She began to sing again.

  “O 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.”

“O 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.