“But, papa, would not a thankful spirit like to give thanks?”

“I have no objection, Daisy.”

The tears came into Daisy’s eyes.  Her mother had.

“Papa—­”

“Well?  Let us get to the end of this difficulty if we can.”

“I am afraid we cannot, papa.  Because if you had told me to do a thing so, you would mean it just so, and I should do it.”

Mr. Randolph wrapped his arms round Daisy and brought her close to his breast.  “Look here, Daisy,” said he—­“tell me.  Do you really try to give thanks everywhere, and for all things, as the word says?”

“I do not try, papa—­I like to do it.”

“Do you give thanks for everything?”

“I think I do, papa; for everything that gives me pleasure.”

“For Mrs. Sandford’s invitation to-day, for instance?”

“O yes, papa,” said Daisy smiling.

He brought the little head down within reach of his lips and kissed it a good many times.

“I wish my little Daisy would not think so much.”

“I think only to know what is right to do, papa.”

“It is right to mind mamma and me, and let us think for you.”

“And the Bible, papa?”

“You are quite growing an old woman a good while before the time.”

Daisy kissed him with good child-like kisses, laying her little head in his neck and clasping her arms around him; for all that, her heart was busy yet.

“Papa,” she said, “what do you think is right for me to do?”

“Thinking exhausts me, Daisy.  It is too hot to-day for such an exercise.”

Daisy drew back and looked at him, with one hand resting on his shoulder.  She did not dare urge any more in words; her look spoke her anxious, disappointed questioning of her father’s meaning.  Perhaps he did not care to meet such a gaze of inquiry, for he pulled her down again in his arms.

“I do not want you to be an old woman.”

“But, papa—­that is not the thing.”

“I will not have it, Daisy.”

“Papa,” she said with a small laugh, “what shall I do to help it?  I do not know how I came to be an old woman.”

“Go off and play with Nora Dinwiddie.  Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, papa—­except my hat and gloves.”

“Do not think anymore to-day.  I will think for you by and by.  But Daisy, why should you and I set ourselves up to be better than other people?”

“How, papa?”

“Do you know anybody else that lives up to your views on the subject of thanksgiving?”

“O yes, papa.”

“Who?”

Daisy softly said, “Juanita does, papa, I think.”

“A poor ignorant woman, Daisy, and very likely full of superstitions.  Her race often are.”

“What is a superstition, papa?”

“A religious notion which has no foundation in truth.”

“Then papa, can it be superstition to do just what God tells us to do?”