“Do you want anything, Daisy?”

“Mamma, I want to know something.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Mamma”—­Daisy seemed to be engaged on a very puzzling question—­“what does it mean to be a Christian?”

“What?” said her mother, rousing herself up for the first time to look at her.

“To be a Christian, mamma?”

“It means, to be baptized and go to church, and all that,” said the lady, turning back to her book.

“But mamma, that isn’t all I mean.”

“I don’t know what you mean.  What has put it into your head?”

“Something Mr. Dinwiddie said.”

“What absurd nonsense!  Who is Mr. Dinwiddie?”

“You know him.  He lives at Mrs. Sandford’s.”

“And where did he talk to you?”

“In the little school in the woods.  In his Sunday-school.  Yesterday.”

“Well, it’s absurd nonsense, your going there.  You have nothing to do with such things.  Mr. Randolph?—­”

An inarticulate sound, testifying that he was attending, came from a gentleman who had lounged in and was lounging through the room.

“I won’t have Daisy go to that Sunday-school any more, down there in the woods.  Just tell her she is not to do it, will you?  She is getting her head full of the most absurd nonsense.  Daisy is just the child to be ruined by it.”

“You hear, Daisy,” said Mr. Randolph, indolently, as he lounged finally out of the room by an open window; which, as did all the windows in the room, served for a door also.  By the door by which she had entered, Daisy silently withdrew again, making no effort to change the resolution of either of her parents.  She knew it would be of no use; for excessively indulgent as they both were in general, whenever they took it upon them to exercise authority, it was unflinchingly done.  Her father would never even hear a supplication to reconsider a judgment, especially if pronounced at the desire of her mother.  So Daisy knew.

It was a disappointment, greater than anybody thought or would have guessed, that saw her.  She went out to the large porch before the door, and stood there, with the same thoughtful look upon her face, a little cast down now.  Still she did not shed tears about the matter, unless one time when Daisy’s hand went up to her brow rather quick, it was to get rid of some improper suggestion there.  More did not appear, either before or after the sudden crunching of the gravel by a pair of light wheels, and the coming up of a little Shetland pony, drawing a miniature chaise.

“Hollo, Daisy! come along; he goes splendidly!”

So shouted the driver, a boy somewhat bigger than Daisy.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere—­down to the church, if you’ll be quick.  Never mind your hat!”

He waited, however, while Daisy dashed into the house and out again, and then stepped into the low chaise beside him.  Then the eager intimation was given to the pony, which set off as if knowing that impatience was behind him.  The smooth, wide, gravelled road was as good and much better than a plank flooring; the chaise rolled daintily on under the great trees; the pony was not forgetful, yet ever and anon a touch of his owner’s whip came to remind him, and the fellow’s little body fairly wriggled from side to side in his efforts to get on.