“Preston is under some obligation to the others, I suppose, because he is manager.  But how does Alexander Fish abuse his privileges?”

“Papa,” said Daisy unwillingly,—­“his face is turned away from the other people, so that nobody can see it but me;—­and he winks.”

Daisy brought out the last word with an accession of gravity impossible fully to describe.  Mr. Randolph’s mouth twitched; he bent his head down upon Daisy’s, that she might not see it.

“That is very rude of him, Daisy,” he said.

“Papa,” said Daisy, who did not relish the subject, and chose a departure,—­“what is a Puritan?”

“A Puritan!”

“Yes, papa.  What is it?  Priscilla was a Puritan.”

“That was a name given to a class of people in England a long time ago.”

“What did it mean?”

“They were a stiff set of people, Daisy; good enough people in their way, no doubt, but very absurd in it also.”

“What did they do, papa?”

“Concluded to do without whatever is graceful and beautiful and pleasant, in dress or arts or manners.  The more disagreeable they made life, they thought it was the better.”

“Why were they called that name?  Were they purer than other people?”

“I believe they thought themselves so.”

“I think they look nice in the picture,” said Daisy meditatively.  “Are there any Puritans now, papa?”

“There are people that are called Puritans.  It is a term apt to be applied to people that are stiff in their religion.”

“Papa,” said Daisy when an interval of five minutes had passed,—­“I do not see how people can be stiff in their religion.”

“Don’t you.  Why not?”

“Papa, I do not see how it can be stiff, to love God and do what he says.”

“No—­” said Mr. Randolph; “but people can be stiff in ways of their own devising.”

“Ways that are not in the Bible, papa?”

“Well—­yes.”

“But papa, it cannot be stiff, to do what God says we must do?”

“No,—­of course not,” said Mr. Randolph getting up.

He left her, and Daisy sat meditating; then with a glad heart ran off and ordered her pony chaise.  If tableaux were to be the order of the day every afternoon, she must go to see Molly in the morning.  This time she had a good deal to carry and to get ready.  Molly was in want of bread.  A nice little loaf, fresh baked, was supplied by Joanna, along with some cold rolls.

“She will like those, I dare say,” said Daisy.  “I dare say she never saw rolls in her life before.  Now she wants some meat, Joanna.  There was nothing but a little end of cold pork on the dish in her cupboard.”

“Why I wonder who cooks for the poor wretch?” said Joanna.

“I think she cooks for herself, because she has a stove, and I saw iron things and pots to cook with.  But she can’t do much, Joanna, and I don’t believe she knows how.”