“O Miss Daisy! what have you done to your hand?”

“I haven’t done anything to it,” said Daisy, trying furtively to get rid of her tears,—­“but I want a glove to put on, June, and they are all too small.  Is Cecilia at work here to-day?”

“Yes, Miss Daisy; but let me look at your hand!—­let me put some liniment on.”

“No, I don’t want it,” said Daisy; and June saw the suppressed sob that was not allowed to come out into open hearing;—­“but June, just rip that glove, will you, here in the side seam; and then ask Cecilia to make a strip of lace-work there—­so that I can get it on.”  Daisy drew a fur glove over the wounded hand as she spoke; it was the only one large enough; and put on her flat hat.

“Miss Daisy, Mr. Randolph said I was to go with you anywhere you went—­to take care of you.”

“Then come down to the beach, June; I’ll be there.”

Daisy stole down stairs and slipped out of the first door she came to.  What she wanted was to get away from seeing anybody; she did not wish to see her mother, or Preston, or Capt.  Drummond, or Ransom; and she meant even if possible to wander off and not be at home for dinner.  She could not bear the thought of the dinner-table with all the faces round it.  She stole out under the shrubbery, which soon hid her from view of the house.

It was a very warm day, the sun beating hot wherever it could touch at all.  Daisy went languidly along under cover of the trees, wishing to go faster, but not able, till she reached the bank.  There she waited for June to join her, and together they went down to the river shore.  Safe there from pursuit, on such a day, Daisy curled herself down in the shade with her back against a stone, and then began to think.  She felt very miserable; not merely for what had passed, but for a long stretch of trouble that she saw lying before her.  Indeed where or how it was to end, Daisy had no idea.  Her father indeed, she felt pretty sure would not willingly allow his orders to come in conflict with what she thought her duty; though if he happened to do it unconsciously,—­Daisy would not follow that train of thought.  But here she was now, at this moment, engaged in a trial of strength with her mother; very unequal, for Daisy felt no power at all for the struggle,—­and yet she could not yield!  Where was it to end? and how many other like occasions of difference might arise, even after this one should somehow have been settled?  Had the joy of being a servant of Jesus so soon brought trouble with it?  Daisy had put the trunk of a large tree between her and June; but the mulatto woman where she sat heard the stifled sobs of the child.  June’s items of intelligence picked up by eye and ear, had given her by this time an almost reverent feeling towards Daisy; she regarded her as hardly earthly; nevertheless this sort of distress must not be suffered to go on, and she was appointed to prevent it.

“Miss Daisy—­it is luncheon time,” she said without moving.  Daisy gave no response.  June waited and then came before her and repeated her words.