"Can't you get out of this business, Felicia?"

"In the way that I said I would. You expect your words to be

obeyed, Mr. Randolph; and I expect it for mine."

Mr. Randolph resumed his walk.

"Daisy has got some things in her head that must get out of

it. I would as lieve not have a child, as not to have her mind

me."

Mr. Randolph passed out upon the verandah, and continuing his

walk there, presently came opposite the windows of the

library. There he saw Daisy seated at the table, reading. Her

hand was over her brow, and Mr. Randolph did not feel

satisfied with the sober lines of the little mouth upon which

the lamplight shone. Once, too, Daisy's head went down upon

her book, and lay there a little while. Mr. Randolph did not

feel like talking to her just then, or he would have liked to

go in and see what she was studying. But while he stood

opposite the window, Captain Drummond came into the library.

"You here, Daisy! What are you busy about?" he said, kindly.

"What are you studying now?"

"I am reading the History of England, Captain Drummond."

"How do you like it?"

"I have not got very far. I do not like it very much."

"Where are you?"

"I have just got to where it tells about Alfred."

"Why do you read it, Daisy? Is it a lesson?"

"No, Captain Drummond, — but — I think proper to read it."

"It is proper," said the Captain. "Come, Daisy, suppose we go

down on the sand-beach to-morrow, and we will play out the

Saxon Heptarchy there as we played out the Crimea. Shall we?"

Daisy's face changed. "Oh, thank you, Captain Drummond! — that

will be nice! Shall we?"

"If you will, I will," said the Captain.

Mr. Randolph moved away.

The next day, after luncheon, Daisy followed her father when

he left the table. She followed till they were got quite away

from other ears.

"Papa, I would like to go to Mrs. Harbonner's again. You said

I must not go without leave."

"Who is Mrs. Harbonner?"

"Papa, it is the place where I took the ham, — do you

remember? Joanna has enquired about her, and found that she is

respectable."

"What do you want to go there again for, Daisy?"

"Joanna has found some work for her, papa. She would not have

the ham unless she could work to pay for it. I want to see her

to tell her about it."

Mr. Randolph had it on his tongue to say that somebody else

might do that; but looking down at Daisy, the sight of the

pale face and hollow eyes stopped him. He sat down, and drew

Daisy up to his side.

"I will let you go."

"Thank you, papa!"

"Do you know," said Mr. Randolph, "that your mother is going

to ask you to sing that song again when Sunday evening comes?"

The smile vanished from Daisy's face; it grew suddenly dark;

and a shuddering motion was both seen and felt by Mr.

Randolph, whose arm was round her.

"Daisy," said he, not unkindly, "do you know that I think you

a little fool?"

She lifted her eyes quickly, and in their meeting with her

father's there was much — much that Mr. Randolph felt without

stopping to analyse, and that made his own face as suddenly

sober as her own. There was no folly in that quick grave look

of question or appeal; it seemed to carry the charge in

another direction.

"You think it is not right to sing such a song on a Sunday?"

he asked.

"No, papa."

"But, suppose, by singing it, you could do a great deal of

good, instead of harm."

"How, papa?"

"I will give you a hundred dollars for singing it, — which you

may spend as you please for all the poor people about

Melbourne or Crum Elbow."

It was very singular to him to see the changes in Daisy's

face. Light and shadow came and went with struggling

quickness. He expected her to speak, but she waited for

several minutes; then she said in a troubled voice, "Papa, I

will think of it."

"Is that all, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, disappointed.

"I am going to Mrs. Harbonner's, papa, and I will think, and

tell you."

Mr. Randolph was inclined to frown and suspect obstinacy; but

the meek little lips which offered themselves for a kiss

disarmed him of any such thought. He clasped Daisy in his

arms, and gave her kisses, many a one, close and tender. If he

had known it, he could have done nothing better for the

success of his plan; under the pressure of conscience Daisy

could bear trouble in doing right, but the argument of

affection went near to trouble her conscience. Daisy was

obliged to compound for a good many tears, before she could

get away and begin her drive. And when she did, her mind was

in a flutter. A hundred dollars! how much good could be done

with a hundred dollars. Why, would it not be right to do

something, even sing such a song on Sunday, when it was sung

for such a purpose and with such results? But Daisy could not

feel quite sure about it; while at the same time the prospect

of getting quit of her difficulties by this means — escaping

her mother's anger, and the punishment with which it was sure

to be accompanied, and also pleasing her father — shook

Daisy's very soul. What should she do? She had not made up her

mind when she got to the little brown house where Mrs.

Harbonner lived.

She found mother and daughter both in the little bare room;

the child sitting on the floor and cutting pieces of calico

and cloth into strips, which her mother was sewing together

with coarse thread. Both looked just as when Daisy had seen

them before — slim and poor and uncombed; but the room was

clean.

"I thought you warn't coming again," said Mrs. Harbonner.

"I couldn't come till to-day," said Daisy, taking a chair. "I

came as soon as I could." Partly from policy, partly because

she felt very sober, she left it to Mrs. Harbonner to do most

of the talking.

"I never see more'n a few folks that thought much of doing

what they said they'd do — without they found their own

account in it. If I was living in a great house, now, I'd have

folks enough come to see me."

Daisy did not know what answer to make to this, so she made

none.

"I used to live in a better house once," went on Mrs.

Harbonner; "I didn't always use to eat over a bare floor. I

was well enough, if I could ha' let well alone; but I made a

mistake, and paid for it; and what's more, I'm paying for it

yet. 'Taint _my_ fault, that Hephzibah sits there cuttin' rags,

instead of going to school."

Again Daisy did not feel herself called upon to decide on the

mistakes of Mrs. Harbonner's past life; and she sat patiently

waiting for something else that she could understand.

"What are you come to see me for now?" said the lady. "I

suppose you're going to tell me you haven't got no work for me

to do, and I must owe you for that ham?"

"I have got something for you to do," said Daisy. "The boy has

got it at the gate. The housekeeper found some clothes to make

— and you said that was your work."

"Tailoring," said Mrs. Harbonner. "I don't know nothing about

women's fixtures, — except what'll keep me and Hephzibah above

the savages. I don't suppose I could dress a doll so's it

would sell."

"This is tailoring work," said Daisy. "It is a boy's suit —

and there will be more to do if you like to have it."

"Where is it? at the gate, did you say? Hephzibah, go and

fetch it in. Who's got it?"

"The boy who is taking care of the horses."

"I declare, have you got that little covered shay there again?

— it's complete! I never see a thing so pretty! And Hephzibah

says you drive that little critter yourself. Ain't you

afraid?"

"Not at all," said Daisy. "The pony won't do any harm."

"He looks skeery," said Mrs. Harbonner. "I wouldn't trust him.

What a tremendous thick mane he's got! Well, I s'pect you have

everything you want, don't you?"

"Of such things —" said Daisy.

"That's what I meant. Gracious! I s'pose every one of us has

wishes — whether they are in the air or on the earth. Wishes

is the butter to most folks' bread. Here, child."

She took the bundle from Hephzibah, unrolled it, and examined

its contents with a satisfied face.

"What did _you_ come along with this for?" she said, suddenly,

to Daisy. "Why didn't you send it?"

"I wanted to come and see you," said Daisy, pleasantly.

"What ails you? You ain't so well as when you was here

before," said Mrs. Harbonner, looking at her narrowly.

"I am well," said Daisy.

"You ain't fur from bein' something else then. I suppose

you're dyin' with learning — while my Hephzibah can't get

schooling enough to read her own name. That's the way the

world's made up!"

"Isn't there a school at Crum Elbow?" said Daisy.

"Isn't there! And isn't there a bench for the rags? No, my

Hephzibah don't go to show none."

Mrs. Harbonner was so sharp and queer, though not unkindly

towards herself, that Daisy was at a loss how to go on; and,

moreover, a big thought began to turn about in her head.

"Poverty ain't no shame, but it's an inconvenience," said Mrs.

Harbonner. "Hephzibah may stay to home and be stupid, when

she's as much right to be smart as anybody. That's what I look

at; it ain't having a little to eat now and then."

"Melbourne is too far off for her to get there, isn't it?"

said Daisy.

"What should she go there for?"

"If she could get there," said Daisy, "and would like it, — I

would teach her."

"_You_ would?" said Mrs. Harbonner. "What would you learn her?"

"I would teach her to read," said Daisy, colouring a little;

"and anything else I could."

"La, she can read," said Mrs. Harbonner, "but she don't know

nothing, for all that. Readin' don't tell a person much,

without he has books. I wonder how long it would hold out, if

you begun? — 'Taint no use to begin a thing and then not go

on."

"But could she get to Melbourne?" said Daisy.

"I don't know. Maybe she can. Who'd she see at your house?"

"Nobody, but the man at the lodge, or his mother."

"Who's that?"

"He's the man that lives in the lodge, to open the gate."

"Open the gate, hey? Who pays him for it?"

"Papa pays him, and he lives in the lodge."

"I shouldn't think it would take a man to open a gate. Why,

Hephzibah could do it as well as anybody."

Daisy did not see the point of this remark, and went on.

"Hephzibah wouldn't see anybody else, but me."

"Well, I believe you mean what you say," said Mrs. Harbonner,

"and I hope you will when you're twenty years older — but I

don't believe it. I'll let Hephzibah come over to you on

Sundays— I know she's jumpin' out of her skin to go — she

shall go on Sundays, but I can't let her go other days, 'cause

she's got work to do; and anyhow it would be too fur. What

time would you like to see her?"

"As soon as it can be after afternoon church, if you please. I

couldn't before."

"You're a kind little soul!" said the woman. "Do you like

flowers?"

Daisy said yes. The woman went to a back door of the room,

and, opening it, plucked a branch from a great rosebush that

grew there.

"We hain't but one pretty thing about this house," said she,

presenting it to Daisy, — "but that's kind o' pretty."

It was a very rich and delicious white rose, and the branch

was an elegant one, clustered with flowers and buds. Daisy

gave her thanks and took leave.

"As we have opportunity, let us do good unto all men." There

was a little warm drop of comfort in Daisy's heart as she

drove away. If she could not go to Sunday-school herself, she

might teach somebody else, yet more needy; that would be the

next best thing. Sunday afternoon — it looked bright to Daisy;

but then her heart sank; Sunday evening would be near. What

should she do? She could not settle it in her mind what was

right; between her mother's anger and her father's love, Daisy

could not see what was just the plumb-line of duty. Singing

would gain a hundred dollars' worth of good; and not singing

would disobey her mother and displease her father; but then

came the words of one that Daisy honoured more than father and

mother — "Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day;" and

she could not tell what to do.

CHAPTER XIII.

OBEDIENCE.

Daisy had gone but a little way out of the village, when she

suddenly pulled up. Sam was at the side of the chaise

immediately.

"Sam, I want a glass of water; where can I get it?"

"Guess at Mrs. Benoit's, Miss Daisy. There's a fine spring of

cold water."

"Who is Mrs. Benoit?"

"It's Juanita — Miss Daisy has heard of Mrs. St. Leonard's

Juanita. Mr. St. Leonard built a house for her, — just the

other side o' them trees."

Daisy knew who Juanita was. She had been brought from the West

Indies by the mother of one of the gentlemen who lived in the

neighbourhood; and upon the death of her mistress had been

established in a little house of her own. Daisy judged that

she would be quite safe in going there for water.

"If I turn into that road, can I go home round that way, Sam?"

"You can, Miss Daisy; but it's a ways longer."

"I like that;" said Daisy.

She turned up the road that led behind the trees, and

presently saw Juanita's cottage. A little grey stone house,

low-roofed, standing at the very edge of a piece of woodland,

and some little distance back from the road. Daisy saw the old

woman sitting on her doorstep. A grassy slope stretched down

from the house to the road. The sun shone up against the grey

cottage.

"You take care of Loupe, Sam, and I'll go in," said Daisy — a

plan which probably disappointed Sam, but Daisy did not know

that. She went through a little wicket and up the path.

Juanita did not look like the blacks she had been accustomed

to see. Black she was not, but of a fine olive dark skin; and

though certainly old, she was still straight and tall, and

very fine in her appearance and bearing. Daisy could see this

but partially while Juanita was sitting at her door; she was

more struck by the very grave look her face wore just then. It

was not turned towards her little visitor, and Daisy got the

impression that she must be feeling unhappy.

Juanita rose, however, with great willingness to get the

water, and asked Daisy into her house. Daisy dared not, after

her father's prohibition, go in, and she stood at the door

till the water was brought. Then, with a strong feeling of

kindness towards the lonely and perhaps sorrowful old woman,

and remembering to "do good as she had opportunity," Daisy

suddenly offered her the beautiful rose-branch.

"Does the lady think I want pay for a glass of water?" said

the woman, with a smile that was extremely winning.

"No," said Daisy, — "but I thought, perhaps, you liked

flowers."

"There's another sort of flowers that the Lord likes," — said

the woman looking at her; "they be His little children."

Daisy's heart was tender, and there was something in Juanita's

face that won her confidence. Instead of turning away, she

folded her hands unconsciously, and said, more wistfully than

she knew, "I want to be one!"

"Does my little lady know the Lord Jesus?" said the woman,

with a bright light coming into her eye.

Daisy's heart was sore as well as tender; the question touched

two things, — the joy that she did know Him, and the trouble

that following Him had cost her; she burst into tears. Then,

turning away, and with a great effort throwing off the tears,

she went back to the chaise. There stood Sam, with the pony's

foot in his hand.

"Miss Daisy, this fellow has kicked one of his shoes half off;

he can't go home so; it's hanging. Could Miss Daisy stop a

little while at Mrs. Benoit's, I could take the pony to the

blacksmith's — it ain't but a very little ways off — and get

it put on, in a few minutes."

"Well, do, do, Sam," — said Daisy after she had looked at the

matter; and while he took Loupe out of harness, she turned

back to Juanita.

"What is gone wrong?" said the old woman.

"Nothing is wrong," said Daisy; "only the pony has got his

shoe off, and the boy is taking him to the blacksmith's."

"Will my lady come into my house?"

"No, thank you. I'll stay here."

The woman brought out a low chair for her, and set it on the

grass; and took herself her former place on the sill of the

door. She looked earnestly at Daisy; and Daisy on her part had

noticed the fine carriage of the woman, her pleasant features,

and the bright handkerchief which made her turban. Through the

open door she could see the neat order of the room within, and

her eye caught some shells arranged on shelves; but Daisy did

not like to look, and she turned away. She met Juanita's eye;

she felt she must speak.

"This is a pleasant place."

"Why does my lady think so?"

"It looks pleasant," said Daisy. "It is nice. The grass is

pretty, and the trees; and it is a pretty little house, I

think."

The woman smiled. "I think it be a palace of beauty," she

said, — "for Jesus is here."

Daisy looked, a little wondering but entirely respectful; the

whole aspect of Juanita commanded that.

"Does my little lady know, that the presence of the King makes

a poor house fine?"

"I don't quite know what you mean," said Daisy, humbly.

"Does my little lady know that the Lord Jesus loves His

people?"

"Yes," said Daisy, — "I know it."

"But she know not much. When a poor heart say any time, 'Lord,

I am all Thine!' — then the Lord comes to that heart, and He

makes it the house of a King — for He comes there Himself. And

where Jesus is, — all is glory. Do not my little lady read

that in the Bible?"

"I don't remember" — said Daisy.

The woman got up, went into the cottage, and brought out a

large-print Testament which she put into Daisy's hands, open

at the fourteenth chapter of John. Daisy read with curious

interest the words to which she was directed: "Jesus answered

and said unto him, If a man love Me, he will keep My words:

and My Father will love him, and We will come unto him and

make Our abode with him."

Daisy looked at the promise, with her heart beating under

troublesome doubts; when the voice of Juanita broke in upon

them by saying, tenderly, "Does my little lady keep the Lord's

words?"

Down went the book, and the tears rushed into Daisy's eyes.

"Don't call me so," she cried, — "I am Daisy Randolph; — and I

do want to keep His words! — and — I don't know how."

"What troubles my love?" said the woman, in the low tones of a

voice that was always sweet. "Do not she know what the words

of the Lord be?"

"Yes," — said Daisy, hardly able to make herself understood, —

"but —"

"Then do 'em," said Juanita. "The way is straight. What He

say, do."

"But suppose —" said Daisy.

"Suppose what? What do my love suppose?"

"Wouldn't it make it right, if it would do a great deal of

good?"

This confused sentence Juanita pondered over. "What does my

love mean?"

"If it would do a great deal of good — wouldn't that make it

right to do something?"

"Right to do something that the Lord say not do?"

"Yes."

"If you love Jesus, you not talk so," said Juanita,

sorrowfully. But that made Daisy give way altogether.

"Oh, I do love Him! — I do love Him!" she cried; — "but I

don't know what to do." And tears came in a torrent.

Juanita was watchful and thoughtful. When Daisy had very soon

checked herself, she said in the same low, gentle way in which

she had before spoken, "What do the Lord say — to do that some

good thing, — or to keep His words?"

"To keep His words."

"Then keep 'em — and the Lord will do the good thing Himself;

that same or another. He can do what He please; and He tell

you, only keep His words. He want you to show you love Him —

and He tell you how."

Daisy sat quite still to let the tears pass away, and the

struggle in her heart grow calm; then when she could safely

she looked up. She met Juanita's eye. It was fixed on her.

"Is the way straight now?" she asked.

Daisy nodded, with a little bit of a smile on her poor little

lips.

"But there is trouble in the way?" said Juanita.

"Yes," said Daisy, and the old woman saw the eyes redden

again.

"Has the little one a good friend at home to help?"

Daisy shook her head.

"Then let Jesus help. My little lady keep the Lord's words,

and the sweet Lord Jesus will keep her." And rising to her

feet, and clasping her hands, where she stood, Juanita poured

forth a prayer. It was for her little visitor. It was full of

love. It was full of confidence too; and of such clear

simplicity as if, like Stephen, she had seen the heavens open.

But the loving strength of it won Daisy's heart; and when the

prayer was finished she came close to the old woman and threw

her arms round her as she stood, and wept with her face hid in

Juanita's dress. Yet the prayer had comforted her too,

greatly. And though Daisy was very shy of intimacies with

strangers, she liked to feel Juanita's hand on her shoulder;

and after the paroxysm of tears was past, she still stood

quietly by her, without attempting to increase the distance

between them; till she saw Sam coming down the lane with the

pony.

"Good-bye," said Daisy, "there's the boy."

"My lady will come to see old Juanita again?"

"I am Daisy Randolph. I'll come," — said the child, looking

lovingly up. Then she went down the slope to Sam.

"The blacksmith couldn't shoe him, Miss Daisy — he hadn't a

shoe to fit. He took off the old shoe — so Miss Daisy please

not drive him hard home."

Daisy wanted nothing of the kind. To get home soon was no

pleasure; so she let Loupe take his own pace, anything short

of walking; and it was getting dusk when they reached

Melbourne. Daisy was not glad to be there. It was Friday

night; the next day would be Saturday.

Mrs. Randolph came out into the hall to see that nothing was

the matter, and then went back into the drawing-room. Daisy

got her dress changed, and came there too, where the family

were waiting for tea. She came in softly, and sat down by

herself at a table somewhat removed from the others, who were

all busily talking and laughing. But presently Captain

Drummond drew near, and sat down at her side.

"Have you had a good drive, Daisy?"

"Yes, Captain Drummond."

"We missed our history to-day, but I have been making

preparations. Shall we go into the Saxon Heptarchy to-morrow —

you and I — and see if we can get the kingdom settled?"

"If you please. I should like it very much."

"What is the matter with you, Daisy?"

Daisy lifted her wise little face, which indeed looked as if

it were heavy with something beside wisdom, towards her

friend; she was not ready with an answer.

"You aren't going to die on the field of battle yet, Daisy?"

he said, half lightly, and half he knew not why.

It brought a rush of colour to the child's face; the self-

possession must have been great which kept her from giving way

to further expression of feeling. She answered with curious

calmness, "I don't think I shall, Captain Drummond."

The Captain saw it was a bad time to get anything from her,

and he moved away. Preston came the next minute.

"Why, Daisy," he whispered, drawing his chair close, "where

have you been all day? No getting a sight of you. What have

you been about?"

"I have been to Crum Elbow this afternoon."

"Yes, and how late you stayed. Why did you?"

"Loupe lost a shoe. I had to wait for Sam to go to the

blacksmith's with him."

"Really. Did you wait in the road?"

"No. I had a place to wait."

"I dare say you are as hungry as a bear," said Preston. "Now

here comes tea — and waffles, Daisy; you shall have some

waffles and cream. That will make you feel better."

"Cream isn't good with waffles," said Daisy.

"Yes, it is. Cream is good with everything. You shall try. I

know! I am always cross myself when I am hungry."

"I am not hungry, Preston; and I don't think I am cross."

"What are you, then? Come, Daisy, — here is a cup of tea, and

here is a waffle. First the sugar — there, — then the cream.

So."

"You have spoiled it, Preston."

"Eat it — and confess you are hungry and cross too."

Daisy could have laughed, only she was too sore-hearted, and

would surely have cried. She fell to eating the creamed

waffle.

"Is it good?"

"Very good!"

"Confess you are hungry and cross, Daisy."

"I am not cross. And Preston, please! — don't!" Daisy's fork

fell; but she took it up again.

"What is the matter, then, Daisy?"

Daisy did not answer; she went on eating as diligently as she

could.

"Is it that foolish business of the song?" whispered Preston.

"Is that the trouble, Daisy?"

"Please don't, Preston!"

"Well, I won't, till you have had another waffle. Sugar and

cream, Daisy?"

"Yes."

"That's brave! Now eat it up — and tell me, Daisy, is _that_ the

trouble with you?"

He spoke affectionately, as he almost always did to her; and

Daisy did not throw him off.

"You don't understand it, Preston," she said.

"Daisy, I told you my uncle and aunt would not like that sort

of thing."

Daisy was silent, and Preston wondered at her. Mrs. Gary drew

near at this moment, and placed herself opposite Daisy's tea-

cup, using her eyes in the first place.

"What are you talking about?" said she.

"About Daisy's singing, ma'am."

"That's the very thing," said Mrs. Gary, "that I wanted to

speak about. Daisy, my dear, I hope you are going to sing it

properly to your mother the next time she bids you?"

Daisy was silent.

"I wanted to tell you, my dear," said Mrs. Gary, impressively,

"what a poor appearance your refusal made, the other evening.

You could not see it for yourself; but it made you seem

awkward, and foolish, and ill-bred. I am sure everybody would

have laughed, if it had not been for politeness towards your

mother; for the spectacle was ludicrous, thoroughly. You like

to make a graceful appearance, don't you?"

Daisy answered in a low voice, — "Yes, ma'am; when I can."

"Well, you can, my dear, for your behaviour is generally

graceful, and unexceptionable; only the other night it was

very rough and uncouth. I expected you to put your finger in

your mouth the next thing, and stand as if you had never seen

anybody. And Daisy Randolph! the heiress of Melbourne and

Cranford!"

The heiress of Melbourne and Cranford lifted to her aunt's

face a look strangely in contrast with the look bent on her;

so much worldly wisdom was in the one, so much want of it in

the other. Yet those steady grey eyes were not without a

wisdom of their own; and Mrs. Gary met them with a puzzled

feeling of it.

"Do you understand me, Daisy, my dear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you see that it is desirable never to look ridiculous, and

well-bred persons never do?"

"Yes, aunt Gary."

"Then I am sure you won't do it again. It would mortify me for

your father and mother."

Mrs. Gary walked away. Daisy looked thoughtful.

"Will you do it, Daisy?" whispered Preston.

"What?"

"Will you sing the song for them next time? You will, won't

you?"

"I'll do what I can" — said Daisy. But it was said so soberly,

that Preston was doubtful of her. However, he, like Captain

Drummond, had got to the end of his resources for that time;

and seeing his uncle approach, Preston left his seat.

Mr. Randolph took it, and drew Daisy from her own to a place

in his arms. He sat then silent a good while, or talking to

other people; only holding her close and tenderly. Truth to

tell, Mr. Randolph was a little troubled about the course

things were taking; and Daisy and her father were a grave pair

that evening.

Daisy felt his arms were a pleasant shield between her and all

the world; if they might only _keep_ round her! And then she

thought of Juanita's prayer, and of the invisible shield, of a

stronger and more loving arm, that the Lord Jesus puts between

His children and all real harm.

At last Mr. Randolph bent down his head, and brought his lips

to Daisy's, asking her if she had had a nice time that

afternoon.

"Very, papa!" said Daisy, gratefully; and then added, after a

little hesitation, "Papa, do you know old Juanita? — Mrs. St.

Leonard's woman, that Mr. St. Leonard built a little house

for?"

"I do not know her. I believe I have heard of her."

"Papa, would you let me go into her house? She has some

beautiful shells that I should like to see."

"How do you know?"

"I saw them, papa, through the doorway of her house, I waited

there while Sam went with Loupe to the blacksmith's."

"And you did not go in?"

"No, sir — you said I must not, you know."

"I believe Juanita is a safe person, Daisy. You may go in, if

ever you have another opportunity."

"Thank you, papa."

"What are you going to do with the hundred dollars?" said Mr.

Randolph, putting his head down, and speaking softly.

Daisy waited a minute, checked the swelling of her heart,

forbade her tears, steadied her voice to speak; and then said,

"I sha'n't have them, papa."

"Why not?"

"I can't fulfil the conditions." Daisy spoke again, after

waiting a minute.

"Don't you mean to sing?"

Every time Daisy waited. — "I can't, papa."

"Your mother will require it."

Silence, only Mr. Randolph saw that the child's breath went

and came under excitement.

"Daisy, she will require it."

"Yes, papa" — was said, rather faintly.

"And I think you must do it."

No response from Daisy; and no sign of yielding.

"How do you expect to get over it?"

"Papa, won't you help me?" was the child's agonised cry. She

hid her face in her father's breast.

"I have tried to help you. I will give you what will turn your

fancied wrong deed into a good one. It is certainly right to

do charitable things on Sunday."

There was silence, and it promised to last some time. Mr.

Randolph would not hurry her: and Daisy was thinking, "If ye

love Me, keep My commandments. _If ye love Me_."

"Papa," — said she at last, very slowly, and pausing between

her words, — "would you be satisfied, — if I should disobey

you — for a hundred dollars?"

This time it was Mr. Randolph that did not answer, and the

longer he waited the more the answer did not come. He put

Daisy gently off his knee, and rose at last without speaking.

Daisy went out upon the verandah, and sat down on the step;

and there the stars seemed to say to her — "If a man love Me,

he will keep My words." They were shining very bright; so was

that saying to Daisy. She sat looking at them, forgetting all

the people in the drawing-room; and though troubled enough,

she was not utterly unhappy. The reason was, she loved her

King.

Somebody came behind her, and took hold of her shoulders. "My

dear little Daisy!" said the voice of Preston, "I wish you

were an India-rubber ball, that I might chuck you up to the

sky and down again a few times!"

"Why? I don't think it would be nice."

"Why? — why, because you want shaking; you are growing dull, —

yes, absolutely you are getting heavy! you, little Daisy! of

all people in the world. It won't do."

"I don't think such an exercise would benefit me," said Daisy.

"I'd find something else then. Daisy, Daisy," said he, shaking

her shoulders gently, "this religious foolery is spoiling you.

Don't you go and make yourself stupid. Why I don't know you.

What is all this ridiculous stuff? You aren't yourself."

"What do you want me to do, Preston?" said Daisy, standing

before him, not without a certain childish dignity. It was

lost on him.

"I want you to be my own little Daisy," said he, coaxingly.

"Come! — say you will, and give up these outlandish notions you

have got from some old woman or other. What is it they want

you to do? — sing? — Come, promise you will. Promise me!"

"I will sing any day but Sunday."

"Sunday? Now, Daisy! I'm ashamed of you. Why, I never heard

such nonsense. Nobody has such notions but low people. It

isn't sensible. Give it up, Daisy, or I shall not know how to

love you."

"Good night, Preston —"

"Daisy, Daisy! come and kiss me, and be good."

"Good night" — repeated Daisy, without turning; and she walked

off.

It half broke June's heart that night to see that the child's

eyes were quietly dropping tears all the while she was getting

undressed. Preston's last threat had cut very close. But Daisy

said not a word; and when, long after June had left her, she

got into bed, and lay down, it was not Preston's words, but

the reminder of the stars that was with her, and making

harmony among all her troubled thoughts — "If a man love Me,

he will keep My words."

CHAPTER XIV.

SUNDAY EVENING.

In spite of the burden that lay on Daisy's heart, she and

Captain Drummond had a good time the next morning over the

Saxon Heptarchy. They went down to the shore for it, at

Daisy's desire, where they would be undisturbed; and the

morning was hardly long enough. The Captain had provided

himself with a shallow tray filled with modelling clay; which

he had got from all artist friend living a few miles further

up the river. On this the plan of England was nicely marked

out, and by the help of one or two maps which he cut up for

the occasion, the Captain divided off the seven kingdoms

greatly to Daisy's satisfaction and enlightenment. Then, how

they went on with the history! introduced Christianity,

enthroned Egbert, and defeated the Danes under Alfred. They

read from the book, and fought it all out on the clay plan as

they went along. At Alfred they stopped a good while, to

consider the state of the world in the little island of

Britain at that time. The good king's care for his people, his

love for study and encouragement of learning; his writing

fables for the people; his wax candles to mark time; his

building with brick and stone; his founding the English navy,

and victories with the same; no less than his valour and

endurance in every time of trial; all these things Captain

Drummond, whose father had been an Englishman, duly enlarged

upon, and Daisy heard them with greedy ears. Truth to tell,

the Captain had read up a little for the occasion, being a

good deal moved with sympathy for his little friend, who he

saw was going through a time of some trial. Nothing was to be

seen of that just now, indeed, other than the peculiarly soft

and grave expression which Daisy's face had worn all this

week; and which kept reminding the Captain to be sorry for

her.

They got through with Alfred at last — by the way, the Captain

had effaced the dividing lines of the seven kingdoms and

brought all to one in Egbert's time — and now they went on

with Alfred's successors. A place was found on the sand for

Denmark and Norway to show themselves; and Sweyn and Canute

came over; and there was no bating to the interest with which

the game of human life went on. In short, Daisy and the

Captain having tucked themselves away in a nook of the beach

and the tenth and eleventh centuries, were lost to all the

rest of the world and to the present time; till a servant at

last found them with the information that the luncheon bell

had rung, and Mrs. Randolph was ready to go out with the

Captain. And William the Conqueror had just landed at

Hastings!

"Never mind, Daisy," said the Captain; "we'll go on with it,

the next chance we get."

Daisy thanked him earnestly, but the thought that Sunday must

come and go first, threw a shadow over her thanks. The Captain

saw it; and walked home thinking curiously about the "field of

battle" — not Hastings.

Daisy did not go in to luncheon. She did not like meeting all

the people who felt so gay, while she felt so much trouble.

Nor did she like being with her mother, whose manner all the

week had constantly reminded Daisy of what Daisy never forgot.

The rest of Saturday passed soberly away. There was a cloud in

the air.

And the cloud was high and dark Sunday morning, though it was

as fair a summer day as might be seen. Some tears escaped

stealthily from Daisy's eyes, as she knelt in the little

church beside her mother; but the prayers were deep and sweet

and strong to her, very much. Sadly sorry was Daisy when they

were ended. The rest of the service was little to her. Mr.

Pyne did not preach like Mr. Dinwiddie; and she left the

church with a downcast heart, thinking that so much of the

morning was past.

The rest of the day Daisy kept by herself, in her own room;

trying to get some comfort in reading and praying. For the

dread of the evening was strong upon her; every movement of

her mother spoke displeasure and determination. Daisy felt her

heart beating gradually quicker and quicker, as the hours of

the day wore on.

"Ye ain't well, Miss Daisy," — said June, who had come in as

usual without being heard.

"Yes I am, June," said Daisy. But she had started when the

woman spoke, and June saw that now a tear sprang.

"Did you eat a good lunch, Miss Daisy?"

"I don't know, June. I guess I didn't eat much."

"Let me bring you something!" — said the woman, coaxingly —

"some strawberries, with some good cream to 'em."

"No — I can't, June — I don't want them. What o'clock is it?"

"It is just on to five, Miss Daisy."

Five! Daisy suddenly recollected her scholar, whom she had

directed to come to her at this hour. Jumping up, she seized

her hat, and rushed off down stairs and through the shrubbery,

leaving June lost in wonder and concern.

At a Belvedere, some distance from the house, and nearer the

gate, Daisy had chosen to meet her pupil; and she had given

orders at the Lodge to have her guided thither when she should

come. And there she was; Daisy could see the red head of hair

before she got to the place herself. Hephzibah looked very

much as she did on week days; her dress partially covered with

a little shawl; her bonnet she had thrown off; and if the hair

had been coaxed into any state of smoothness before leaving

home, it was all gone now.

"How do you do, Hephzibah?" said Daisy. "I am glad to see

you."

Hephzibah smiled, but unless that meant a civil answer, she

gave none. Daisy sat down beside her.

"Do you know how to read, Hephzibah?"

The child first shook her shaggy head — then nodded it. What

that meant, Daisy was somewhat at a loss.

"Do you know your letters?"

Hephzibah nodded.

"What is that letter?"

Daisy had not forgotten to bring a reading book, and now put

Hephzibah through the alphabet, which she seemed to know

perfectly, calling each letter by its right name. Daisy then

asked if she could read words; and getting an assenting nod

again, she tried her in that. But here Hephzibah's education

was defective; she could read indeed, after a fashion; but it

was a slow and stumbling fashion; and Daisy and she were a

good while getting through a page. Daisy shut the book up.

"Now, Hephzibah," said she, "do you know anything about what

is in the Bible?"

Hephzibah shook her head in a manner the reverse of

encouraging.

"Did you never read the Bible, nor have any one read it to

you?"

Another shake.

Daisy thereupon began to tell her little neighbour the grand

story which concerned them both so nearly, making it as clear

and simple as she could. Hephzibah's eyes were fixed on her

intently all the while; and Daisy, greatly interested herself,

wondered if any of the interest had reached Hephzibah's heart,

and made the gaze of her eyes so unwavering. They expressed

nothing. Daisy hoped, and went on, till at a pause Hephzibah

gave utterance to the first words (of her own) that she had

spoken during the interview. They came out very suddenly, like

an unexpected jet of water from an unused fountain.

"Mother says, you're the fus'ratest little girl she ever see!"

Daisy was extremely confounded. The thread of her discourse

was so thoroughly broken, indeed, that she could not directly

begin it again; and in the minute of waiting she saw how low

the sun was. She dismissed Hephzibah, telling her to be at the

Belvedere the same hour next Sunday.

As the shaggy little red head moved away through the bushes,

Daisy watched it, wondering whether she had done the least bit

of good. Then another thought made her heart beat, and she

turned again to see how low the sun was. Instead of the sun,

she saw Gary McFarlane.

"Who is that, Daisy?" said he, looking after the disappearing

red head.

"A poor little girl —" said Daisy.

"So I should think, — very poor! — looks so indeed! How came

she here?"

"She came by my orders, Mr. McFarlane."

"By your orders! What have you got there, Daisy? Let's see! As

sure as I'm alive! — a spelling book. Keeping school, Daisy?

Don't say no!"

Daisy did not say no, nor anything. She had taken care not to

let Gary get hold of her Bible; the rest she must manage as

she could.

"This is benevolence!" went on the young man. "Teaching a

spelling lesson in a Belvedere with the thermometer at ninety

degrees in the shade? What sinners all the rest of us are! I

declare, Daisy, you make me feel bad."

"I should not think it, Mr. McFarlane."

"Daisy, you have _à plomb_ enough for a princess, and gravity

enough for a Puritan! I should like to see you when you are

grown up, — only then I shall be an old man, and it will be of

no consequence. What _do_ you expect to do with that little red

head? — now do tell me."

"She don't know anything, Mr. McFarlane."

"No more don't I! Come Daisy — have pity on me. You never saw

anybody more ignorant than I am. There are half a dozen things

at this moment which I don't know — and which you can tell me.

Come, will you?"

"I must go in, Mr. McFarlane."

"But tell me first. Come, Daisy! I want to know why is it so

much more wicked to sing a song than to make somebody else

sing-song? — for that's the way they all do the spelling-book,

I know. Eh, Daisy?"

"How did you know anything about it, Mr. McFarlane?"

"Come, Daisy, — explain. I am all in a fog — or else you are.

This spelling-book seems to me a very wicked thing on Sunday."

"I will take it, if you please, Mr. McFarlane."

"Not if I know it! I want my ignorance instructed, Daisy. I am

persuaded you are the best person to enlighten me — but if

not, I shall try this spelling-book on Mrs. Randolph. I regard

it as a great curiosity, and an important question in

metaphysics."

Poor Daisy! She did not know what to do; conscious that Gary

was laughing at her all the while, and most unwilling that the

story of the spelling-book should get to Mrs. Randolph's ears.

She stood hesitating and troubled, when her eye caught sight

of Preston near. Springing to him she cried, "Oh, Preston, get

my little book from Mr. McFarlane — he won't give it to me."

There began then a race of the most uproarious sort between

the two young men — springing, turning, darting round among

the trees and bushes, shouting to and laughing at each other.

Daisy another time would have been amused; now she was almost

frightened, lest all this boisterous work should draw

attention. At last, however, Preston got the spelling-book, or

Gary let himself be overtaken and gave it up.

"It's mischief, Preston!" he said; — "deep mischief — occult

mischief. I give you warning."

"What is it, Daisy?" said Preston. "What is it all about?"

"Never mind. Oh, Preston! don't ask anything, but let me have

it!"

"There it is then; but Daisy," he said, affectionately,

catching her in his arms, — "you are going to sing to-night,

aren't you?"

"Don't Preston — don't! let me go," cried Daisy, struggling to

escape from him; and she ran away as soon as he let her,

hardly able to keep back her tears. She felt it very hard.

Preston and Gary, and her mother and her father, — all against

her in different ways. Daisy kneeled down by her window-sill

in her own room, to try to get comfort and strength; though

she was in too great tumult to pray connectedly. Her little

heart was beating sadly. But there was no doubt at all in

Daisy's mind as to what she should do. — "If a man love Me, he

will keep My words." She never questioned now about doing

that.

The dreaded tea bell rang, and she went down; but utterly

unable to eat or drink through agitation. Nobody seemed to

notice her particularly, and she wandered out upon the

verandah; and waited there. There presently her father's arms

came round her before she was aware.

"What are you going to do, Daisy?"

"Nothing, papa," she whispered.

"Are you not going to sing?"

"Papa, I can't!" cried Daisy, dropping her face against his

arm. Her father raised it again, and drawing her opposite one

of the windows, looked into the dark-ringed eyes and white

face.

"You are not well," said he. "You are not fit to be up; and my

orders to you, Daisy, are to go immediately to bed. I'll send

you some medicine by and by. Good night!"

He kissed her, and Daisy needed no second bidding. She sprang

away, getting into the house by another door; and lost no

time. Her fear was that her mother might send for her before

she could get undressed. But no summons came; June was speedy,

thinking and saying it was a very good thing for Daisy to do;

and then she went off, and left her alone with the moonlight.

Daisy was in no hurry then. She knelt by her beloved window,

where the scent of the honeysuckle was strong in the dewy air;

and with a less throbbing heart prayed her prayer. But she was

not at ease yet; it was very uncertain in her mind how her

mother would take this order of her father's; and what would

come after, if she was willing to let it pass. So Daisy could

not go to sleep, but lay wide awake and fearing in the

moonlight, and listening to every sound in the house that came

to her ears.

The moonlight shone in peacefully, and Daisy, lying there and

growing gradually calmer, began to wonder in herself that

there should be so much difficulty made about anybody's doing

right. If she had been set on some wrong thing, it would have

made but a very little disturbance — if any; but now, when she

was only trying to do right, the whole house was roused to

prevent her. Was it so in those strange old times that the

eleventh chapter of Hebrews told of? — when men, and women,

were stoned, and sawn asunder, and slain with the sword, and

wandered like wild animals in sheepskins and goatskins and in

dens and caves of the earth? all for the name of Jesus. But if

they suffered once, they were happy now. Better anything, at

all events, than to deny that name!

The evening seemed excessively long to Daisy, lying there on

her bed awake, and listening with strained ears for any sound

near her room. She heard none; the hours passed, though so

very slowly, as they do when all the minutes are watched; and

Daisy heard nothing but dim distant noises, and grew pretty

quiet. She had heard nothing else, when, turning her head from

the moonlight window, she caught the sight of a white figure

at her bedside; and by the noble form and stately proportions

Daisy knew instantly whose figure it was. Those soft flowing

draperies had been before her eyes all day. A pang shot

through the child, that seemed to go from the crown of her

head to the soles of her feet.

"Are you awake, Daisy?"

"Yes, mamma," she said, feebly.

"Get up. I want to speak to you."

Daisy got off the bed, and the white figure, in the little

night dress, stood opposite the other white figure, robed in

muslin and laces that fell around it like a cloud.

"Why did you come to bed?"

"Papa — papa ordered me."

"It's all the same. If you had not come to bed, Daisy — if you

had been well, — would you have sung when I ordered you to-

night?"

Daisy hesitated, and then said in a whisper —

"No, mamma — not that."

"Think before you answer me, for I shall not ask twice. Will

you promise to sing the gypsy-song, because I command you,

next Sunday in the evening? Answer, Daisy."

Very low it was, for Daisy trembled so that she did not know

how she could speak at all, but the answer came, "I can't,

mamma."

Mrs. Randolph stepped to the bell, and rang it. Almost at the

same instant June entered, bearing a cup in her hand.

"What is that?" said Mrs. Randolph.

"Master sent Miss Daisy some medicine."

"Set it down. I have got some here better for her. June, take

Daisy's hands."

"Oh, mamma, no!" exclaimed Daisy. "Oh, please send June away!"

The slight gesture of command to June which answered this, was

as imperious as it was slight. It was characteristically like

Mrs. Randolph; graceful and absolute. June obeyed it, as old

instinct told her to do; though sorely against her will. She

had held hands before, though not Daisy's; and she knew very

well the look of the little whip with which her mistress

stepped back into the room, having gone to her own for it. In

a Southern home that whip had been wont to live in Mrs.

Randolph's pocket. June's heart groaned within her.

The whip was small, but it had been made for use, not for

play; and there was no play in Mrs. Randolph's use of it. This

was not like her father's ferule, which Daisy could bear in

silence, if tears would come; her mother's handling forced

cries from her; though smothered and kept under in a way that

showed the child's self-command.

"What have you to say to me?" Mrs. Randolph responded, without

waiting for the answer. But Daisy had none to give. At length

her mother paused.

"Will you do what I bid you?"

Daisy was unable to speak for tears — and perhaps for fear.

The wrinkles on June's brow were strangely folded together

with agitation; but nobody saw them.

"Will you sing for me next Sunday?" repeated Mrs. Randolph.

There was a struggle in the child's heart, as great almost as

a child's heart can bear. The answer came, when it came,

tremblingly: "I can't, mamma."

"You cannot?" said Mrs. Randolph.

"I can't, mamma."

The chastisement which followed was so severe, that June was

moved out of all the habits of her life, to interfere in

another's cause. The white-skinned race were no mark for

trouble in June's mind; least of them all, her little charge.

And if white skin was no more delicate in reality than dark

skin, it answered to the lash much more speakingly.

"Missus, you'll kill her!" June said, using in her agitation a

carefully disused form of speech; for June was a freed-woman.

A slight turn of the whip brought the lash sharply across her

wrist, with the equally sharp words, "Mind your own business!"

A thrill went through the woman, like an electric spark,

firing a whole life-train of feeling and memory; but the lines

of her face never moved, and not the stirring of a muscle told

what the touch had reached, besides a few nerves. She had done

her charge no good by her officiousness, as June presently saw

with grief. It was not till Mrs. Randolph had thoroughly

satisfied her displeasure at being thwarted, and not until

Daisy was utterly exhausted, that Mrs. Randolph stayed her

hand.

"I will see what you will say to me next Sunday!" she

remarked, calmly. And she left the room.

It was not that Mrs. Randolph did not love her daughter, in

her way; for in her way she was fond of Daisy; but the habit

of bearing no opposition to her authority was life-strong, and

probably intensified in the present instance by perceiving

that her husband was disposed to shield the offender. The only

person in whose favour the rule ever relaxed, was Ransom. June

was left with a divided mind, between the dumb indignation

which had never known speech, and an almost equally speechless

concern.

Daisy, as soon as she was free, had made her way to the

window; there the child was, on her knees, her head on her

window sill, and weeping as if her very heart were melting and

flowing away drop by drop. And June stood like a dark statue,

looking at her; the wrinkles in her forehead scarce testifying

to the work going on under it. She wanted first of all to see

Daisy in bed; but it seemed hopeless to speak to her; and

there the little round head lay on the window-sill, and the

moonbeams poured in lovingly over it. June stood still and

never stirred.

It was a long while before Daisy's sobs began to grow fainter,

and June ventured to put in her word, and got Daisy to lay

herself on the bed again. Then June went off after another

sort of medicine of her own devising, despising the drops

which Mr. Randolph had given her. Without making a confidant

of the housekeeper, she contrived to get from her the

materials to make Daisy a cup of arrowroot, with wine and

spices. June knew well how to be a cook when she pleased; and

what she brought to Daisy was, she knew, as good as a cook

could make it.

She found the child lying white and still on the bed, and not

asleep, nor dead, which June had almost feared at first sight

of her. She didn't want the arrowroot, she said.

"Miss Daisy, s'pose you take it?" said June. "It won't do you

no hurt — maybe it'll put you to sleep."

Daisy was perhaps too weak to resist. She rose half up and eat

the arrowroot, slowly, and without a word. It did put a little

strength into her, as June had said. But when she gave back

the cup, and let herself fall again upon her pillow, Daisy

said, "June, I'd like to die."

"Oh, why, Miss Daisy?" said June.

"Jesus knows that I love Him now; and I'd like —" said the

child, steadying her voice — "I'd like — to be in heaven!"

"Oh, no, Miss Daisy — not yet; you've got a great deal to do

in the world first."

"Jesus knows I love Him —" repeated the child.

"Miss Daisy, He knowed it before — He's the Lord."

"Yes, but — He wants people to _show_ they love Him, June."

"Do, don't! Miss Daisy," said June, half crying. "Can't ye go

to sleep? Do, now!"

It was but three minutes more, and Daisy had complied with her

request. June watched, and saw that the sleep was real; went

about the room on her noiseless feet; came back to Daisy's

bed, and finally went off for her own pillow, with which she

lay down on the matting at the foot of the bed, and there

passed the remainder of the night.

CHAPTER XV.

SCHROEDER'S MOUNTAIN.

The sun was shining bright the next morning, and Daisy sat on

one of the seats under the trees, half in sunshine, half in

shadow. It was after breakfast, and she had been scarcely seen

or heard that morning before. Ransom came up.

"Daisy, do you want to go fishing?"

"No, I think not."

"You don't! What are you going to do?"

"I am not going to do anything."

"I don't believe it. What ails you? Mother said I was to ask

you — and there you sit like a wet feather. I am glad I am not

a girl, however!"

Ransom went off, and a very faint colour rose in Daisy's

cheek.

"Are you not well, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph, who had also

drawn near.

"I am well, papa."

"You don't look so. What's the matter, that you don't go a-

fishing, when Ransom has the consideration to ask you?"

Daisy's tranquillity was very nearly overset. But she

maintained it, and only answered without the change of a

muscle, "I have not the inclination, papa." Indeed her face

was _too_ quiet; and Mr. Randolph, putting that with its

colourless hue, and the very sweet upward look her eyes had

first given him, was not satisfied. He went away to the

breakfast room.

"Felicia," said he, in a low tone, bending down by his wife, —

"did you have any words with Daisy last night?"

"Has she told you about it?" said Mrs. Randolph.

"Told me what? What is there to tell?"

"Nothing, on my part," answered the lady, nonchalantly. "Daisy

may tell you what she pleases."

"Felicia," said Mr. Randolph, looking much vexed, "that child

has borne too much already. She is ill."

"It is her own fault. I told you, Mr. Randolph, I would as

lief not have a child as not have her mind me. She shall do

what I bid her, if she dies for it."

"It won't come to that," said Mrs. Gary. Mr. Randolph turned

on his heel.

Meantime, another person who had seen with sorrow Daisy's pale

face, and had half a guess as to the cause of it, came up to

her side and sat down.

"Daisy, what is to be done to-day?"

"I don't know, Captain Drummond."

"You don't feel like storming the heights, this morning?"

Again, to him also, the glance of Daisy's eye was so very

sweet, and so very wistful, that the captain was determined in

a purpose he had half had in his mind.

"What do you say to a long expedition, Daisy?"

"I don't feel like driving, Captain Drummond."

"No, but suppose I drive, — and we will leave Loupe at home

for to-day. I want to go as far as Schroeder's Hill, to look

after trilobites; and I do not want anybody with me but you.

Shall we go?"

"What are those things, Captain Drummond?"

"Trilobites?"

"Yes. What are they?"

"Curious things, Daisy! They are a kind of fish that are found

on land."

"Fish on land! But then they can't be fish, Captain Drummond?"

"Suppose we go and see," said the captain; "and then, if we

find any, we shall know more about them than we do now."

"But how do you catch them?"

"With my hands, I suppose."

"With your hands, Captain Drummond?"

"Really I don't know any other way, — unless your hands will

help. Come! shall we go and try?"

Daisy slowly rose up, very mystified, but with a little light

of interest and curiosity breaking on her face. The Captain

moved off on his part to get ready, well satisfied that he was

doing a good thing.

It went to the Captain's heart, nevertheless, for he had a

kind one, to see all the way how pale and quiet Daisy's face

was. She asked him no more about trilobites, she did not talk

about anything; the subjects the Captain started were soon let

drop. And not because she was too ill to talk, for Daisy's eye

was thoughtfully clear and steady, and the Captain had no

doubt but she was busy enough in her own mind with things she

did not bring out. What sort of things? he was very curious to

know. For he had never seen Daisy's face so exceeding sweet in

its expression as he saw it now; though the cheeks were pale

and worn, there was in her eye whenever it was lifted to his,

a light of something hidden that the Captain could not read.

It was true. Daisy had sat stunned and dull all the morning

until he came with his proposal for the drive; and with the

first stir of excitement in getting ready, a returning tide of

love had filled the dry places in Daisy's heart; and it was

full now of feelings that only wanted a chance to come out.

Meanwhile she sat as still as a mouse and as grave as a judge.

The hill for which they were bound was some dozen or more

miles away. It was a wild rough place. Arrived at the foot of

it, they could go no further by the road; the Captain tied his

horse to a tree, and he and Daisy scrambled up the long

winding ascent, thick with briars and bushes, or strewn with

pieces of rock, and shaded with a forest of old trees. This

was hard walking for Daisy today; she did not feel like

struggling with any difficulties, and her poor little feet

almost refused to carry her through the roughnesses of the

last part of the way. She was very glad when they reached the

ground where the Captain wanted to explore, and she could sit

down and be still. It was quite on the other side of the

mountain; a strange-looking place. The face of the hill was

all bare of trees, and seemed to be nothing but rock; and

jagged and broken as if quarriers had been there cutting and

blasting. Nothing but a steep surface of broken rock; bare

enough; but it was from the sun, and Daisy chose the first

smooth fragment to sit down upon. Then what a beautiful place!

For, from that rocky seat, her eye had a range over acres and

acres of waving slopes of tree tops; down in the valley at the

mountain foot, and up and down so many slopes and ranges of

swelling and falling hillsides and dells, that the eye

wandered from one to another and another, softer and softer as

the distance grew, or brighter and more varied as the view

came nearer home. A wilderness all, no roof of a house nor

smoke from a chimney even; but those sunny ranges of hills,

over which now and then a cloud shadow was softly moving, and

which finished in a dim blue horizon.

"Well, are you going to sit here?" said the Captain, "or will

you help me to hunt up my fishes?"

"Oh, I'll sit here," said Daisy. She did not believe much in

the success of the Captain's hunt.

"Won't you be afraid, while I am going all over creation?"

"Of what?" said Daisy.

The Captain laughed a little and went off; thinking, however,

not so much of his trilobites as of the sweet fearless look

the little face had given him. Uneasy about the child too, for

Daisy's face looked not as he liked to see it look. But where

got she that steady calm, and curious fearlessness. "She is a

timid child," thought the Captain, as he climbed over the

rocks; "or she was, the other night."

But the Captain and Daisy were looking with different eyes; no

wonder they did not find the same things. In all that sunlit

glow over hill and valley, which warmed every tree-top, Daisy

had seen only another light, — the love of the Lord Jesus

Christ. With that love round her, over her, how could she fear

anything. She sat a little while, resting and thinking; then,

being weary and feeling weak, she slipped down on the ground,

and like Jacob taking a stone for her pillow, she went to

sleep.

So the Captain found her, every time he came back from his

hunt to look after his charge; he let her sleep, and went off

again. He had a troublesome hunt. At last he found some traces

of what he sought; then he forgot Daisy in his eagerness, and

it was after a good long interval the last time that he came

to Daisy's side again. She was awake.

"What have you got?" she said, as he came up with his hands

full.

"I have got my fish."

"Have you! Oh, where is it?"

"How do you do?" said the Captain, sitting down beside her.

"I do very well. Where is the fish? You have got nothing but

stones there, Captain Drummond?"

The Captain, without speaking, displayed one of the stones he

had in his hand. It looked very curious. Upon a smooth flat

surface, where the stone had been split, there was a raised

part which had the appearance of some sort of animal; but

this, too, seemed to be stone, and was black and shining,

though its parts were distinct.

"What is that, Captain Drummond? It is a stone."

"It is a fish."

"That?"

"That."

"But you are laughing."

"Am I?" said the Captain, as grave as a senator. "It's a fish

for all that."

"This curious black thing?"

"Precisely."

"What sort of a fish?"

"Daisy, have you had any luncheon?"

"No, sir."

"Then you had better discuss that subject first. Soldiers

cannot get along without their rations, you'll find."

"What is that?" said Daisy.

"Rations?"

"Yes, sir."

"Daily bread, Daisy. Of one sort or another, as the case may

be. Where is that basket?"

Daisy had charge of it, and would not let him take it out of

her hands. She unfolded napkins, and permitted the Captain to

help himself when she had all things ready. Then bread-and-

butter and salad were found to be very refreshing. But while

Daisy ate, she looked at the trilobite.

"Please tell me what it is, Captain Drummond."

"It is a Crustacean."

"But, you know, I don't know what a Crustacean is."

"A Crustacean is a fellow who wears his bones on the outside."

"Captain Drummond! What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean that, Daisy. Did you never hear of the way

soldiers used to arm themselves for the fight in old times in

plates of jointed armour?"

"Yes, I know they did."

"Well, these fellows are armed just so — only they do not put

on steel or brass, but hard plates of bone or horn, that do

exactly as well, and are jointed just as nicely."

"And those are Crustaceans?"

"Those are Crustaceans."

"And was this thing armed so?"

"Splendidly. Don't you see those marks? — those show the rings

of his armour. Those rings fitted so nicely, and played so

easily upon one another, that he could curl himself all up

into a ball if he liked, and bring his armour all round him;

for it was only on his back, so to speak."

"And how came he into this rock, Captain Drummond?"

"Ah! how did he?" said the Captain, looking contentedly at the

trilobite. "That's more than I can tell you, Daisy. Only he

lived before the rock was made, and when it was made, it

wrapped him up in it, somehow; and now we have got him!"

"But, Captain Drummond! —"

"What is it?"

"When do you suppose this rock was made?"

"Can't just say, Daisy. Some rocks are young, and some are

old, you know. This is one of the old rocks."

"But how do you know, Captain Drummond?"

"I know by the signs," said the Captain.

"What is an old rock? how old?"

"I am sure I can't say, Daisy. Only that a young rock is apt

to be a good deal older than Adam and Eve."

"How can you tell that?"

"When you see a man's hair grey, can't you tell that he is

old?"

"But there are no grey hairs in rocks?" said Daisy.

"Yes, there are. Trilobites do just as well."

"But, I _say_," said Daisy, laughing, "how can you tell that the

rock is old? You wouldn't know that grey hairs were a sign, if

you saw them on young people."

"Pretty well, Daisy!" said the Captain, delighted to see her

interested in something again; — "pretty well! But you will

have to study something better than me, to find out about all

that. Only it is true."

"And you were not laughing?"

"Not a bit of it. That little fellow, I suppose, lived a

thousand million years ago; may as well say a thousand as

anything."

"I can't see how you can tell," said Daisy, looking puzzled.

"That was a strange old time, when he was swimming about — or

when most of them were. There were no trees, to speak of; and

no grass or anything but sea-weed and mosses; and no living

things but fishes and oysters and such creatures?"

"Where were the beasts then, and the birds?"

"They were not made yet. That's the reason, I suppose, there

was no grass for them to eat."

Daisy looked down at the trilobite; and looked profoundly

thoughtful. That little, shiny, black, stony thing, _that_ had

lived and flourished so many ages ago! Once more she looked up

into the Captain's face — to see if he were trifling with her.

He shook his head.

"True as a book, Daisy."

"But, Captain Drummond, please, how do you know it?"

"Just think, Daisy, — this little fellow frolicked away in the

mud at the bottom of the sea, with his half-moons of eyes —

and round him swam all sorts of fishes that do not live

nowadays; fishes with plate armour like himself; everybody was

in armour."

"Half-moons of eyes, Captain Drummond?"

"Yes. He had, or some of them had, two semi-circular walls of

eyes — one looked before and behind and all round to the

right, and the other looked before and behind and all round at

the left; and in each wall were two hundred eyes."

The Captain smiled to himself to see Daisy's face at this

statement, though outwardly he kept perfectly grave. Daisy's

own simple orbs were so full and intent. She looked from him

to the fossil.

"But, Captain Drummond —" she began, slowly.

"Well, Daisy? After you have done, I shall begin."

"Did you say that this thing lived at the bottom of the sea."

"Precisely."

"But then how could he get up here?"

"Seems difficult, don't it?" said the Captain. "Well, Daisy,

the people that know, tell us that all the land we have was

once at the bottom of the sea; so these rocks had their turn."

"All the land?" said Daisy. "Oh, that is what the Bible says!"

"The Bible!" said the Captain, in his turn. "Pray where, if

you please?"

"Why, don't you know, Captain Drummond? — when God said, 'Let

the waters be gathered together into one place, and let the

dry land appear.' "

The Captain whistled softly, — with an amused face, and

stealthily watched Daisy, whose countenance was full of the

most beautiful interest. Almost lovingly she bent over the

trilobite, thinking her own thoughts; while her friend

presently, from observing the expression of her face, began to

take notice anew of the thin and pale condition of the cheeks,

that had been much healthier a week ago.

"You like to look at armour, Daisy?" he said.

She made no answer.

"Are you still in the mind to 'die on the field of battle'?"

He guessed the question would touch her, but curiosity got the

better of sympathy with him. He was not prepared for the

wistful, searching look that Daisy gave him instantly, nor for

the indescribable tenderness and sorrow that mingled in it. As

before, she did not answer.

"Forgive me, Daisy," said the Captain, involuntarily "You know

you told me you were a soldier."

Daisy's heart was very tender, and she had been living all the

morning in that peculiar nearness to Christ which those know

who suffer for Him. She looked at the Captain, and burst into

tears.

"You told me you were a soldier —" he repeated, not quite

knowing what to say.

"Oh, Captain Drummond!" said Daisy, weeping, — "I wish you

were!"

It stung the Captain. He knew what she meant. But he quietly

asked her why?

"Because then," said Daisy, "you would know Jesus; and I want

you to be happy."

"Why, Daisy," said Captain Drummond, though his conscience

smote him, — "you don't seem to me very happy lately."

"Don't I?" she said. "But I am happy. I only wish everybody

else was happy too."

She presently wiped her eyes, and stood up. "Captain

Drummond," said she, "don't you think we can find another of

these things?"

Anything to change the course matters had taken, the Captain

thought, so he gave ready assent; and he and Daisy entered

upon a most lively renewed quest among the rocks that covered

all that mountain-side. Daisy was more eager than he; she

wanted very much to have a trilobite for her own keeping; the

difficulty was, she did not know how to look for it. All she

could do was to follow her friend, and watch all his doings,

and direct him to new spots in the mountain that he had not

tried. In the course of this business the Captain did some

adventurous climbing; it would have distressed Daisy if she

had not been so intent upon his object; but as it was she

strained her little head back to look at him, where he picked

his way along at a precipitous height above her, sometimes

holding to a bramble or sapling, and sometimes depending on

his own good footing and muscular agility. In this way of

progress, while making good his passage from one place to

another, the Captain's foot in leaping struck upon a loosely

poised stone or fragment of rock. It rolled from under him. A

spring saved the Captain, but the huge stone, once set a-

going, continued its way down the hill.

"Daisy — look out!" he shouted.

"Have you got one?" said Daisy, springing forward. She

misunderstood his warning; and her bound brought her exactly

under the rolling stone. She never saw it till it had reached

her, and knocked her down.

"Hollo, Daisy!" shouted Captain Drummond, — "is all right?"

He got no answer, listened, shouted again, and then made two

jumps from where he stood to the bottom. Daisy lay on the

ground, her little foot under the stone; her eyes closed, her

face paler than ever. Without stopping to think how heavy the

stone was, with a tremendous exertion of strength the young

man pushed it from where it lay, and released the foot; but he

was very much afraid damage was done. "I couldn't help it" —

said the Captain to himself, as he looked at the great piece

of rock; but the first thing was to get Daisy's eyes open.

There was no spring near that he knew of; he went back to

their lunch basket and brought from it a bottle of claret —

all he could find — and with it wetted Daisy's lips and brow.

The claret did perhaps as well as cold water; for Daisy

revived; but as soon as she sat up and began to move, her

words were broken off by a scream of pain.

"What is it, Daisy?" said the Captain. "Your foot? — that

confounded stone! — can't you move it?"

"No," — said Daisy, with a short breath, "I can't move it.

Please excuse me, Captain Drummond — I couldn't help crying

out that minute; it hurt me so. It doesn't hurt me so much now

when I keep still."

The Captain kept still too, wishing very much that he and

Daisy and the trilobites were all back in their places again.

How long could they sit still up there on the mountain? He

looked at the sun; he looked at his watch. It was three

o'clock. He looked at Daisy.

"Let me see," said he, "if anything is the matter. Hard to

find out, through this thick boot! How does it feel now?"

"It pains me very much, these two or three minutes."

The Captain looked at Daisy's face again, and then, without

more ado, took his knife and cut the lacings of the boot. "How

is that?" he asked.

"That is a _great_ deal better."

"If it hadn't been, you would have fainted again directly. Let

us see — Daisy, I think I had better cut the boot off. You

have sprained the ankle, or something, and it is swollen."

Daisy said nothing, and the Captain went on very carefully and

tenderly to cut the boot off.

It was a very necessary proceeding. The foot was terribly

swollen already. Again the Captain mused, looking from the

child's foot to her face.

"How is the pain now?"

"It aches a good deal."

He saw it was vastly worse than her words made it.

"My little soldier," said he, "how do you suppose I am going

to get you down the hill, to where we left our carriage?"

"I don't know," said Daisy. "You can't carry me."

"What makes you think so?"

"I don't _know_," said Daisy, — "but I don't think you can." And

she was a little afraid, he saw.

"I will be as careful as I can, and you must be as brave as

you can, for I don't see any other way, Daisy. And I think,

the sooner we go the better; so that this foot may have some

cold or hot lotion or something."

"Wait a minute," said Daisy, hastily.

And raising herself up to a sitting position, she bent over

her little head, and covered her eyes with her hand. The

Captain felt very strangely. He guessed in a minute what she

was about; that in pain and fear, Daisy was seeking an unseen

help, and trusting in it; and in awed silence the young

officer was as still as she, till the little head was raised.

"Now," she said, "you may take me."

The Captain always had a good respect for Daisy; but he

certainly felt now as if he had the dignity of twenty-five

years in his arms. He raised her as gently as possible from

the ground; he knew the changed position of the foot gave her

new pain, for a flush rose to Daisy's brow, but she said not

one word either of suffering or expostulation. Her friend

stepped with her as gently as he could over the rough way;

Daisy supported herself partly by an arm round his neck, and

was utterly mute, till they were passing the place of

luncheon; then she broke out, —

"Oh! the trilobite!"

"Never mind the trilobite."

"But are you going to lose it, Captain Drummond?"

"Not if you want it. I'll come back for it another day — if I

break my furlough."

"I could hold it in my other hand — if I had it."

The Captain thought the bottle of claret might chance to be

the most wanted thing; nevertheless he stopped, stooped, and

picked up the fossil. Daisy grasped it; and they went on their

way down the mountain. It was a very trying way to both of

them. The Captain was painfully anxious to step easily, which

among rocks and bushes he could not always do, especially with

a weight in his arms; and Daisy's foot hanging down, gave her

dreadful pain because of the increased rush of blood into it.

Her little lips were firmly set together many a time, to avoid

giving her friend the distress of knowing how much she

suffered; and once the Captain heard a low whisper not meant

for his ear but uttered very close to it, — "O Lord Jesus,

help me." It went through and through the Captain's mind and

heart. But he only set his teeth too, and plunged on, as fast

as he could softly, down the rough mountain side. And if ever

anybody was glad, that was he when they reached the wagon.

There was a new difficulty now, for the little vehicle had no

place in which Daisy could remain lying down. The seat was

fast; the Captain could not remove it. He did the best he

could. He put Daisy sideways on the seat, so that the hurt

foot could be stretched out and kept in one position upon it;

and he himself stood behind her, holding the reins. In that

way he served as a sort of support for the little head, which

he sometimes feared would sink in a swoon; for while she lay

on the ground, and he was trying measures with the wagon, the

closed eyes and pale cheeks had given the Captain a good many

desperately uneasy thoughts. Now Daisy sat still, leaning

against him, with her eyes open; and he drove as tenderly as

he could. He had a frisky horse to manage, and the Captain

congratulated himself for this occasion at least that he was a

skilled whip. Still the motion of the wagon was very trying to

Daisy, and every jar went through the Captain's foot up to his

heart.

"How is it, Daisy?" he asked, after they had gone some

distance.

"It isn't good, Captain Drummond," she said, softly.

"Bad, isn't it?"

"Rather."

"I have to make this fellow go slowly, you see, or he would

shake you too much. Could you bear to go faster?"

"I'll try."

The Captain tried, cautiously. But his question, and possibly

Daisy's answer, were stimulated by the view of the western

horizon, over which clouds were gathering thick and fast.

Could they get home in time? That was the doubt in both minds.

"Captain Drummond," said Daisy, presently, "I can't bear this

shaking."

"Must I go slower?"

"If you please."

"Daisy, do you see how the sky bodes yonder? What do you

suppose we shall do if those clouds come up?"

"I don't know," she answered. But she said it with such a

quiet tone of voice, that the Captain wondered anew. He had

hoped that her fears might induce her to bear the pain.

"Daisy, do you think it will come up a storm?"

"I think it will."

"How soon? you know the signs better than I do. How soon will

it be here?"

"It will come soon, I think."

Yet there was no anxiety in Daisy's voice. It was perfectly

calm, though feeble. The Captain held his peace, looked at the

clouds, and drove on; but not as fast as he would have liked.

He knew it was a ride of great suffering to his little charge,

for she became exceedingly pale; still she said nothing,

except her soft replies to his questions. The western clouds

rolled up in great volumes of black and grey, rolling and

gathering and spreading at a magnificent rate. The sun was

presently hid behind the fringe of this curtain of blackness;

by and by the mountains were hid beneath a further fringe of

rain; a very thick fringe. Between, the masses of vapour in

the sky seemed charging for a tremendous outburst. It had not

come yet when the slow-going little wagon passed through Crum

Elbow; but by this time the Captain had seen distant darts of

lightning, and even heard the far-off warning growl of the

thunder. A new idea started up in the Captain's mind; his

frisky horse might not like lightning.

"Daisy," said he, "my poor little Daisy — we cannot get to

Melbourne — we must stop and wait a little somewhere. Is there

any house you like better than another? I had best turn back

to the village."

"No, don't, — stop!" cried Daisy, "don't go back, Captain

Drummond; there is a place nearer. Turn up that road — right

round there. It is very near."

The Captain obeyed, but pulled in the reins presently as he

heard a nearer growl of the coming thunder.

"Daisy, where is it? I don't see anything."

"There it is, Captain Drummond — that little house."

"_That?_" said the Captain; but there was no more time now for

retreat or question. He sprang out, threw the reins two or

three times over the gate-post; then executed the very

difficult operation of taking Daisy out of the wagon. He could

not do it without hurting her; she fainted on his shoulder;

and it was in this state, white and senseless, that he carried

her into Mrs. Benoit's cottage. The old woman had seen them,

and met him at the door. Seeing the state of the case, she

immediately, and with great quickness, spread a clean covering

over a comfortable chintz couch which stood under the window,

and Daisy was laid there from her friend's arms. Juanita

applied water and salts, too, deftly; and then asked the

Captain, "What is it, sir?"

"There's a foot hurt here," said the Captain, giving more

attention to the hurt than he had had chance to do before.

"Pray heaven it is not broken! I am afraid it is, the ankle, —

or dislocated."

"Then Heaven knows _why_ it is broken," said the old woman,

quietly. "The gentleman will go for a doctor, sir?"

"Yes, that must be the first thing," said Captain Drummond,

gravely. "Where shall I find him?"

"Dr. Sandford — the gentleman knows the road to Mr. St.

Leonard's?"

"Yes — the Craigs — I know."

"Dr. Sandford is half way there — where the gentleman

remembers a great brown house in the middle of the cedar

trees."

The Captain beat his brain to remember, thought he did, and

was starting away, but turned back to see Daisy's eyes open

first; fearing lest she might be alarmed if he were not by her

when she came to herself. There was a bright flash and near

peal of thunder at the moment. Juanita looked up.

"The gentleman will not fear the storm? There is work _here_" —

touching the foot.

The Captain remembered that Daisy herself had directed him to

the house, and dashed away again. The clouds were growing

blacker every moment. In the darkening light, Juanita bent

over Daisy and saw her eyes open.

"Does my little lady know Juanita?"

Daisy sighed, looked round the room, and then seemed to

recollect herself.

"Oh, I am here!" she said. "Where is Captain Drummond?"

"The gentleman is gone for the doctor, to see to the hurt

foot. How is it now, dear?"

"It hurts me a good deal."

Juanita's first business was to take off the stocking; this

could only be done by cutting it down. When it was removed, a

very sorrowful-looking little foot was seen. Juanita covered

it up lightly, and then turned her attention again to Daisy's

pale face.

"What can I give my little lady?"

"I am Daisy Randolph."

"What may I do for Miss Daisy, to give her some comfort?"

"Juanita, — I wish you would pray for me again."

"What does Miss Daisy want of the Lord?"

"My foot hurts me very much, and I want to be patient. And,

Juanita, I want to thank Him too."

"What for, Miss Daisy?"

"Because — I love Him; and He has made me so happy."

"Praise the Lord!" came with a most glad outburst from

Juanita's lips; but then she knelt down, and so uttered her

warm petitions for help needed, and so her deep thanksgiving

for help rendered, that Daisy was greatly overcome, and poured

out her tears as the prayer went on. When it was ended,

Juanita went about her room for a little while, making certain

arrangements that she foresaw would be necessary; then came

and sat down. All this while the storm had been furious; the

lightning hardly ceased, or the thunder, and both were near;

but the two inmates of the little cottage seemed hardly to be

conscious what was going on outside its walls. There was a

slight lessening now of the storm's fury.

"Has it gone well with my little lady then, since she gave

Juanita the rose-branch?"

This was the new opening of conversation. Daisy hesitated a

little what to answer; not for want of confidence, for there

was something about the fine old woman that had won her

completely.

"I don't know" — she said at length, slowly. "It has been very

hard to do right, Juanita."

"But has my little lady kept her Lord's words?"

"Yes, Juanita, I did; but I don't know whether I should, if it

hadn't been for what you said."

"And did she meet the trouble too."

Juanita saw that she had, for a flush rose on Daisy's poor

pale cheeks, and her face was strangely grave. She did not

answer the question, either; only as the flush passed away she

looked placidly up and said, "I am not in trouble now,

Juanita."

"Bless the Lord!" was the utterance of Juanita's heart. "The

Lord knows how to deliver out of trouble, Miss Daisy."

"Yes," said Daisy. "Oh!" — she exclaimed, suddenly, with a new

light breaking all over her face — but then she stopped.

"What is it, my love?"

"Nothing — only I am so glad now that my foot is hurt."

Juanita's thanksgiving rose to her lips again, but this time

she only whispered it; turning away, perhaps to hide the

moisture which had sprung to her eyes. For she understood more

of the case than Daisy's few words would have told most

people.

Meantime, Captain Drummond and his frisky horse had a ride

which was likely to make both of them remember that

thunderstorm. They reached Dr. Sandford's house; but then the

Captain found that the doctor was not at home; where he was,

the servant could not say. The only other thing to do seemed

to be to go on to Melbourne, and at least let Daisy have the

counsel of her father and mother. To Melbourne the Captain

drove as fast as his horse's state of mind would permit.

The drawing room was blazing with lights as usual, and full of

talkers.

"Hollo!" cried Gary McFarlane, as the Captain entered, — "here

he is. We had given you up for a fossil, Drummond — and no

idea of your turning up again for another thousand years.

Shouldn't have known where to look for you either, after this

storm — among the aqueous or the igneous rocks. Glad to see

you! Let me make you acquainted with Dr. Sandford."

"I am glad to see you, sir," said the Captain, involuntarily,

as he shook hands with this latter.

"You haven't left Daisy somewhere, changed into a stone lily?"

pursued McFarlane.

"Yes," said the Captain. "Dr. Sandford, I am going to ask you

to get ready to ride with me. Mr. Randolph, I have left Daisy

by the way. She has hurt her foot — I threw down a stone upon

it — and the storm obliged her to defer getting home. I left

her at a cottage near Crum Elbow. I am going to take Dr.

Sandford to see what the foot wants."

Mr. Randolph ordered the carriage, and then told his wife.

"Does it storm yet?" she asked.

"The thunder and lightning are ceasing, but it rains hard."

The lady stepped out of the room to get ready, and in a few

minutes she and her husband, Captain Drummond and the doctor,

were seated in the carriage and on their way to Mrs. Benoit's

cottage. Captain Drummond told how the accident happened;

after that he was silent; and so were the rest of the party,

till the carriage stopped.

Mrs. Benoit's cottage looked oddly, when all these grand

people poured into it. But the mistress of the cottage never

looked more like herself, and her reception of the grand

people was as simple as that she had given to Daisy. Little

Daisy herself lay just where her friend the Captain had left

her, but looked with curious expression at the others who

entered with him now. The father and mother advanced to the

head of the couch; the Captain and Juanita stood at the foot.

The doctor kept himself a little back.

"Are you suffering, Daisy?" Mr. Randolph asked.

The child's eyes went up to him. "Papa — _yes!_"

She had begun quietly, but the last word was given with more

than quiet expression, and the muscles about her lips

quivered.

Mr. Randolph stooped and pressed his own lips upon them.

"I have brought Dr. Sandford to look at your foot, Daisy. He

will see what it wants."

"Will he hurt me, papa?" said the child, apprehensively.

"I hope not. No more than is necessary."

"It hurts to have anybody touch it, papa."

"He must touch it, Daisy. Can't you bear it bravely?"

"Wait, papa!"

And again the child clasped her two hands over her face, and

was still. Mr. Randolph had no idea what for, though he

humoured her, and waited.

The Captain knew, for he had seen more of Daisy that day, and

he looked very grave indeed. The black woman knew, for as

Daisy's hands fell from her face, she uttered a deep, soft

"Amen!" which no one understood but one little heart.

"Papa — I am ready. He may look now."

Juanita removed the covering from the foot, and the doctor

stepped forward. Daisy's eyes rested on him, and she saw

gratefully a remarkably fine and pleasant countenance. Mrs.

Randolph's eyes rested on the foot, and she uttered an

exclamation. It was the first word she had uttered. Everybody

else was still, while the doctor passed his hands over and

round the distressed ankle and foot, but tenderly, and in a

way that gave Daisy very little pain. Then he stepped back and

beckoned Juanita to a consultation. Juanita disappeared, and

Dr. Sandford came up to Mr. Randolph, and spoke in a low tone.

Then Mr. Randolph turned again to Daisy.

"What is it, papa?" asked the child.

"Daisy, to make your foot well, Dr. Sandford will be obliged

to do something that will hurt you a little — will you try and

bear it? He will not be long about it."

"What is the matter with my foot, papa?"

"Something that the doctor can set right in a few minutes — if

you will try and bear a little pain."

A little pain! And Daisy was suffering so much all the while!

Again her lip trembled.

"Must he touch me, papa?"

"He must touch you."

Daisy's hands were clasped to her face again for a minute;

after that she lay quite still and quiet. Mr. Randolph kept

his post, hardly taking his eye off her; Mrs. Randolph sat

down where she had stood; behind the head of Daisy's couch,

where her little daughter could not see her; and all the party

indulged in silence. At length the doctor was ready, and came

to the foot, attended by Juanita; and Mr. Randolph took one of

Daisy's hands in his own. With the other the child covered her

eyes, and so lay, perfectly still, while the doctor set the

ankle-bone which had been broken. As the foot also itself had

been very much hurt, the handling of necessity gave a great

deal of pain, more than the mere setting of the broken bone

would have caused. Mr. Randolph could feel every now and then

the convulsive closing of Daisy's hand upon his; other than

that she gave no sign of what she was suffering. One sign of

what another person was feeling, was given as Dr. Sandford

bound up the foot and finished his work. It was given in

Juanita's deep breathed "Thank the Lord!" The doctor glanced

up at her with a slight smile of curiosity. Captain Drummond

would have said "Amen," if the word had not been so

unaccustomed to his mouth.

Mrs. Randolph rose then, and inquired of the doctor what would

be the best means of removing Daisy?

"She must not be moved," the doctor said.

"Not to-night?"

"No, madam; nor to-morrow, nor for many days."

"Must she be left _here?_"

"If she were out in the weather, I would move her," said the

doctor; "not if she were under a barn that would shed the

rain."

"What harm would it do?"

The doctor could not take it upon him to say.

"But I cannot be with her here," said Mrs. Randolph; "nor

anybody else, that I can see."

"Juanita will take care of her," said the doctor. "Juanita is

worth an army of nurses. Miss Daisy cannot be better cared for

than she will be."

"Will you undertake the charge?" said Mrs. Randolph, facing

round upon Daisy's hostess.

"The Lord has given it to me, madam, — and I love to do my

Lord's work," was Juanita's answer. She could not have given a

better one, if it had been meant to act as a shot, to drive

Mrs. Randolph out of the house. The lady waited but till the

doctor had finished his directions which he was giving to the

black woman.

"I don't see," then she said to her husband, "that there is

anything to be gained by my remaining here any longer; and if

we are to go, the sooner we go the better, so that Daisy may

be quiet. Dr. Sandford says that is the best thing for her."

"Captain Drummond will see you home," said her husband. "I

shall stay."

"You can't do anything, in this box of a place."

"Unless the child herself desires it, there is no occasion for

your remaining here over night," said the doctor. "She will be

best in quiet, and sleep, if she can. You might hinder, if

your presence did not help her to this."

"What do you say, Daisy?" said her father tenderly, bending

over her; — "shall I stay or go? Which do you wish?"

"Papa, you would not be comfortable here. I am not afraid."

"Do you want me to go?" said her father, putting his face down

to hers.

Daisy clasped her two arms round his neck and kissed him, and

held him while she whispered, "No, papa, but maybe you had

better. There is no place for you, and I am not afraid."

He kissed her silently and repeatedly, and then rose up and

went to look at the storm. It had ceased; the moon was

struggling out between great masses of cloud driving over the

face of the sky. Mrs. Randolph stood ready to go, putting on

her _capuche_ which she had thrown off, and Juanita laying her

shawl round her shoulders. The doctor stood waiting to hand

her to the carriage. The Captain watched Daisy, whose eye was

wistfully fixed on her mother. He watched, and wondered at its

very grave, soft expression. There was very little affection

in the Captain's mind at that moment towards Mrs. Randolph.

The carriage was ready, and the lady turned round to give a

parting look at the child. A cold look it was, but Daisy's

soft eye never changed.

"Mamma," said she, whisperingly, "won't you kiss me?"

Mrs. Randolph stooped instantly, and gave the kiss; it could

not be refused, and was fully given; but then she immediately

took Doctor Sandford's arm, and went out of the house. The

Captain reverently bent over Daisy's little hand, and followed

her.

The drive was a very silent one, till Dr. Sandford was left at

his own door. So soon as the carriage turned again, Mrs.

Randolph broke out.

"How long did he say, Mr. Randolph, the child must be left at

that woman's cottage?"

"He said she must not be moved for weeks."

"She might as well stay forever," said Mrs. Randolph, — "for

the effect it will have. It will take a year to get Daisy back

to where she was! I wish fanatics would confine their efforts

to children that have no one else to care for them."

"What sort of fanaticism has been at work here, Mrs.

Randolph?" the Captain enquired.

"The usual kind, of course; religious fanaticism. It seems to

be catching."

"I have been in dangerous circumstances to day, then," said

the Captain. "I am afraid I have caught it. I feel as if

something was the matter with me."

"It will not improve you," said Mrs. Randolph, dryly.

"How has it wrought with Daisy?"

"Changed the child so that I do not recognise her. She never

set up her own will before; and now she is as difficult to

deal with as possible. She is an impersonation of obstinacy."

"Perhaps, after all, she is only following orders," said the

Captain, with daring coolness. "A soldier's duty makes him

terribly obstinate sometimes. You must excuse me, — but you

see I cannot help appreciating military qualities."

"Will you be good enough to say what you mean?" the lady

asked, with sufficient displeasure of manner.

"Only, that I believe in my soul Daisy takes her orders from

higher authority, than we do. And I have seen today — I

declare! I have seen a style of obedience and soldierly

following, that would win any sort of a field — ay, and die in

it!" added the Captain, musingly. "It is the sort of thing

that gets promotion from the ranks."

"How did all this happen to-day?" asked Mr. Randolph, as the

lady was now silent. "I have heard only a bit of it."

In answer to which, Captain Drummond went into the details of

the whole day's experience; told it point by point, and bit by

bit; having a benevolent willingness that Daisy's father and

mother should know, if they would, with what sort of a spirit

they were dealing. He told the whole story; and nobody

interrupted him.

"It is one thing," said the Captain, thoughtfully, as he

concluded, — "it is one thing to kneel very devoutly and say

after the minister, 'Lord, have mercy upon us, and write all

these laws in our hearts;' — I have done that myself; but it

gives one an entirely different feeling to see some one in

whose heart they are written!"

"There is only one thing left for you, Captain Drummond," said

Mrs. Randolph slightly; "to quit the army and take orders."

"I am afraid, if I did, you would never want to see me settled

in Mr. Pyne's little church over here," the Captain answered,

as he helped the lady to alight at her own door.

"Not till Daisy is safely married," said Mrs. Randolph

laughing.

CHAPTER XVI.

JUANITA'S COTTAGE.

Till the sound of the carriage wheels had died away in the

distance, Juanita stood at the door looking after them;

although the trees and the darkness prevented her seeing

anything along the road further than a few yards. When the

rustle of the breeze among the branches was the only thing

left to hear, beside the dripping of the rain drops shaken

from the leaves, Juanita shut the door, and came to Daisy. The

child was lying white and still, with her eyes closed. Very

white and thin the little face looked, indeed; and under each

eyelid lay a tear glistening, that had forced its way so far

into notice. Juanita said not a word just then; she bustled

about and made herself busy. Not that Juanita's busy ways were

ever bustling in reality; she was too good a nurse for that;

but she had several things to do. The first was to put up a

screen at the foot of Daisy's couch. She lay just a few feet

from the door, and everybody coming to the door, and having it

opened, could look in if he pleased; and so Daisy would have

no privacy at all. That would not do; Juanita's wits went to

work to mend the matter. Her little house had been never

intended for more than one person. There was another room in

it, to be sure, where Mrs. Benoit's own bed was; so that Daisy

could have the use and possession of this outer room all to

herself. Juanita went about her business too noiselessly to

induce even those closed eyelids to open. She fetched a

tolerably large clothes-horse from somewhere — some shed or

out-building; this she set at the foot of the couch, and hung

an old large green moreen curtain over it. Where the curtain

came from, one of Mrs. Benoit's great locked chests knew;

there were two or three such chests in the inner room, with

more treasures than a green moreen curtain stowed away in

them. The curtain was too large for the clothes-horse to hold

up; it lay over the floor. Juanita got screws and cords; fixed

one screw in the wall, another in the ceiling, and at last

succeeded in stretching the curtain neatly on the cords and

the clothes-horse, where she wanted it to hang. That was done;

and Daisy's couch was quite sheltered from any eyes coming to

the door that had no business to come further. When it was

finished, and the screws and cords put away, Juanita came to

Daisy's side. The eyes were open now.

"That is nice," said Daisy.

"It'll keep you by yourself, my little lady. Now what will she

have?"

"Nothing — only I am thirsty," said Daisy.

Juanita went to the well for some cold water, and mixed with

it a spoonful of currant jelly. It was refreshing to the poor

little dry lips.

"What will my love have next?"

"I don't know," said Daisy — "my foot aches a good deal, and

all my leg. I think — Juanita — I would like it if you would

read to me."

Juanita took a somewhat careful survey of her, felt her hands,

and finally got the book.

"Is there too much air for my love from that window?"

"No, it is nice," said Daisy. "I can see the stars so

beautifully, with the clouds driving over the sky. Every now

and then they get between me and the stars — and then the

stars look out again so bright. They seem almost right over

me. Please read, Juanita."

Mrs. Benoit did not consider that it made much difference to

Daisy where she read; so she took the chapter that came next

in the course of her own going through the New Testament. It

was the eighth chapter of Mark. She read very pleasantly; not

like a common person; and with a slight French accent. Her

voice was always sweet, and the words came through it as loved

words. It was very pleasant to Daisy to hear her; the long

chapter was not interrupted by any remark. But when Mrs.

Benoit paused at the end of it, Daisy said, "How can anybody

be _ashamed_ of Him, Juanita?"

The last verse of the chapter has these words "Whosoever

therefore shall be ashamed of Me, and of My words, in this

adulterous and sinful generation; of Him also shall the Son of

man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of His Father with

the holy angels."

"How can anybody be ashamed of him, Juanita?"

"They not see the glory of the Lord, my lady."

"But we do not see it yet."

"My love will see it. Juanita has seen it. This little house

be all full of glory sometimes, when Jesus is here."

"But that is because you love Him, Juanita."

"Praise the Lord!" echoed the black woman. "He do show His

glory to His people, before He come with the holy angels."

"I don't see how anybody can be ashamed of Him," Daisy

repeated, uttering the words as if they contained a simple

impossibility.

"My little lady not know the big world yet. There be ways,

that the Lord know and that the people not know."

"What do you mean, Juanita?"

"My lady will find it," said the black woman folding her arms.

"When all the world go one way, then folks not like to go

another way and be looked at; they be ashamed of Christ's

words then, and they only think they do not want to be looked

at."

A colour came all over Daisy's face — a suffusion of colour;

and tears swam in her eyes. "I didn't like to be looked at,

the other night!" she said, in a self-accusing tone.

"Did my love turn and go with the world?"

"No, I didn't do that."

"Then Jesus won't turn away neither," said the black woman.

"But I ought not to have felt so, Juanita."

"Maybe. My love is a little child. The good Lord shall

'stablish her, and keep her from evil. Now she must not talk

no more, but trust the Lord, and go to sleep."

"I can't sleep, Juanita — my leg aches so."

"That will be better. Is my love thirsty again?"

"Very thirsty! I wish I had some oranges."

"They would be good," said Juanita, bringing another glass of

jelly and water for Daisy.

And then she sat down, and sang softly; hymns in French and

English; sweet and low, and soothing in their simple and

sometimes wild melody. They soothed Daisy. After a time,

wearied and exhausted by all her long day of trial, she did

forget pain in slumber. The eyelids closed, and Juanita's

stealthy examination found that quiet soft breathing was

really proving her fast asleep. The singing ceased; and for a

while nothing was to be heard in the cottage but the low rush

and rustle of the wind which had driven away the storm clouds,

and the patter of a dislodged rain drop or two that were

shaken from the leaves. Daisy's breathing was too soft to be

heard, and Juanita almost held her own lest it should be too

soon disturbed. But the pain of the hurt foot and ankle would

not suffer a long sleep. Daisy waked up with a sigh.

"Are you there, Juanita?"

"I am here."

"What o'clock is it?"

Juanita drew back the curtain of the window by Daisy's couch,

that the moonlight might fall in and show the face of the

little clock. It was midnight.

"It won't be morning in a great while, will it?" said Daisy.

"Does my lady want morning?"

"My foot hurts me dreadfully, Juanita — the pain shoots and

jumps all up my leg. Couldn't you do something to it?"

"My dear love, it will be better by and by — there is no help

now for it, unless the Lord sends sleep. I s'pose it must

ache. Can't Miss Daisy remember who sends the pain?"

The child answered her with a curious smile. It was not

strange to the black woman; she read it, and knew it, and had

seen such before; to anybody that had not, how strange would

have seemed the lovingness that spread over all Daisy's

features, and brightened on her brow as much as on her lips.

It was not patient submission; it was the light of joyful

affection shining out over all Daisy's little pale face.

"Ay, it isn't hard with Jesus," said the black woman with a

satisfied face. "And the Lord is here now, — praise his name!"

"Juanita — I have been very happy to-day," said Daisy.

"Ay? how has that been, my love?"

"Because I knew He was taking care of me. It seemed that Jesus

was so near me all the time. Even all that dreadful ride."

"The Lord is good!" said the black woman, with strong

expression. "But my love must not talk."

She began to sing again. —

"Oh, what shall I do, my Saviour to praise,

So faithful and true, so plenteous in grace.

So good to deliver, so strong to redeem

The weakest believer that hangs upon him."

"Oh, that's good, Juanita!" said Daisy. "Hush! — Juanita, it

is very late for anybody to be out riding!"

"Who is out riding, Miss Daisy?"

"I don't know — I hear a horse's feet. Don't you hear. —

there!"

"It's some young gentleman, maybe, going home, from a dinner-

party."

"Don't draw the curtain, Juanita, please! I like it so, I can

look out. The moonlight is nice. Somebody is very late, going

home from a dinner party."

"They often be. Miss Daisy, the moonlight will hinder you

sleeping, I am afraid."

"I can't sleep. It's so good to look out! Juanita — there's

that horse's feet, stopping just here."

Juanita went to her door, and perceived that Daisy spoke

truth. Somebody down at her little wicket had dismounted, and

was fastening his horse to the fence. Then a figure came up

the walk in the moonlight.

"Juanita!" cried Daisy, with an accent of joy, though she

could not see the figure from where she lay, — "it's papa!"

"Is she asleep?" said the voice of Mr. Randolph the next

minute softly.

"No, sir. She knows it's you, sir. Will his honour walk in?"

Mr. Randolph, with a gentle footfall, came in and stood by the

side of the couch.

"Daisy — my poor little Daisy!" — he said.

"Papa! —"

This one word was rich in expression; joy and love so filled

it. Daisy added nothing more. She put her arms round her

father's neck as he stooped his lips to her face, held him

fast and returned his kisses.

"Cannot you sleep?" The question was very tenderly put.

"I did sleep, papa."

"I did not wake you?"

"No, papa. I was awake, looking at the moonlight."

"Pain would not let you sleep, my poor darling?"

The sympathy was a little too trying. Tears started to the

child's eyes. She said with a most gentle, loving accent, "I

don't mind, papa. It will be better by and by. I am very

happy."

An indignant question as to the happiness which had been so

rudely shaken, was on Mr. Randolph's lips. He remembered Daisy

must not be excited; nevertheless, he wondered, for he saw the

child's eyes full, and knew that the brow was drawn with pain;

and the poor little thin face was as white as a sheet. What

did she mean by talking about being happy?

"Daisy, I have brought you some oranges."

"Thank you, papa! — May I have one now?"

Silently, and almost sternly, Mr. Randolph stood and pared the

orange with a fruit knife — he had thought to bring that too —

and fed Daisy with it, bit by bit. It was pleasant and novel

to Daisy to have her father serve her so; generally others had

done it when there had been occasion. Mr. Randolph did it

nicely, while his thoughts worked.

"What are you going to do to-night, papa?" she said, when the

orange was finished and he stood looking at her.

"Stay here with you."

"But, papa, how can you sleep?"

"I can do without sleeping, if it is necessary. I will take a

chair here in the doorway, and be near if you want anything."

"Oh, I shall not want anything, papa, except what Juanita can

give me."

He stood still, watching her. Daisy looked up at him with a

loving face; a wise little face it always was; it was gravely

considerate now.

"Papa, I am afraid you will be uncomfortable."

"Can nobody bear that but you?" said Mr. Randolph, stooping

down to kiss her.

"I am very happy, papa," said the child, placidly; while a

slight tension of her forehead witnessed to the shooting pains

with which the whole wounded limb seemed to be filled.

"If Mr. Randolph pleases," said the voice of Juanita, — "the

doctor recommended quiet, sir."

Off went Mr. Randolph at that, as if he knew it very well, and

had forgotten himself. He took a chair, and set it in the open

doorway, using the door-post as a rest for his head; and then

the cottage was silent. The wind breathed more gently; the

stars shone out; the air was soft after the storm; the

moonlight made a bright flicker of light and shade over all

the outer world. Now and then a grasshopper chirruped, or a

little bird murmured a few twittering notes at being disturbed

in its sleep; and then came a soft sigh from Daisy.

On noiseless foot the black woman stole to the couch. Daisy

was weeping; her tears were pouring out and making a great wet

spot on her pillow.

"Is my love in pain?" whispered the black woman.

"It's nothing — I can't help it," said Daisy.

"Where is it — in the foot?"

"It's all over, I think; in my head and everywhere. Hush,

Juanita; never mind."

Mrs. Benoit, however, tried the soothing effect of a long

gentle brushing of Daisy's head. This lasted till Daisy said

she could bear it no longer. She was restless.

"Will my love hear a hymn?"

"It will wake papa."

Mrs. Benoit cared nothing for that. Her care was her poor

little charge. She began immediately one of the hymns that

were always ready on her tongue, and which were wonderfully

soothing to Daisy. Juanita was old, but her voice was sweet

yet and clear; and she sang with a deal of quiet spirit.

"A few more days or years at most,

My troubles sell be o'er;

I hope to join the heavenly host

On Canaan's happy shore.

My raptured soul shall drink and feast

In love's unbounded sea;

The glorious hope of endless rest

Is ravishing to me."

Mr. Randolph raised his head from leaning against the door-

post, and turned it to listen; with a look of lowering

impatience. The screen of the hanging curtain was between him

and the couch, and the look did nobody any harm.

"Oh, come, my Saviour, come away,

And bear me to the sky!

Nor let thy chariot wheels delay —

Make haste and bring it nigh:

I long to see Thy glorious face,

And in Thy image shine;

To triumph in victorious grace,

And be forever Thine."

Mr. Randolph's chair here grated inharmoniously on the floor,

as if he were moving; but Juanita went on without heeding it.

"Then will I tune my harp of gold

To my eternal King.

Through ages that can ne'er be told

I'll make Thy praises ring.

All hail, eternal Son of God,

Who died on Calvary!

Who bought me with His precious blood,

From endless misery."

Mr. Randolph stood by Mrs. Benoit's chair. "My good woman," he

said, in suppressed tones, "this is a strange way to put a

patient to sleep."

"As your honour sees!" replied the black woman, placidly.

Mr. Randolph looked. Daisy's eyes were closed; the knitted

brow had smoothed itself out in slumber; the deep breath told

how profound was the need that weakness and weariness had

made. He stood still. The black woman's hand softly drew the

curtain between Daisy's face and the moonlight, and then she

noiselessly withdrew herself almost out of sight, to a low

seat in a corner. So Mr. Randolph betook himself to his

station in the doorway; and whether he slept or no, the hours

of the night stole on quietly. The breeze died down; the moon

and the stars shone steadily over the lower world; and Daisy

slept, and her two watchers were still. By and by, another

light began to break in the eastern horizon, and the stars

grew pale. The morning had come.

The birds were twittering in the branches before Daisy awoke.

At the first stir she made, her father and Mrs. Benoit were

instantly at her side. Mr. Randolph bent over her, and asked

tenderly how she felt.

"I feel hot, papa."

"Everybody must do that," said Mr. Randolph. "The breeze has

died away, and the morning is very close."

"Papa, have you been awake all night?"

He stooped down and kissed her.

"You must go home and get some breakfast, and go to sleep,"

Daisy said, looking at him lovingly with her languid eyes.

"Shall I bring you anything from home, Daisy?" he said,

kissing her again.

The child looked a little wistfully, but presently said no;

and Mr. Randolph left her, to do as she had said. Mrs. Benoit

was privately glad to have him out of the way. She brought

water, and bathed Daisy's face and hands, and gave her a

delicate breakfast of orange; and contrived to be a long while

about it all, so as to rest and refresh her as much as

possible. But when it was all done, Daisy was very hot and

weary and in much pain. And the sun was only in the tops of

the trees yet. The black woman stood considering her.

"It will be a hot day, Miss Daisy — and my little lady is

suffering already, when the dew is not dried off the grass.

Can she say, 'Thank the Lord'?"

Daisy first smiled at her; then the little pale face grew

grave, the eyelids fell, and the black woman saw tears

gathering beneath them. She stood looking somewhat anxiously

down at the child; till, after a few minutes, the eyelids were

raised again, and the eyes gave her a most meek and loving

response, while Daisy said faintly, "Yes, Juanita."

"Bless the Lord!" said Juanita, with all her heart. "Then my

love can bear it, the hot day and the pain and all. When His

little child trust Him, Jesus not stay far off. And when He

giveth quietness, then who can make trouble?"

"But I have a particular reason, Juanita. I am very glad of my

hurt foot; though it does ache."

"The aching will not be so bad by and by," said the woman, her

kindly face all working with emotion.

She stood there by Daisy's couch and prayed. No bathing nor

breakfast could so soothe and refresh Daisy as that prayer.

While she listened and joined in it, the feeling of yesterday

came all back again; that wonderful feeling that the Lord

Jesus loves even the little ones that love Him; that He will

not let a hair of their heads be hurt; that He is near, and

keeps them, and is bringing them to Himself by everything that

He lets happen to them.

Greatly refreshed and comforted, Daisy lay quiet looking out

of the open window, while Juanita was busy about, making a

fire and filling her kettle for breakfast. She had promised

Daisy a cup of tea and a piece of toast; and Daisy was very

fond of a cup of tea, and did not ordinarily get it; but Mrs.

Benoit said it would be good for her now. The fire was made in

a little out-shed, back of the cottage, where it would do

nobody any harm, even in hot weather.

Daisy was so quieted and comforted, though her leg was still

aching, that she was able to look out and take some pleasure

in the sparkling morning light which glittered on the leaves

of the trees and on the blades of grass; and to hearken to the

birds which were singing in high feather all around the

cottage. The robins especially were very busy, whistling about

in and under the trees; and a kildeer, quite near, from time

to time sung its soft sweet song; so soft and tender, it

seemed every time to say in Daisy's ears, "What if I am sick

and in pain and weary? Jesus sends it — and He knows — and He

is my dear Saviour." It brought the tears into Daisy's eyes at

length; the song of the kildeer came so close home into her

heart.

Juanita had gone to make the tea. While the kettle had been

coming to a boil, she had put her little cottage into the

nicest of order; and even filled a glass with some roses and

set it on the little table. For, as she said to Daisy, they

would have company enough that day, and must be in trim. She

had gone now to make the tea, and Daisy lay contentedly

looking out of the window, when she heard the swift tread of

horses' feet again. Could her father be back from Melbourne

already? Daisy could not raise herself up to look. She heard

the feet stop in the road before the cottage; then listened

for somebody's step coming up to it. She heard the step, but

it was none of Mr. Randolph's; it was brisk and firm and

measured. She guessed it was somebody's step whose feet had

been trained.

Juanita came to open the door at the knock, and Daisy heard

her saying something about the doctor's orders, and keeping

quiet, and no excitement. Daisy could not stand that.

"Oh, Captain Drummond — come in! come in!" she cried. And in

came the Captain. He looked wonderfully sober at his poor

little playfellow. But Daisy looked all smiles at him.

"Is your furlough over? Are you going, Captain Drummond?"

"I am off, Daisy."

"I am so glad you came to see me," she said, putting out her

little hand to him.

The Captain took it, and held it, and seemed almost unable to

speak. "Daisy, I would have run the risk of being cashiered,

rather than not have done it."

"What is that?"

"Cashiered? Having my epaulettes pulled off."

"Do you care a great deal for your epaulettes?" said Daisy.

The Captain laughed, with the water standing in his eyes. Yes,

absolutely, his bright sparkling eyes had drops in them.

"Daisy, I have brought you our land fish — that we had such

trouble for."

"The trilobite! Oh, did you?" exclaimed Daisy, as he placed it

before her. "I wanted to see it again, but I was afraid you

wouldn't have time before you went." She looked at it eagerly.

"Keep it Daisy; and keep a little bit of friendship for me

with it — will you? in case we meet again some day."

"Oh, Captain Drummond — don't you want it?"

"No; but I want you to remember the conditions."

"When will you come to Melbourne again?"

"Can't say, Daisy; I am afraid, not till you will have got the

kingdom of England quite out of all its difficulties. We were

just going into the battle of Hastings, you know; don't you

recollect?"

"How nice that was!" said Daisy, regretfully. "I don't think I

shall ever forget about the Saxon Heptarchy, and Egbert, and

Alfred."

"How about forgetting me?"

"You know I couldn't," said Daisy, with a most genial smile.

"Oh, Captain Drummond!" — she added, as a flash of sudden

thought crossed her face.

"What now, Daisy?"

The child looked at him with a most earnest, inquisitive

wistful gaze. The Captain had some difficulty to stand it.

"Oh, Captain Drummond," she repeated, — "are you going to be

ashamed of Christ?"

The young soldier was strangely enough confused by this simple

question. His embarrassment was even evident. He hesitated for

a reply, and it did not readily come. When it came, it was an

evasion.

"That is right, Daisy," he said; "stand by your colours. He is

a poor soldier that carries them behind his back in the face

of the enemy. But whatever field you die in, I should like to

be alongside of you."

He spoke gravely. And he asked no leave this time, but,

clasping Daisy's hand, he bent down and kissed her forehead

twice, and earnestly; then he did not say another word, but

strode away. A little flush rose on Daisy's brow, for she was

a very particular little lady as to who touched her; however

she listened attentively to the sound of the retreating hoofs

which carried the Captain off along the road; and when Juanita

at last came in with her little tray and a cup of tea, she

found Daisy's face set in a very thoughtful mood, and her eyes

full of tears. The face did not even brighten at her approach.

"Miss Daisy," said the black woman, "I thought you wanted a

cup of tea?"

"So I do, Juanita. I want it very much."

Mrs. Benoit made remarks to herself upon the wise little face

that met her with such a sober greeting. However, she made

none aloud; she supported Daisy nicely with one arm, and set

the little tray before her. The tea was excellent; the toast

was in dainty, delicate, thin brown strips. Daisy took it

soberly.

"Does it seem good to my love?"

"Oh, yes, Juanita!" said the child, looking up gratefully; "it

is very good; and you make the prettiest toast I ever saw."

The black woman smiled, and bade her eat it, and not look at

it.

"But I think it tastes better for looking pretty, Juanita."

"The Lord knows," said the woman; "and He made the trees in

the garden of Eden to be pleasant to the eyes, as well as good

for food."

"I am glad He did," said Daisy. "How pleasant the trees have

been to my eyes this morning. Then I was sick, and could not

do anything but look at them; but they are pleasant to my eyes

too when I am well. It is very painful to have one's friends

go away, Juanita."

"Has my love lost friends?" said Mrs. Benoit, wondering at

this speech.

"Yes," said Daisy. "Mr. Dinwiddie is gone; and now Captain

Drummond. I have got hardly anybody left."

"Was Mr. Dinwiddie Miss Daisy's friend?"

Such a bright, warm, glad flash of a smile as Juanita got in

answer! It spoke for the friendship on one side.

"But he is gone," said Daisy. "I wish I could see him again.

He is gone, and I never shall!"

"Now, Miss Daisy, you will lie still and be quiet, my love,

until somebody else comes. The doctor says that's the way.

]Mr. Dinwiddie is about his Master's work, wherever he is; and

you want to do the same."

"How can I, Juanita, lying here? I cannot do anything."

"Does my love think the good Lord ever give His servants no

work to do for Him?"

"Why _here_, Juanita — I can only lie here and be still. What

can I do?"

"My love pray the dear Master to show her; and now not talk

just now." Daisy lay still.

The next comer was the doctor. He came while the morning was

still early; made his examinations; and Daisy made hers. He

was a very fine-looking man, Thick locks of auburn hair,

thrown back from his face; a noble and grave countenance; blue

eyes, keen and steady; and a free and noble carriage; there

was enough about Dr. Sandford to engage all Daisy's attention

and interest. She gave him both, in her quiet way; while he

looked not so much at her as at her condition and

requirements.

"It is going to be a hot day," he remarked to Juanita, who

attended upon him. "Keep her quiet. Do not let more than one

other person be here at once. Say I order it."

"Will his honour say it to Miss Daisy's father and mother?"

"I shall not see them this morning. You are armed with my

authority, Juanita. Nobody is to be here to talk and excite

her; and only one at a time beside you. Have you got fruit for

her? Let her live on that as much as she likes; and keep the

house empty."

"I will tell papa," said Daisy.

"How do you do?" said the doctor. It was the first question he

had addressed to her; and the first attention he had given her

otherwise than as a patient. Now the two looked at each other.

"I am better, a little, thank you," said the child. "May I ask

something?"

"Ask it."

"Shall I be a long while here?"