“Do!” said Capt.  Drummond; and the request spread and became general.

“Daisy—­” said Mrs. Randolph.  Daisy did not hear; but the call being repeated she came from her window, and after speaking to the strangers, whom she knew, she turned to her mother.  The room was all light and bright and full of gay talkers.

“Daisy,” said her mother, “I want you to sing that gypsy song from the ‘Camp in Silesia.’  Gary says you know it—­so he is responsible. Can you sing it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then sing it.  Never mind whether you succeed or not; that is of no consequence.”

“Mamma——­,” began Daisy.

“Well, what?”

Daisy was in great confusion.  What to say to her mother she did not know.

“No matter how you get along with it,” repeated Mrs. Randolph.  “That is nothing.”

“It isn’t that, mamma,—­but—­”

“Then sing.  No more words, Daisy; sing.”

“Mamma, please don’t ask me!”

“I have asked you.  Come Daisy—­don’t be silly.”

“Mamma,” whispered Daisy trembling, “I will sing it any other night but to-night!”

“To-night? what’s to-night?”

“To-night is Sunday.”

“And is that the reason?”

Daisy stood silent, very much agitated.

“I’ll have no nonsense of the kind, Daisy.  Sing immediately!” But Daisy stood still.

“Do you refuse me?”

“Mamma—­” said Daisy pleadingly.

“Go and fetch me a card from the table.”

Daisy obeyed.  Mrs. Randolph rapidly wrote a word or two on it with a pencil.

“But where is the gypsy?” cried Gary McFarlane.

“She has not found her voice yet.  Take that to your father, Daisy.”

Daisy’s knees literally shook under her as she moved across the room to obey this order.  Mr. Randolph was sitting at some distance talking with one of the gentlemen.  He broke off when Daisy came up with the card.

“What is it your mother wishes you to sing?” he inquired, looking from the writing to the little bearer.  Daisy answered very low.

“A gypsy song from an opera.”

“Can you sing it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do so at once, Daisy.”

The tone was quiet but imperative.  Daisy stood with eyes cast down, the blood all leaving her face to reinforce some attacked region.  She grew white from second to second.

“It is the charge of the Light Brigade,” said Capt.  Drummond to himself.  He had heard and watched the whole proceeding and had the key to it.  He thought good-naturedly to suggest to Daisy an escape from her difficulty, by substituting for the opera song something else that she could sing.  Rising and walking slowly up and down the room, he hummed near enough for her to hear and catch it, the air of “Die in the field of battle.”  Daisy heard and caught it, but not his suggestion.  It was the thought of the words that went to her heart,—­not the thought of the tune.  She stood as before, only clasped her little hands close upon her breast.  Capt.  Drummond watched her.  So did her father, who could make nothing of her.