tender in his manner with her, more than ever, Daisy thought; she felt that the love between them was growing strong and deep even beyond what it used to be.  And while he knew nothing of the joy that filled her own heart, and while he refused obedience to the laws that she knew were binding on him as well as on her, he must be also, she knew, without the favour and blessing of God.  He had no part in it; nothing to do with it; and Daisy’s heart swelled with childish sorrow and longing.  She had thought a great deal about it, and concluded that she must bear “the message,” even plainly in words, to her father, before she could feel satisfied.  Little hands might take the message, Juanita had said; so humbly Daisy’s took it; and then she prayed that it might not be for nothing.  She knew all her hands could do was not much.

All the remainder of that day, Daisy never forgot her note in the box of shaving soap.  She knew it was extremely unlikely that the box would be opened sooner than the next morning; nevertheless, whenever Mr. Randolph came near where she was, Daisy looked up with something like a start.  There was nothing in his face to alarm her; and so night came, and Daisy kissed him twice for good night, wondering to herself whether he would feel like kissing her when they met again.  Never mind, the message must be delivered, cost what it might.  Yes, this was soldier’s service.  Daisy was going into the enemy’s country.

Mr. Randolph had felt the lingering touch of Daisy’s lips, and the thought of it came to him more than once in the course of the evening—­“like the wind that breathes upon a bank of violets”—­with a breath of sweetness in the remembrance.  Nevertheless he had pretty well forgotten it, when he pulled off the cover of his box of shaving soap the next morning.  He was belated and in something of a hurry.  If ever a man suddenly forgot his hurry, Mr. Randolph did, that morning.  He knew the unformed, rather irregular and stiff handwriting in a moment; and concluded that Daisy had some request to make on her own account which she was too timid to speak out in words.  That was what he expected when he opened the paper; but Eve could not have been much more surprised when the serpent spoke to her in the garden of Eden, than was Mr. Randolph at finding that his little lamb of a child had dared to open her mouth to him in this fashion.

“Mr. Randolph, you will be late,” said the lady who owned that name, coming to his door.  And seeing her husband standing still with his elbow leaning on his dressing-table, she walked in.

“You will assuredly be late! what have you got there?”

The little sheet of English note-paper lay spread out on the dressing-table.  Mr. Randolph was looking at it.  He did not answer, and the lady bent nearer for a moment and then stood upright.

“Daisy!” exclaimed Mrs. Randolph.

Her husband made an inarticulate sort of a noise, as he turned away and took up his neglected shaving soap.