“Daisy,” said the Captain, “you were singing a battle-song as we came down the hill—­that is what he means.”

“Oh!—­” said Daisy, her face changing from its amazed look.  But her colour rose too a little.

“What was it?”

“That?” said Daisy.  “O that was a hymn.”

“A hymn!” shouted Gary.  “Good!  A hymn!  That’s glorious!  Where did you get it, Daisy?  Have you got a collection of Swedish war-songs? They used to sing and fight together, I am told.  They are the only people I ever heard of that did—­except North American Indians.  Where did you get it?”

“I got it from June.”

“June! what, by inspiration?  June is a fine month, I know—­for strawberries—­but I had no idea——­”

“No, no,” said Daisy, half laughing,—­“I mean my June—­there she is; I got it from her.”

“Hollo!” cried Gary.  “Come here, my good woman—­Powers of Darkness!  Is your name June?”

“Yes sir, if you please,” the woman said, in her low voice, dropping a courtesy.

“Well, nobody offers more attractions—­in a name,” said Gary;—­“I’ll say that for you.  Where did you get that song your little mistress was singing when we came down the hill?  Can you sing it?”

June’s reply was unintelligible.

“Speak louder, my friend. What did you say?”

June made an effort.  “If you please, sir, I can’t sing,” she was understood to say.  “They sings it in camp meeting.”

“In camp meeting!” said Gary.  “I should think so!  What’s that!  You see I have never been there, and don’t understand.”

“If you please, sir—­the gentleman knows”—­June said, retreating backwards as she spoke, and so fast that she soon got out of their neighbourhood.  The shrinking, gliding action accorded perfectly with the smothered tones and subdued face of the woman.

“Don’t she know!” said Gary.  “Isn’t that a character now?  But, Daisy, are you turning Puritan?”

“I don’t know what that is,” said Daisy.

“Upon my word you look like it!  It’s a dreadful disease, Daisy;—­generally takes the form of—­I declare I don’t know!—­fever, I believe, and delirium; and singing is one of the symptoms.”

“You don’t want to stop her singing?” said Capt.  Drummond.

“That sort? yes I do.  It wouldn’t be healthy, up at the house.  Daisy, sing that gipsy song from ‘The Camp in Silesia,’ that I heard you singing a day or two ago.”

“‘The Camp in Silesia?’” said Capt.  Drummond.  “Daisy, can you sing that?”

“Whistles it off like a gipsy herself,” said Gary.  “Daisy, sing it.”

“I like the other best,” said Daisy.

But neither teasing nor coaxing could make her sing again, either the one or the other.

CHAPTER IX.

It was bright morning, the pony chaise at the door, and Daisy in it; standing to arrange matters.