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.”

“O 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!”