for breakfast, and Daisy, when she was

quite ready, went gaily down to see if it would be approved.

Her father was engaged to eat it all, and he held to his

promise; only allowing Daisy herself to share with him; and on

the whole Daisy and he had a very gay breakfast.

"It is too hot to do anything," said Mrs. Randolph, as the

trout was very nearly reduced to a skeleton. "I shall not go

to church this morning."

A shade passed over Daisy's face, but she did not look towards

her mother.

"If you do not, I can't see why I should," said Mr. Randolph.

"The burden of setting a good example lies upon you."

"Why?" said his wife, quickly.

"Nobody will know whether _I_ am there or not."

"Nobody will know that I am there at any rate," the lady

rejoined. "The heat will be insufferable." Mrs. Gary declared

herself of the same opinion.

An hour after, Daisy came into her mother's room.

"Mamma, may I go to church with Joanna?"

"It's too hot, Daisy."

"No, mamma — I don't mind it. I would like to go."

"Children don't mind anything! Please yourself. But how are

you going?"

"On foot, mamma; under the shade of the trees. It is nice and

shady, all the way."

"It is enough to kill you! But go."

So Daisy's great flat set off alongside of Miss Underwood's

Sunday gown to walk to church. They set out all right, on the

way to the church by the evergreens. Preston Gary was a good

deal surprised to find them some time later in another part of

the grounds, and going in a different direction.

"Where are you bound, Daisy." he asked.

"To church, Preston."

"Church is the other way."

"Yes, but Mr. Pyne is sick, and the church is closed, and we

are going over to that little church on the other side of the

road."

"Why, that is a dissenting chapel, isn't it?"

"There's no more dissent amongst 'em than there is among other

folks!" broke in Miss Underwood, with a good deal of

expression. "I wish all other folks and churches was as

peaceable and kept as close to their business! Anyhow, it's a

church, and the other one won't let us in."

Preston smiled and stepped back, and to Daisy's satisfaction

they met with no further stay. They got to the little church,

and took their places in the very front; that place was empty,

and Joanna said it was the only one that she could see. The

house was full. It was a plain little church, very neat, but

very plain compared with what Daisy was accustomed to. So were

the people. These were not rich people, not any of them, she

thought. At least there were no costly bonnets, nor exquisite

lace shawls, nor embroidered muslin dresses among them; and

many persons that she saw looked absolutely poor. Daisy,

however, did not see this at first; for the service began

almost as soon as they entered.

Daisy was very fond of the prayers always in church, but she

seldom could make much of the sermon. It was not so to-day. In

the first place, when the prayers and hymns were over, and

what Daisy called "the good part" of the service was done, her

astonishment and delight were about equal to see Mr. Dinwiddie

come forward to speak. It is impossible to tell how glad Daisy

was; even a sermon she thought she could relish from his lips;

but when he began, she forgot all about it's being a sermon.

Mr. Dinwiddie was talking to her and to the rest of the

people; that was all she knew; he was not looking down at his

book, he was looking at them; his eyes were going right

through hers. And he did not speak as if he was preaching; his

voice sounded exactly as it did every day out of church. It

was delightful. Daisy forgot all about it's being a sermon,

and only drank in the words with her ears and her heart, and

never took her eyes from those bright ones that every now and

then looked down at her. For Mr. Dinwiddie was telling of Him

"who though He was rich yet for our sakes became poor." He

told how rich He was, in the glories and happiness of heaven,

where everything is perfect and all is His. And then he told

how Jesus made Himself poor; how He left all that glory and

everything that pleased Him; came where everything displeased

Him; lived among sin and sinners; was poor, and despised, and

rejected, and treated with every shame, and at last shamefully

put to death and His dead body laid in the grave. All this

because He loved us; all this because He wanted to make us

rich, and without His death to buy our forgiveness there was

no other way. "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that

He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our

sins."

Daisy forgot even Mr. Dinwiddie in thinking of that wonderful

One. She thought she had never seen before how good He is, or

how beautiful; she had never felt how loving and tender Jesus

is in His mercy to those that seek Him, and whom _He_ came to

seek first; she never saw "the kindness and love of God our

Saviour" before. As the story went on, again and again Daisy

would see a cloud or mist of tears come over the brightness of

those brilliant eyes; and saw the lips tremble; and Daisy's

own eyes filled and ran over, and her cheeks were wet with

tears, and she never knew it!

But when Mr. Dinwiddie stopped, she was so full of gladness in

her little heart, — gladness that this beautiful Saviour loved

her and that she loved Him, that although if she _could_ have

been sorry, she would have been very sorry that the sermon was

over, she was not; she could be nothing but glad.

She thought they were going home then, after the hymn was

sung; but in her thoughts she had missed some words not spoken

by Mr. Dinwiddie. And now she perceived that not only it was

sacrament day, which she had seen before; but further, that

the people who would not share in that service were going, and

that Miss Underwood was staying, and by consequence she must

stay too. Daisy was pleased. She had never in her life, as it

happened, seen the observance of this ordinance; and she had,

besides a child's curiosity, a deep, deep interest in all that

Christians are accustomed to do. Was she not one?

Mr. Dinwiddie had spoken about the service and the purpose of

it; he explained how the servants of Christ at His command

take the bread and wine in remembrance of Him and what He has

done for them; and as a sign to all the world that they

believe in Him and love Him, and wait for Him to come again.

Now some prayers were made, and there were spoken some grave

words of counsel and warning, which sounded sweet and awful in

Daisy's ears; and then the people came forward, a part of

them, and knelt around a low railing which was before the

pulpit. As they did this, some voices began to sing a hymn, in

a wonderfully sweet and touching music. Daisy was exceedingly

fond of every melody and harmony that was worthy the name; and

this — plaintive, slow, simple — seemed to go not only through

her ears, but down to the very bottom of her heart. They sang

but a verse and a chorus; and then, after an interval, when

those around the railings rose and gave place to others, they

sang a verse and a chorus again; and this is the chorus that

they sang. It dwelt in Daisy's heart for many a day; but I can

never tell you the sweetness of it.

"Oh, the Lamb! the loving Lamb!

The Lamb on Calvary;

The Lamb that was slain, but lives again,

To intercede for me."

It seemed to Daisy a sort of paradise while they were singing.

Again and again, after a pause the notes measuredly rose and

fell; and little Daisy who could take no other open part in

what was going on, responded to them with her tears. Nobody

was looking, she thought; nobody would see.

At last it was all done; the last verses were sung; the last

prayers spoken; the little crowd turned to go. Daisy, standing

behind Joanna in the front place, was obliged to wait till the

aisle was clear. She had turned too when everybody else did,

and so was standing with her back to the pulpit, when a hand

was laid on her shoulder. The next minute Daisy's little

fingers were in Mr. Dinwiddie's clasp, and her face was

looking joyfully into his.

"Daisy — I am glad to see you."

Another look, and a slight clasp of her little fingers,

answered him.

"I wish you had been with us just now."

"I am too little —" was Daisy's humble and regretful reply.

"Nobody is too little, who is old enough to know what Jesus

has done and to love Him for it, and to be His servant. Do you

love Him, Daisy?"

"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie."

A very soft, but a very clear answer; and so was the answer of

the eyes raised to his. To Daisy's great joy, he did not let

go her hand when they got out of the church. Instead of that,

keeping it fast, he allowed Miss Underwood to go on a little

before them, and then he lingered with Daisy along the shady,

overarched walks of Melbourne grounds, into which they

presently turned. Mr. Dinwiddie lingered purposely, and let

Joanna get out of hearing. Then he spoke again.

"If you love Jesus, you want to obey Him, Daisy."

"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie!"

He felt the breathless manner of her answer.

"What will you do, little one, when you find that to obey Him,

you may have a great deal of hard fighting to go through?"

"I'll die on the field of battle, Mr. Dinwiddie."

He looked at her a little curiously. It was no child's boast.

Her face was quiet, her eye steady; so had her tone been. It

was most unlike Daisy to make protestations of feeling; just

now she was speaking to the one person in the world who could

help her, whom in this matter she trusted; — speaking to him,

maybe, for the last time, she knew; and moreover Daisy's heart

was full. She spoke as she might live years and not do again,

when she said, —

"I'll die on the field of battle."

"That is as the Lord pleases," returned Mr. Dinwiddie; "but

how will you _fight_, Daisy? you are a weak little child. The

fight must be won, in the first place."

"Please tell me, Mr. Dinwiddie."

He sat down on a bank, and drew Daisy down beside him.

"In the first place, you must remember that you are the

Lord's, and that everything you have belongs to Him; so that

His will is the only thing to be considered in every case. Is

it so, Daisy."

"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie! But tell me what you mean by 'everything

I have.' That is what I wanted to know."

"I will tell you presently. In the next place — whenever you

know the Lord's will, don't be afraid, but trust Him to help

you to do it. He always will, — He always can. Only trust Him,

and don't be afraid."

"Yes, Mr. Dinwiddie!" Daisy said; but with a gleam on her face

which even then reflected the light of those words.

"That's all, Daisy."

"Then, Mr. Dinwiddie, please tell me what you mean by

'everything.' "

"If you love the Lord, Daisy, you will find out."

"But I am afraid I don't know, Mr. Dinwiddie, what all my

talents are."

"He is a wise man that does. But if you love the Lord Jesus

with all your heart, you will find that in everything you do

you can somehow please Him, and that He is first to be

pleased."

They looked into each other again, those two faces, with

perfect understanding; grateful content in the child's eyes,

watchful tenderness in those of Mr. Dinwiddie, through all

their keenness and brightness. Then he rose up and offered his

hand to Daisy; just said 'good bye,' and was gone. He turned

off another way, Daisy followed Miss Underwood's steps. But

Joanna had got to the house long before she reached it; and

Daisy thought herself very happy that nobody saw her come home

alone. She got to her own room in safety.

Daisy's heart was full of content. That day was the King's, to

be sure; the very air seemed to speak of the love of Jesus,

and the birds and the sunshine and the honeysuckle repeated

the song of "The Lamb on Calvary." There was no going to

church a second time; after luncheon, which was Daisy's

dinner, she had the time all to herself. She sat by her own

window, or sometimes she lay down — for Daisy was not very

strong yet — but sitting or lying, and whatever she was doing,

the thought that that King was hers, and that Jesus loved her,

made her happy; and the hours of the day rolled away as bright

as its own sunshine.

"Well, mouse," said her mother, when Daisy came down to tea, —

where have you been? What a mouse you are!"

"Intelligent — for a lower order of quadrupeds," said Mr.

McFarlane.

"The day has been insufferable!" said Mrs. Randolph. "Have you

been asleep, Daisy?"

"No, mamma."

"You were lying down?"

"Yes, mamma."

Daisy had drawn up close to her mother —who had thrown an arm

round her. The family were gathered in the library; the

windows open, the fresh air coming faintly in; the light

fading but no lamps needed yet.

"I am glad the day is over!" said Mrs. Gary. "This morning I

did not know how I was going to live through it. There is a

little freshness now. Why is it always so much hotter on

Sundays than on any other day?"

"Because you think about it," said Mr. Randolph, who was

moving from window to window, setting the glass doors wider

open.

"There is nothing else to think about," said Mrs. Randolph

with a yawn. "Gary, do bring me a cup of tea."

"You ought to think about your evil deeds," said Mr.

McFarlane, obeying the command. "Then you would have enough."

"_You_ would, you mean."

"I know it. I speak from experience. I tried it once, for a

whole afternoon; and you've no idea how good tea-time was when

it came!"

"What _could_ set you about such a piece of work, Gary?" said

his hostess, laughing.

"Conscience, my dear," said her sister. "I am not at all

surprised. I wonder if anybody has been to church to-day?"

"I am sorry for the clergyman, if anybody has," remarked Gary.

Mrs. Randolph's arm had slipped from Daisy, and Daisy slipped

away from her mother's sofa to the table; where she clipped

sponge biscuits in milk, and wondered at other people's

Sundays. A weight seemed settling down on her heart. She could

not bear to hear the talk; she ate her supper, and then sat

down on the threshold of one of the glass doors that looked

towards the west, and watched the beautiful colours on the

clouds over the mountains; and softly sung to herself the tune

she had heard in the morning. So the colours faded away, and

the light, and the dusk grew on, and still Daisy sat in the

window-door, humming to herself. She did not know that Gary

McFarlane had stolen up close behind her and gone away again.

He went away just as company came in; some gay neighbours who

found the evening tempting, and came for a little diversion.

Lamps were lit, and talking and laughing went round, till Mrs.

Randolph asked where Daisy was.

"In the window, singing to the stars," Gary McFarlane

whispered. "Do you know, Mrs. Randolph, how she can sing?"

"No, — how? She has a child's voice."

"But not a child's taste or ear," said Gary. "I heard her the

other day warbling the gypsy song in 'The Camp in Silesia,'

and she did it to captivation. Do, Mrs. Randolph, ask her to

sing it. I was astonished."

"Do!" said Captain Drummond; and the request spread and became

general.

"Daisy —" said Mrs. Randolph. Daisy did not hear; but the call

being repeated, she came from her window, and after speaking

to the strangers, whom she knew, she turned to her mother. The

room was all light and bright and full of gay talkers.

"Daisy," said her mother, "I want you to sing that gypsy song

from the 'Camp in Silesia.' Gary says you know it — so he is

responsible. Can you sing it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then sing it. Never mind whether you succeed or not; that is

of no consequence."

"Mamma," began Daisy.

"Well, what?"

Daisy was in great confusion. What to say to her mother she

did not know.

"No matter how you get along with it," repeated Mrs. Randolph.

"That is nothing."

"It isn't that, mamma, — but —"

"Then sing. No more words, Daisy; sing."

"Mamma, please don't ask me!"

"I _have_ asked you. Come Daisy — don't be silly."

"Mamma," whispered Daisy, trembling, "I will sing it any other

night but to night!"

"To-night? what's to-night?"

"To-night is Sunday."

"And is that the reason?"

Daisy stood silent, very much agitated.

"I'll have no nonsense of the kind, Daisy. Sing immediately!"

But Daisy stood still.

"Do you refuse me?"

"Mamma —" said Daisy, pleadingly.

"Go and fetch me a card from the table."

Daisy obeyed. Mrs. Randolph rapidly wrote a word or two on it

with a pencil.

"But where is the gypsy?" cried Gary McFarlane.

"She has not found her voice yet. Take that to your father,

Daisy."

Daisy's knees literally shook under her as she moved across

the room to obey this order. Mr. Randolph was sitting at some

distance talking with one of the gentlemen. He broke off when

Daisy came up with the card.

"What is it your mother wishes you to sing?" he inquired,

looking from the writing to the little bearer. Daisy answered

very low.

"A gypsy-song from an opera."

"Can you sing it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then do so at once, Daisy."

The tone was quiet but imperative. Daisy stood with eyes cast

down, the blood all leaving her face to reinforce some

attacked region. She grew white from second to second.

"It is the charge of the Light Brigade," said Captain Drummond

to himself. He had heard and watched the whole proceeding, and

had the key to it. He thought good-naturedly to suggest to

Daisy an escape from her difficulty, by substituting for the

opera song something else that she _could_ sing. Rising and

walking slowly up and down the room, he hummed near enough for

her to hear and catch it, the air of "Die in the field of

battle." Daisy heard and caught it, but not his suggestion. It

was the thought of the _words_ that went to her heart, — not the

thought of the tune. She stood as before, only clasped her

little hands close upon her breast. Captain Drummond watched

her. So did her father, who could make nothing of her.

"Do you understand me, Daisy?"

"Papa —"

"Obey me first, and then talk about it."

Daisy was in no condition to talk; she could hardly breathe

that one word. She knew the tone of great displeasure in her

father's voice. He saw her condition.

"You are not able to sing at this minute," said he. "Go to

your room — I will give you ten minutes to recover yourself.

Then, Daisy, come here and sing — if you like to be at peace

with me."

But Daisy did not move; she stood there, with her two hands

clasped on her breast.

"Do you mean that you will not?" said Mr. Randolph.

"If it wasn't Sunday, papa —" came from Daisy's parted lips.

"Sunday?" said Mr. Randolph — "is that it? Now we know where

we are. Daisy — do you hear me? — turn about and sing your

song. Do not give me another refusal!"

But Daisy stood, growing paler and paler, till the whiteness

reached her lips, and her father saw that in another minute

she would fall. He snatched her from the floor, and placed her

upon his knee with his arm round her; but though conscious

that she was held against his breast, Daisy was conscious too

that there was no relenting in it; she knew her father; and

her deadly paleness continued. Mr. Randolph saw that there

would be no singing that night, and that the conflict between

Daisy and him must be put off to another day. Making excuse to

those near, that she was not well, he took his little daughter

in his arms, and carried her up stairs to her own room. There

he laid her on the bed and rang for June, and staid by her

till he saw her colour returning. Then without a word he left

her.

Meanwhile Captain Drummond, downstairs, had taken a quiet seat

in a corner; his talking mood having deserted him.

"Did I ever walk up to the cannon's mouth like that?" he said

to himself.

CHAPTER XI.

THE WOUNDED HAND.

Daisy kept herself quite still while her father and June were

present. When Mr. Randolph had gone downstairs, and June,

seeing her charge better, ventured to leave her to get some

brandy and water, then Daisy seized that minute of being alone

to allow herself a few secret tears. Once opened, the fountain

of tears gushed out a river; and when June came back Daisy was

in an agony which prevented her knowing that anybody was with

her. In amaze, June set down the brandy and water, and looked

on. She had never in her life seen Daisy so. It distressed

her; but though June might be called dull, her poor wits were

quick to read some signs; and troubled as she was, she called

neither Daisy's father nor her mother. The child's state would

have warranted such an appeal. She never heard June's

tremulous "Don't, Miss Daisy!" She was shaken with the sense

of the terrible contest she had brought on herself; and

grieved to the very depths of her tender little heart that she

must bear the displeasure of her father and her mother. She

struggled with tears and agitation until she was exhausted,

and then lay quiet, panting and pale, because she had no

strength to weep longer.

"Miss Daisy," said June, "drink this."

"What is it?"

"It is brandy and water. It is good for you."

"I am not faint. I don't like it."

"Miss Daisy, please! You want something. It will make you feel

better and put you to sleep."

Disregarding the tumbler which June offered, Daisy slowly

crawled off the bed, and went and kneeled down before her open

window, crossing her arms on the sill. June followed her, with

a sort of submissive pertinacity.

"Miss Daisy, you want to take some of this, and lie down and

go to sleep."

"I don't want to go to sleep."

"Miss Daisy, you're weak — won't you take a little of this, to

strengthen you a bit?"

"I don't want it, June."

"You'll be sick to-morrow."

"June," said Daisy, "I wish a chariot of fire would come for

me!"

"Why, Miss Daisy?"

"To take me right up. But I shall not be sick. You needn't be

afraid. You needn't stay."

June was too much awed to speak, and dared not disobey. She

withdrew; and in her own premises stood as Daisy was doing,

looking at the moonlight; much wondering that storms should

pass over her little white mistress such as had often shaken

her own black breast. It was mysterious.

Daisy did not wish to go to sleep; and it was for fear she

should, that she had crawled off the bed, trembling in every

limb. For the same reason she would not touch the brandy and

water. Once asleep, the next thing would be morning and waking

up; she was not ready for that. So she knelt by the window,

and felt the calm glitter of the moonlight, and tried to pray.

It was long, long since Daisy had withstood her father or

mother in anything. She remembered the last time; she knew now

they _would_ have her submit to them, and now she thought she

must not. Daisy dared not face the coming day. She would have

liked to sit up all night; but her power of keeping even upon

her knees was giving way when June stole in behind her, too

uneasy to wait for Daisy's ring.

"Miss Daisy, you'll be surely sick to-morrow, and Mis'

Randolph will think I ought to be killed."

"June, didn't the minister say this morning —"

"What minister?"

"Oh, it wasn't you, — it was Joanna. Where is Joanna? I want

to see her."

"Most likely she's going to bed, Miss Daisy."

"No matter — I want to see her. Go and tell her, June — no

matter if she is in her night-gown, — tell her I want to speak

to her one minute."

June went, and Daisy once more burst into tears. But she

brushed them aside when Joanna came back with June a few

minutes after.

"Joanna — didn't the minister say this morning, that when we

are doing what Jesus tells us, He will help us through?"

"It's true," said Joanna, looking startled and troubled at the

pale little tear-stained face lifted to her; — "but I don't

just know as that minister said it this morning."

"Didn't he?"

"Why, it's true, Miss Daisy; for I've heard other ministers

say it; but that one this morning was preaching about

something else — don't you know?"

"Was he? Didn't he say that?"

"Why, no, Miss Daisy; he was preaching about how rich —"

"Oh, I know!" said Daisy — "I remember; yes, it wasn't then —

it was afterwards. Yes, he said it — I knew it —but it wasn't

in his sermon. Thank you, Joanna — that's all; I don't want

you any more."

"What ails her?" whispered Joanna, when June followed her out

with a light.

But June knew her business better than to tell her little

mistress's secrets; and her face showed no more of them than

it showed of her own. When she returned, Daisy was on her

knees, with her face hidden in her hands, at the foot of the

bed.

June stopped; and the little white figure there looked so

slight, the attitude of the bended head was so childlike and

pitiful, that the mulatto woman's face twinkled and twitched

in a way most unwonted to its usual stony lines. She never

stirred till Daisy rose up and submissively allowed herself to

be put to bed; and then waited on her with most reverent

gentleness.

So she did next morning. But Daisy was very pale, and trembled

frequently, June noticed; and, when she was dressed, sat down

patiently by the window. She was not going down to breakfast,

she told June; and June went away to her own breakfast, very

ill satisfied.

Breakfast was brought up to Daisy, as she expected; and then

she waited for her summons. She could not eat much. The tears

were very ready to start, but Daisy kept them back. It did not

suit her to go weeping into her father and mother's presence,

and she had self-command enough to prevent it. She could not

read; yet she turned over the pages of her Bible to find some

comfort. She did not know or could not remember just where to

look for it; and at last turned to the eleventh of Hebrews,

and with her eye running over the record there of what had

been done and borne for Christ's sake, felt her own little

heart beating hard in its own trial.

June came at length to call her to her mother's room.

Mrs. Randolph was half lying on a couch, a favourite position;

and her eye was full on Daisy as she came in. Daisy stopped at

a little distance; and June took care to leave the door ajar.

"Daisy," said Mrs. Randolph, "I want in the first place an

explanation of last night's behaviour."

"Mamma, I am very sorry to have offended you!" said Daisy,

pressing both hands together upon her breast to keep herself

quiet.

"Looks like it," said Mrs. Randolph; and yet she did see and

feel the effect of the night's work upon the child. "Go on; —

tell me why you disobeyed me last night."

"It was Sunday —" said Daisy, softly.

"Sunday! — well, what of that? what of Sunday?"

"That song — wasn't a Sunday song."

"What do you mean by a Sunday song?"

"I mean" — Daisy was on dangerous ground, and she knew it, —

"I mean, one of those songs that God likes to hear people sing

on His day."

"Who is to be judge?" said Mrs. Randolph, — "you or I?"

"Mamma," said Daisy, "I will do everything else in the world

you tell me!"

"You will have to do everything else and this too. Isn't there

a commandment about children obeying their mothers."

"Yes, ma'am."

"That is the very first commandment I mean you shall obey,"

said Mrs. Randolph, rousing herself enough to bring one foot

to the floor. "You have no business to think whether a thing

is right or wrong, that I order you to do; if I order it, that

makes it right; and anybody but a fool would tell you so. You

will sing that song from the 'Camp in Silesia' for me next

Sunday evening, or I will whip you, Daisy — you may depend

upon it. I have done it before, and I will again; and you know

I do not make believe. Now go to your father."

"Where is he, mamma?" said Daisy, with a perceptible added

paleness in her cheek.

"I don't know. In the library, I suppose."

To the library Daisy went, with trembling steps, in great

uncertainty what she was to expect from her father. It was

likely enough that he would say the same as her mother, and

insist on the act of submission to be gone through next

Sunday; but Daisy had an inward consciousness that her father

was likely to come to a point with her sooner than that. It

came even sooner than she expected.

Mr. Randolph was pacing up and down the library when Daisy

slowly opened the door. No one else was there. He stopped when

she came in, and stood looking at her as she advanced towards

him.

"Daisy, you disobeyed me last night."

"Yes, papa, — but —"

"I have but one answer for that sort of thing," said Mr.

Randolph, taking a narrow ruler from the library table.

"Give me your hand!"

Daisy gave it, with a very vague apprehension of what he was

about to do. The sharp, stinging stroke of the ruler the next

moment upon her open palm, made her understand very

thoroughly. It drew from her one cry of mixed pain and terror;

but after that first forced exclamation Daisy covered her face

with her other hand, and did not speak again. Tears, that she

could not help, came plentifully; for the punishment was

sufficiently severe, and it broke her heart that her father

should inflict it; but she stood perfectly still, only for the

involuntary wincing that was beyond her control, till her hand

was released and the ruler was thrown down. Heart and head

bowed together then, and Daisy crouched down on the floor

where she stood, unable either to stand or to move a step

away.

"There! that account's settled!" said Mr. Randolph, as he

flung down his ruler. And the next moment his hands came

softly about Daisy, and lifted her from the floor and placed

her on his knee; and his arms were wrapped tenderly round her.

Daisy almost wished he had let her alone; it seemed to her

that her sorrow was more than she could bear.

"Is your heart almost broken?" said Mr. Randolph, softly, as

he felt rather than heard the heavy sobs so close to him. But

to speak was an impossibility, and so he knew, and did not

repeat his question; only he held Daisy fast, and it was in

his arms that she wept out the first overcharged fulness of

her heart.

It was a long time before she could quiet those heavy sobs;

and Mr. Randolph sat quite still holding her.

"Is your heart quite broken?" he whispered again, when he

judged that she could speak. Daisy did not speak, however. She

turned, and rising upon her knees, threw her arms round her

father's neck, and hid her soft little head there. If tears

came Mr. Randolph could not tell; he thought his neck was wet

with them. He let her alone for a little while.

"Daisy —"

"Papa."

"Can you talk to me?"

Daisy sank back into her former position. Her father put his

lips down to hers for a long kiss.

"That account is settled," said he; "do you understand? Now

Daisy, tell me what was the matter last night."

"Papa, it was Sunday night."

"Yes. Well?"

"And that song — that mamma wanted me to sing" — Daisy spoke

very low, — "was out of an opera; and it was good for any

other day, but not for Sunday."

"Why not?"

Daisy hesitated, and at last said, "It had nothing to do with

Sunday, papa."

"But obedience is not out of place on Sunday, is it?"

"No, papa, — except —"

"Well, except what?"

"Papa, if God tells me to do one thing, and you tell me

another, what shall I do?" Daisy had hid her face in her

father's breast.

"What counter command have you to plead in this case?"

"Papa, may I show it to you?"

"Certainly."

She got down off his lap, twinkling away a tear hastily, and

went to the bookcase for the big Bible aforesaid. Mr. Randolph

seeing what she was after, and that she could not lift it,

went to her help, and brought it to the library table. Daisy

turned over the leaves with fingers that trembled yet,

hastily, flurriedly; and paused and pointed to the words that

her father read, "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath

day."

Mr. Randolph read them, and the words following, and the words

that went before; then he turned from them, and drew Daisy to

her place in his arms again.

"Daisy, there is another commandment there, 'Honour thy father

and thy mother.' Is there not ?"

"Yes, papa."

"Is not one command as good as the other?"

"Papa, I think not," said Daisy. "One command tells me to obey

you, — the other tells me to obey God."

Childish as the answer was, there was truth in it; and Mr.

Randolph shifted his ground.

"Your mother will not be satisfied without your obeying the

lesser command — nor shall I!"

Silence.

"She will expect you to do next Sunday evening what you

refused to do last evening."

Still silence, but a shiver ran over Daisy's frame.

"Do you know it?" said Mr. Randolph, noticing also that

Daisy's cheek had grown a shade paler than it was.

"Papa — I wish I could die!" was the answer of the child's

agony.

"Do you mean that you will not obey her, Daisy?"

"How can I, papa? how can I!" exclaimed Daisy.

"Do you think that song is so very bad, Daisy?"

"No, papa, it is very good for other days; but it is not

holy." Her accent struck strangely upon Mr. Randolph's ear;

and sudden contrasts rushed together oddly in his mind.

"Daisy, do you know that you are making yourself a judge of

right and wrong? over your mother and over me?"

Daisy hid her face again in his breast; what could she answer?

Mr. Randolph unfolded the little palm, swollen and blistered

from the marks of his ruler.

"Why did you offend me, Daisy?" he said, gravely.

"Oh, papa!" said Daisy, beside herself, — "I didn't — I

couldn't — I wouldn't, for anything in the world! but I

couldn't offend the Lord Jesus!"

She was weeping again bitterly.

"That will not do," said Mr. Randolph. "You must find a way to

reconcile both duties. I shall not take an alternative." But

after that he said no more, and only applied himself to

soothing Daisy; till she sat drooping in his arms, but still

and calm. She started when the sound of steps and voices came

upon the verandah.

"Papa, may I go?"

He let her go, and watched her measured steps through the long

room to the door, and heard the bound they made as soon as she

was outside of it. He rang the bell and ordered June to be

called. She came.

"June," said Mr. Randolph, "I think Daisy wants to be taken

care of to-day — I wish you would not lose sight of her."

June courtesied her obedience.

A few minutes afterwards her noiseless steps entered Daisy's

room. June's footfall was never heard about the house. As

noiseless as a shadow she came into a room; as stealthily as a

dark shadow she went out. Her movements were always slow; and

whether from policy or caution originally, her tread would not

waken a sleeping mouse. So she came into her little mistress's

chamber now. Daisy was there, at her bureau, before an open

drawer; as June advanced, she saw that a great stock of little

pairs of gloves was displayed there, of all sorts, new and

old; and Daisy was trying to find among them one that would do

for her purpose. One after another was tried on the fingers of

her right hand, and thrown aside; and tears were running over

the child's cheeks and dropping into the drawer all the time.

June came near, with a sort of anxious look on her yellow

face. It was strangely full of wrinkles and lines, that

generally never stirred to express or reveal anything.

Suddenly she exclaimed, but June's very exclamations were in a

smothered tone —

"Oh, Miss Daisy! what have you done to your hand?"

"I haven't done anything to it," said Daisy, trying furtively

to get rid of her tears, — "but I want a glove to put on,

June, and they are all too small. Is Cecilia at work here to-

day?"

"Yes, Miss Daisy; but let me look at your hand! — let me put

some liniment on."

"No, I don't want it," said Daisy; and June saw the suppressed

sob that was not allowed to come out into open hearing; — "but

June, just rip that glove, will you, here in the side seam;

and then ask Cecilia to make a strip of lace-work there — so

that I can get it on." Daisy drew a fur glove over the wounded

hand as she spoke — it was the only one large enough — and put

on her flat hat.

"Miss Daisy, Mr. Randolph said I was to go with you anywhere

you went —to take care of you."

"Then come down to the beach, June; I'll be there."

Daisy stole down stairs and slipped out of the first door she

came to. What she wanted was to get away from seeing anybody;

she did not wish to see her mother, or Preston, or Captain

Drummond, or Ransom; and she meant even if possible to wander

off and not be at home for dinner. She could not bear the

thought of the dinner-table, with all the faces round it. She

stole out under the shrubbery, which soon hid her from view of

the house.

It was a very warm day, the sun beating hot wherever it could

touch at all. Daisy went languidly along under cover of the

trees, wishing to go faster, but not able, till she reached

the bank. There she waited for June to join her, and together

they went down to the river shore. Safe there from pursuit, on

such a day, Daisy curled herself down in the shade with her

back against a stone, and then began to think. She felt very

miserable; not merely for what had passed, but for a long

stretch of trouble that she saw lying before her. Indeed where

or how it was to end, Daisy had no idea. Her father indeed,

she felt pretty sure would not willingly allow his orders to

come in conflict with what she thought her duty; though if he

happened to do it unconsciously, — Daisy would not follow that

train of thought. But here she was now, at this moment,

engaged in a trial of strength with her mother; very unequal,

for Daisy felt no power at all for the struggle, and yet she

could not yield!

Where was it to end? and how many other like occasions of

difference might arise, even after this one should somehow

have been settled? Had the joy of being a servant of Jesus so

soon brought trouble with it? Daisy had put the trunk of a

large tree between her and June; but the mulatto woman, where

she sat, heard the stifled sobs of the child. June's items of

intelligence, picked up by eye and ear, had given her by this

time an almost reverent feeling towards Daisy; she regarded

her as hardly earthly; nevertheless, this sort of distress

must not be suffered to go on, and she was appointed to

prevent it.

"Miss Daisy — it is luncheon time," she said, without moving.

Daisy gave no response. June waited, and then came before her

and repeated her words.

"I am not going in."

"But you want your dinner, Miss Daisy."

"No, I don't, June. I don't want to go in."

June looked at her a minute. "I'll get you your luncheon out

here, Miss Daisy. You'll be faint for want of something to

eat. Will you have it out here?"

"You needn't say where I am, June."

June went off, and Daisy was left alone. Very weary and

exhausted, she sat leaning her head against the stone at her

side, in a sort of despairing quiet. The little ripple of the

water on the pebbly shore struck her ear; it was the first

thing eye or ear had perceived to be pleasant that day.

Daisy's thoughts went to the hand that had made the glittering

river, with all its beauties and wonders; then they went to

what Mr. Dinwiddie had said, that God will help His people

when they are trying to do any difficult work for Him; He will

take care of them; He will not forsake them. Suddenly it

filled Daisy's soul like a flood, the thought that Jesus loves

His people; that she was His little child and that He loved

her; and all His wisdom and power and tenderness were round

her and would keep her. Her trouble seemed to be gone, or it

was like a cloud with sunlight shining all over it. The very

air was full of music, to Daisy's feeling, not her sense.

There never was such sunlight, or such music either, as this

feeling of the love of Jesus. Daisy kneeled down by the rock,

and rested her forehead against it, to pray for joy.

She was there still, when June came back, and stopped and

looked at her, a vague expression of care sitting in her black

eyes, into which now an unwonted moisture stole. June had a

basket, and as soon as Daisy sat down again, she came up and

began to take things out of it. She had brought everything for

Daisy's dinner. There was a nice piece of beefsteak, just off

the gridiron; and rice and potatoes; and a fine bowl of

strawberries for dessert. June had left nothing; there was the

roll and the salt, and a tumbler and a carafe of water. She

set the other things about Daisy, on the ground and on the

rock, and gave the plate of beefsteak into her hand.

"Miss Daisy, what will you do for a table?"

"It's nicer here than a table. How good you are, June. I

didn't know I wanted it."

"I know you do, Miss Daisy."

And she went to her sewing, and sewed perseveringly, while

Daisy eat her dinner.

"June, what o'clock is it."

"It's after one, ma'am."

"You haven't had your own dinner?"

June mumbled something, of which nothing could be understood

except that it was a general abnegation of all desire or

necessity for dinner on her own part.

"But you have not had it?" said Daisy.

"No, ma'am. They've done dinner by this time."

"June, I have eaten up all the beefsteak — there is nothing

left but some potato, and rice, and strawberries; but you

shall have some strawberries."

June in vain protested. Daisy divided the strawberries into

two parts, sugared them both, broke the remaining roll in two,

and obliged June to take her share. When this was over, Daisy

seated herself near June, and laid her head against her knee.

She could hardly hold it up.

"June," — she said presently, "I think those people in the

eleventh chapter of Hebrews — you know."

"Yes, Miss Daisy."

"I think they were very happy, because they knew that Jesus

loved them."

June made no audible answer; she mumbled something; and Daisy

sat still. Presently her soft breathing made June look over at

her; Daisy was asleep. In her hand, in her lap, lay a book.

June looked yet further, to see what book it was. It was Mr.

Dinwiddie's Bible.

June sat up and went on with her work, but her face twitched.

CHAPTER XII.

THE HUNDRED DOLLARS.

Daisy was at the dinner-table. After having a good sleep on

June's knee, she had come home, and dressed as usual, and she

was in her place when the dessert was brought on. Mr.

Randolph, from his distant end of the table, watched her a

little; he saw that she behaved just as usual; she did not

shun anybody, though her mother shunned her. A glove covered

her right hand, yet Daisy persisted in using that hand rather

than attract notice, though from the slowness of her movements

it was plain it cost her some trouble. Gary McFarlane asked

why she had a glove on, and Mr. Randolph heard Daisy's

perfectly quiet and true answer, that "her hand was wounded,

and had to wear a glove," — given without any confusion or

evasion. He called his little daughter to him, and giving her

a chair by his side, spent the rest of his time in cracking

nuts and preparing a banana for her; doing it carelessly, not

as if she needed but as if it pleased him to give her his

attention.

After dinner, Daisy sought Preston, who was out on the lawn,

as he said, to cool himself; in the brightness of the setting

sun to be sure, but also in a sweet light air which was

stirring.

"Phew! it's hot. And you, Daisy, don't look as if the sun and

you had been on the same side of the earth to-day. What do you

want now?"

"I want a good talk with you, Preston."

"I was going to say 'fire up,' " said Preston, "but, no, don't

do anything of that sort! If there is any sort of talking that

has a chilly effect, I wish you'd use it."

"I have read of such talk, but I don't think I know how to do

it," said Daisy. "I read the other day of somebody's being

'frozen with a look.'

Preston went off into a fit of laughter, and rolled himself

over on the grass, declaring that it was a splendid idea; then

he sat up and asked Daisy again what she wanted? Daisy cast a

glance of her eye to see that nobody was too near.

"Preston, you know you were going to teach me."

"Oh ay! — about the Spartans."

"I want to learn everything," said Daisy. "I don't know much."

Preston looked at the pale, delicate child, whose doubtful

health he knew had kept her parents from letting her "know

much"; and it was no wonder that when he spoke again, he used

a look and manner that were caressing, and even tender.

"What do you want to know, Daisy?"

"I want to know everything," whispered Daisy; "but I don't

know what to begin at."

"No!" said Preston, — " 'everything' seems as big as the world,

and as hard to get hold of."

"I want to know geography," said Daisy.

"Yes. Well — you shall. And you shall not study for it

neither; which you can't."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't. You are no more fit for it, little Daisy — but

look here! I wish you would be a red daisy."

"Then what else, Preston?"

"Nothing else. Geography is enough at once."

"Oh, no, it isn't. Preston, I can't do the least little bit of

a sum in the world."

"Can't you? Well — I don't see that that is of any very great

consequence. What sums do _you_ want to do?"

"But I want to know how."

"Why?"

"Why, Preston, you know I _ought_ to know how. It might be very

useful, and I ought to know."

"I hope it will never be of any use to you," said Preston;

"but you can learn the multiplication table if you like."

"Then will you show it to me?"

"Yes; but what has put you in such a fever of study, little

Daisy? It excites me, this hot weather."

"Then won't you come in and show me the multiplication table

now, Preston?"

In came Preston, laughing, and found an arithmetic for Daisy;

and Daisy, not laughing, but with a steady seriousness, sat

down on the verandah in the last beams of the setting sun to

learn that "twice two is four."

The same sort of sweet seriousness hung about all her

movements this week. To those who knew what it meant, there

was something extremely touching in the gentle gravity with

which she did everything, and the grace of tenderness which

she had for everybody. Daisy was going through great trouble.

Not only the trouble of what was past, but the ordeal of what

was to come. It hung over her like a black cloud, and her

fears were like muttering thunder. But the sense of right, the

love of the Master in whose service she was suffering, the

trust in His guiding hand, made Daisy walk with that strange,

quiet dignity between the one Sunday and the other. Mr.

Randolph fancied sometimes when she was looking down, that he

saw the signs of sadness about her mouth; but whenever she

looked up again, he met such quiet, steady eyes, that he

wondered. He was puzzled; but it was no puzzle that Daisy's

cheeks grew every day paler, and her appetite less.

"I do not wish to flatter you" — said Mrs. Gary, one evening —

"but that child has very elegant manners! Really, I think they

are very nearly perfect. I don't believe there is an English

court beauty who could show better."

"The English beauty would like to be a little more robust in

her graces," remarked Gary McFarlane.

"That is all Daisy wants," her aunt went on; "but that will

come, I trust, in time."

"Daisy would do well enough," said Mrs. Randolph, "if she

could get some notions out of her head."

"What, you mean her religious notions? How came she by them,

pray?"

"Why, there was a person here — a connexion of Mrs. Sandford's

— that set up a Sunday school in the woods; and Daisy went to

it for a month or two, before I thought anything about it, or

about him. Then I found she was beginning to ask questions,

and I took her away."

"Is asking questions generally considered a sign of danger?"

said Gary McFarlane.

"What was that about her singing the other night?" said Mrs.

Gary — "that had something to do with the same thing, hadn't

it?"

"Refused to sing an opera song because it was Sunday."

"Ridiculous!" said Mrs. Gary. "I'll try to make her see it so

herself — if I get a chance. She is a sensible child."

Mr. Randolph was walking up and down the room, and had not

spoken a word. A little time after, he found himself nearly

alone with Mrs. Randolph, the others having scattered away. He

paused near his wife's sofa.

"Daisy is failing," he said. "She has lost more this week than

she had gained in the two months before."

Mrs. Randolph made no answer, and did not even move her

handsome head, or her delicate hands.