“Daisy——­”

“What, papa?”

“I do not think we have settled this question yet.”

“I do not think we have, papa.”

“What is to be done?  It will not answer, my little daughter, for you to set up your will against mine.”

“Papa, it is not my will.”

“What do you call it, then?”

“Papa, it is not my will at all.  It is the will of God.”

“Take care, Daisy,” said her father.  “You are not to say that.  My will will never oppose itself to that authority you speak of.”

“Papa, I only want to obey that.”

“But remember, I must be the judge.”

“Papa,” said Daisy, eagerly, “won’t this do?  If I think something is in the Bible, mayn’t I bring it to you to see?”

“Yes.”

“And if you think it is there, then will you let me do it?”

“Do what?”

“Do what the Bible says, papa.”

“I think I may promise that, Daisy,” said Mr. Randolph; though dubiously, as not quite certain what he was promising; “so long as I am the judge.”

“Then that will do, papa!  That is nice.”

Daisy’s countenance expressed such utter content at this arrangement, that Mr. Randolph looked grave.

“Now you have talked and excited yourself enough for to-day,” he said.  “You must be quiet.”

“Mayn’t I tell mamma when she comes?”

“What, Daisy?”

“I mean what I have told you, papa.”

“No.  Wait till to-morrow.  Why do you wish to tell her, Daisy?”

“Papa, I think I ought to tell her.  I want her to know.”

“You have very uncompromising notions of duty.  But this duty can wait till another day.”

Daisy had to wait more than a day for her opportunity; her mother’s next visits were too bustling and unsatisfactory, as well as too short, to promise her any good chance of being heard.  At last came a propitious morning.  It was more moderate weather; Daisy herself was doing very well and suffering little pain; and Mrs. Randolph looked in good humour and had sat down with her tetting-work as if she meant to make her daughter something of a visit.  Mr. Randolph was lounging at the head of the couch, out of Daisy’s sight.

“Mamma,” began the child, “there is something I wish to say to you.”

“You have a favourable opportunity, Daisy.  I can hear.”  Yet Daisy looked a minute at the white hand that was flying the bobbin about.  That white hand.

“It isn’t much, mamma.  It is only—­that I wish you to know—­that I am a Christian.”

“That you are what?” said Mrs. Randolph coldly.

“A Christian, mamma.”

“Pray what does that mean?”

“That I am a servant of Christ, mamma.”

“When did you find it out, Daisy?”

“Some time ago, mamma.  Some time—­a little while—­before my birthday.”

“You did!  What do you think me?”