“Miss Daisy,” said June, “drink this.”

“What is it?”

“It is brandy and water.  It is good for you.”

“I am not faint.  I don’t like it.”

“Miss Daisy, please!  You want something.  It will make you feel better and put you to sleep.”

Disregarding the tumbler which June offered, Daisy slowly crawled off the bed and went and kneeled down before her open window, crossing her arms on the sill.  June followed her, with a sort of submissive pertinacity.

“Miss Daisy, you want to take some of this, and lie down and go to sleep.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“Miss Daisy, you’re weak—­won’t you take, a little of this, to strengthen you a bit?”

“I don’t want it, June.”

“You’ll be sick to-morrow.”

“June,” said Daisy, “I wish a chariot of fire would come for me!”

“Why, Miss Daisy?”

“To take me right up.  But I shall not be sick.  You needn’t be afraid.  You needn’t stay.”

June was too much awed to speak, and dared not disobey.  She withdrew; and in her own premises stood as Daisy was doing, looking at the moonlight; much wondering that storms should pass over her little white mistress such as had often shaken her own black breast.  It was mysterious.

Daisy did not wish to go to sleep; and it was for fear she should, that she had crawled off the bed, trembling in every limb.  For the same reason she would not touch the brandy and water.  Once asleep, the next thing would be morning and waking up; she was not ready for that.  So she knelt by the window and felt the calm glitter of the moonlight, and tried to pray.  It was long, long since Daisy had withstood her father or mother in anything.  She remembered the last time; she knew now they would have her submit to them, and now she thought she must not.  Daisy dared not face the coming day.  She would have liked to sit up all night; but her power of keeping even upon her knees was giving way when June stole in behind her, too uneasy to wait for Daisy’s ring.

“Miss Daisy, you’ll be surely sick to-morrow, and Mis’ Randolph will think I ought to be killed.”

“June, didn’t the minister say this morning—­”

“What minister?”

“O it wasn’t you,—­it was Joanna.  Where is Joanna?  I want to see her.”

“Most likely she’s going to bed, Miss Daisy.”

“No matter—­I want to see her.  Go and tell her, June—­no matter if she is in her night-gown,—­tell her I want to speak to her one minute.”

June went, and Daisy once more burst into tears.  But she brushed them, aside when Joanna came back with June a few minutes after.

“Joanna—­didn’t the minister say this morning, that when we are doing what Jesus tells us, he will help us through?”

“It’s true,” said Joanna, looking startled and troubled at the pale little tear-stained face lifted to her;—­“but I don’t just know as that minister said it this morning.”