“Well, mouse.” said her mother when Daisy came down to tea,—­“where have you been?  What a mouse you are!”

“Intelligent—­for a lower order of quadrupeds,” said Mr. McFarlane.

“The day has been insufferable!” said Mrs. Randolph.  “Have you been asleep, Daisy?”

“No, mamma.”

“You were lying down?”

“Yes, mamma.”

Daisy had drawn up close to her mother who had thrown an arm round her.  The family were gathered in the library; the windows open, the fresh air coming faintly in; the light fading, but no lamps needed yet.

“I am glad the day is over!” said Mrs. Gary.  “This morning I did not know how I was going to live through it.  There is a little freshness now.  Why is it always so much hotter on Sundays than on any other day?”

“Because you think about it,” said Mr. Randolph, who was moving from window to window setting the glass doors wider open.

“There is nothing else to think about,” said Mrs. Randolph with a yawn.  “Gary, do bring me a cup of tea.”

“You ought to think about your evil deeds,” said Mr. McFarlane obeying the command.  “Then you would have enough.”

“You would, you mean.”

“I know it.  I speak from experience.  I tried it once, for a whole afternoon; and you’ve no idea how good tea-time was when it came!”

“What could set you about such a piece of work, Gary?” said his hostess laughing.

“Conscience, my dear,” said her sister.  “I am not at all surprised.  I wonder if anybody has been to church to-day?”

“I am sorry for the clergyman, if anybody has,” remarked Gary.

Mrs. Randolph’s arm had slipped from Daisy, and Daisy slipped away from her mother’s sofa to the table; where she dipped sponge biscuits in milk and wondered at other people’s Sundays.  A weight seemed settling down on her heart.  She could not bear to hear the talk; she eat her supper and then sat down on the threshold of one of the glass doors that looked towards the west, and watched the beautiful colours on the clouds over the mountains; and softly sung to herself the tune she had heard in church in the morning.  So the colours faded away, and the light, and the dusk grew on, and still Daisy sat in the window door humming to herself.  She did not know that Gary McFarlane had stolen up close behind her and gone away again.

He went away just as company came in; some gay neighbours who found the evening tempting, and came for a little diversion.  Lamps were lit and talking and laughing went round, till Mrs. Randolph asked where Daisy was.

“In the window, singing to the stars,” Gary McFarlane whispered.  “Do you know, Mrs. Randolph, how she can sing?”

“No,—­how?  She has a child’s voice.”

“But not a child’s taste or ear,” said Gary.  “I heard her the other day warbling the gypsy song in ‘The Camp in Silesia,’ and she did it to captivation.  Do, Mrs. Randolph, ask her to sing it.  I was astonished.”