“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 singsong?—­for that’s the way they all do the spelling book, I know.  Hey, 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, “O 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.