“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 shew 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.”