“What ails my love?”

“Juanita—­” said Daisy standing still and pale by the ironing table, “—­haven’t you heard?  Papa—­”

“What, Miss Daisy?”

“Papa—­he was knocked off his horse yesterday—­and they won’t let me see him!”

So far Daisy’s power of composure went, and no further.  With that last word her voice failed.  She threw her arms around Juanita, and hiding her face in her gown, burst into such tears as Daisy rarely shed at all; very rarely under any one’s observation.  Juanita, very much startled, sat down and drew the child into her arms, so far as she could; for Daisy had sunk on her knees, and with her face in Juanita’s lap was weeping all her heart out.  Mrs. Benoit hardly knew how to ask questions.

“Why must not Miss Daisy see her papa?”

“I don’t know!—­I suppose—­he’s not well enough.”

Juanita breathed more freely.

“Let us pray for him, Miss Daisy.”

“O yes, Juanita, do!—­”

There was an intensity of meaning in these words and in Daisy’s hurried assuming of another place and posture to leave Juanita free to kneel too, that almost took away the black woman’s power of speech.  She read what was breaking the child’s heart; she knew what for was that suppressed cry of longing.  For a moment Juanita was silent.  But she had long known not only trouble but the refuge from trouble; and to that refuge she now went, and carried Daisy.  As one goes who has often been there; who has many a time proved it a sure refuge; who knows it sure and safe and unfailing.  So she prayed; while Daisy’s sobs at first were excessive, and then by degrees calmed and quieted and ceased.  They were quite still before Juanita finished; and when they rose up from their knees Daisy’s face was composed again.  Then, she came and stood with her hand on Juanita’s shoulder, both of them silent; till Daisy put her lips to the fine olive-dark cheek of the old woman and kissed it.  Juanita drew her into her arms, and Daisy sat there, nestling and tired.

“Can Miss Daisy trust the Lord?”

“Trust him,—­how.  Juanita?”

“That he do no harm to his little child?”

“O it isn’t me, Juanita—­” Daisy said with a very tender and sad accent.

“When Joseph—­my love knows the story—­when he was sold away from his father and home, to be servant of strangers far off—­maybe he thought it was hard times.  But the Lord meant it for good, and the father and the child came together again, in a happy day.”

Daisy rose up, or rather raised her head, and looked steadily in her friend’s face as if to see what this might mean.

“The Lord knoweth them that trust in him,” said the black woman.

Daisy’s head went down again; and there was a long silence.  It was broken at last by Juanita’s offering her some refreshment; and then Daisy started up to the business on hand.  She explained to Juanita where she was staying, and what she had that morning to do.  Meanwhile Juanita made her take some bread and milk.