“Didn’t he?”

“Why it’s true, Miss Daisy; for I’ve heard other ministers say it; but that one this morning was preaching about something else—­don’t you know?”

“Was he?  Didn’t he say that?”

“Why no, Miss Daisy; he was preaching about how rich——­”

“O I know!” said Daisy—­“I remember; yes, it wasn’t then—­it was afterwards.  Yes, he said it—­I knew it—­but it wasn’t in his sermon.  Thank you, Joanna—­that’s all; I don’t want you any more.”

“What ails her?” whispered Joanna, when June followed her out with a light.

But June knew her business better than to tell her little mistress’s secrets; and her face shewed no more of them, than it shewed of her own.  When she returned, Daisy was on her knees, with her face hidden in her hands, at the foot of the bed.

June stopped; and the little white figure there looked so slight, the attitude of the bended head was so childlike and pitiful, that the mulatto woman’s face twinkled and twitched in a way most unwonted to its usual stony lines.  She never stirred till Daisy rose up and submissively allowed herself to be put to bed; and then waited on her with most reverent gentleness.

So she did next morning.  But Daisy was very pale, and trembled frequently, June noticed; and when she was dressed sat down patiently by the window.  She was not going down, to breakfast, she told June; and June went away to her own breakfast, very ill satisfied.

Breakfast was brought up to Daisy, as she expected; and then she waited for her summons.  She could not eat much.  The tears were very ready to start, but Daisy kept them back.  It did not suit her to go weeping into her father and mother’s presence, and she had self command enough to prevent it.  She could not read; yet she turned over the pages of her Bible to find some comfort.  She did not know or could not remember just where to look for it; and at last turned to the eleventh of Hebrews, and with her eye running over the record there of what had been done and borne for Christ’s sake, felt her own little heart beating hard in its own trial.

June came at length to call her to her mother’s room.

Mrs. Randolph was half lying on a couch, a favourite position; and her eye was full on Daisy as she came in.  Daisy stopped at a little distance; and June took care to leave the door ajar.

“Daisy,” said Mrs. Randolph, “I want in the first place an explanation of last night’s behaviour.”

“Mamma, I am very sorry to have offended you!” said Daisy, pressing both hands together upon her breast to keep herself quiet.

“Looks like it,” said Mrs. Randolph; and yet she did see and feel the effect of the night’s work upon the child.  “Go on;—­tell me why you disobeyed me last night.”

“It was Sunday—­” said Daisy softly.

“Sunday!—­well, what of that? what of Sunday?”

“That song—­wasn’t a Sunday song.”