Mrs. Randolph spoke as if half displeased already, and left the room.  Daisy lay with a great flush upon her face, and in a state of perturbation.

Her spoon was gone; that was beyond question, and Daisy’s little spirit was in tumultuous disturbance—­very uncommon indeed with her.  Grief, and the sense of wrong, and the feeling of anger strove together.  Did she not appreciate her old spoon? when every leaf of the lotus carving and every marking of the duck’s bill had been noted and studied over and over, with a wondering regard to the dark hands that so many, many years and ages ago had fashioned it.  Would Mrs. Gary love it as well?  Daisy did not believe any such thing.  And then it was the gift of Nora and Mr. Dinwiddie, and precious by association; and it was gone.  Daisy lay still on her pillow, with a slow tear now and then gathering in her eyes, but also with an ominous line on her brow.  There was a great sense of injustice at work—­the feeling that she had been robbed; and that she was powerless to right herself.  Her mother had done it; in her secret thought Daisy knew that, and that she would not have done it to Ransom.  Yet in the deep fixed habit of obedience and awe of her mother, Daisy sheered off from directly blaming her as much as possible, and let the burden of her displeasure fall on Mrs. Gary.  She was bitterly hurt at her mother’s action, however; doubly hurt, at the loss and at the manner of it; and the slow tears kept coming and rolling down to wet her pillow.  For a while Daisy pondered the means of getting her treasure back; by a word to her father, or a representation to Preston, or by boldly demanding the spoon of Mrs. Gary herself.  Daisy felt as if she must have it back somehow.  But any of these ways, even if successful, would make trouble; a great deal of trouble; and it would be, Daisy had an inward consciousness all the time, unworthy of a Christian child.  But she felt angry with Mrs. Gary, and as if she could never forgive her.  Daisy, though not passionate, was persistent in her character; her gentleness covered a not exactly yielding disposition.

In the midst of all this, Dr. Sandford came in, fresh from his morning’s drive, and sat down by the bedside.

“Do you want to go down stairs, Daisy?”

“No, sir; I think not.”

“Not?  What’s the matter?  Are you of a misanthropical turn of mind?”

“I do not know.  Dr. Sandford; I do not know what that is.”

“Well, now you have got back to human society and fellowship, don’t you want to enjoy it?”

“I should not enjoy it to-day.”

“If I do not see you down stairs, you will have to stay up till another day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the matter, Daisy?” And now the doctor bent over and looked hard in her face.  The wet spot in her pillow no doubt he had seen long ago.  Daisy’s eyes drooped.

“Look up here, and give me an answer.”