“Mamma?”—­said Daisy, very much bewildered.  For she knew nothing was the matter, and she could not guess what her mother was thinking of.  Moreover, somehow, Mrs. Randolph’s words or manner had acted to stop the voices of all the company in her neighbourhood; and everybody was waiting and looking to see what the subject of interest might be.  Mrs. Randolph’s words could come now with their usual calm distinctness; and Daisy’s answers, no matter how softly spoken, could be well heard.  In a good deal of wonder Daisy repeated, “Mamma?”

“You put up your hand and sat with your eyes covered—­did you not, just now?”

“Yes, mamma.”—­No need to bid anybody look and listen now; the rosy flush that had spread itself all over Daisy’s pale cheeks sufficiently aroused curiosity.

“I notice that you do so before every meal—­is it not the case?”

“Yes, mamma.”

Dr. Sandford could hear the caught breath.  He did not look, except by a glance, but he listened.

“What does that mean, Daisy?”

“Mamma?”—­said the child in distress.

“I ask you, what that means? what is it for?”

“Mamma—­may I come round there and speak to you?”

“Certainly not.  Sit still in your place and answer.”

But Daisy was silent, very flushed.

“Do you hear, Daisy? what does that action mean?  I wish to know.”

“Mamma, may I speak to you in private and tell you?”

“Are you ashamed of it? are you ashamed to tell me?”

“No, mamma.”

“Then do it at once.”

But everybody waited in vain to hear the answer.  It did not come.

“I shall not ask you again, Daisy.”

“Mamma,” said the child low and modestly, but with steadiness,—­“I was praying.”

“Praying! were you!  Why do you choose that particular time for your private devotions?”

It was almost too much.  The tears started in Daisy’s eyes; but presently she answered,—­“Because God is good to us, mamma.”

“He is always good,” said Mrs. Randolph.  “That is a very silly practice of yours, Daisy, and very unbecoming.  There is a proper way of doing everything.”

The lady’s manner said that the subject was dismissed, and her guests returned to their ordinary conversation.  Except the doctor and Daisy.  She was overwhelmed, and he was gravely unsocial.

Was it silly?—­that bound her heart had made up to the feet of her King?  That joyful thanksgiving, and expression of love, and pledge of obedience, and prayer for help?  It was something better than the meal often to Daisy; something sweeter and happier.  Was it silly? and must she do so no more except when she was alone?

Daisy had quite forgotten that eating and drinking was part of the present matter in hand, when Dr. Sandford softly asked her what she would like to have.  Daisy said anything he pleased; not caring herself, and indeed in too much confusion of mind yet to know or think about the business.  And her appetite was gone.  Dr. Sandford provided for her with kind care, what she liked too; but nothing was good to Daisy.  She broke bread and swallowed milk mechanically; the more substantial food she refused utterly.  Bread and milk and grapes were Daisy’s dinner.