“Do you understand me, Daisy?”

“Papa—­”

“Obey me first, and then talk about it.”

Daisy was in no condition to talk; she could hardly breathe that one word.  She knew the tone of great displeasure in her father’s voice.  He saw her condition.

“You are not able to sing at this minute,” said he.  “Go to your room—­I will give you ten minutes to recover yourself.  Then, Daisy, come here and sing—­if you like to be at peace with me.”

But Daisy did not move; she stood there with her two hands clasped on her breast.

“Do you mean that you will not?” said Mr. Randolph.

“If it wasn’t Sunday, papa—­” came from Daisy’s parted lips.

“Sunday?” said Mr. Randolph—­“is that it?  Now we know where we are.  Daisy—­do you hear me?—­turn about and sing your song.  Do not give me another refusal!”

But Daisy stood, growing paler and paler, till the whiteness reached her lips, and her father saw that in another minute she would fall.  He snatched her from the floor and placed her upon his knee with his arm round her; but though conscious that she was held against his breast, Daisy was conscious too that there was no relenting in it; she knew her father; and her deadly paleness continued.  Mr. Randolph saw that there would be no singing that night, and that the conflict between Daisy and him must be put off to another day.  Making excuse to those near, that she was not well, he took his little daughter in his arms and carried her up stairs to her own room.  There he laid her on the bed and rang for June, and staid by her till he saw her colour returning.  Then without a word he left her.

Meanwhile Capt.  Drummond, down stairs, had taken a quiet seat in a corner; his talking mood having deserted him.

“Did I ever walk up to the cannon’s mouth like that?” he said to himself.

CHAPTER XI.

Daisy kept herself quite still while her father and June were present.  When Mr. Randolph had gone down stairs, and June seeing her charge better, ventured to leave her to get some brandy and water, then Daisy seized that minute of being alone to allow herself a few secret tears.  Once opened, the fountain of tears gushed out a river; and when June came back Daisy was in an agony which prevented her knowing that anybody was with her.  In amaze June set down the brandy and water and looked on.  She had never in her life seen Daisy so.  It distressed her; but though June might be called dull, her poor wits were quick to read some signs; and troubled as she was, she called neither Daisy’s father nor her mother.  The child’s state would have warranted such an appeal.  She never heard June’s tremulous “Don’t, Miss Daisy!” She was shaken with the sense of the terrible contest she had brought on herself; and grieved to the very depths of her tender little heart that she must bear the displeasure of her father and her mother.  She struggled with tears and agitation until she was exhausted, and then lay quiet, panting and pale, because she had no strength to weep longer.