"Certainly not. I dare say you could manage to take eight drops, provided you gave them to yourself in a measure glass, without coming to any harm; but I cannot possibly order them for you."
"If a—a cow was in awful pain, would you give it more than that?"
"Undoubtedly, though I don't know anything about the treatment of cows. What queer questions you are asking me, Miss Mostyn. The cow is a much larger animal and can stand a much bigger dose, but really I would not dream of ordering laudanum for any creature. I am sorry you are suffering; probably it is indigestion. I will send you up a little bottle of peppermint to-night, and you can take from ten to fifteen drops in a little water. That is quite safe. Good-bye now, Miss Mostyn. I must hurry to old Burchell. Talk of pain! Ah, you little know what it means. I must give him his dose of morphia, but nothing will save his life. Still, he will be looking out for me, and the morphia keeps the worst agonies under."
Daisy danced back to her sister.
"I have everything as pat as pat," she said. Little she cared for Burchell's dying agonies. "I saw Duncom and she told me. I did not give myself away in the least. We must give Fly-away from sixteen to twenty drops of the laudanum. Luckily there is a little medicine glass in mumsie's cupboard. I'll measure it into that. Then he'll get rather bad, but he won't die. Hurrah! Hurrah! I am a clever girl!"
CHAPTER XIII. FLY-AWAY.
Daisy, in her way, without being in the least intellectual, and without having the smallest taste for the great and ennobling things of life, was neverless clever. She had the artfulness of the crooked mind, and she could carry out her designs with exactitude and promptness. She pretended to be frightened, but neither she nor Henny knew what fear was. Henny was, in some ways, the better character—that is, if stupidity could be called good. She could hate with great vigour; she never dreamt of love unless, indeed, she loved Daisy. She liked to listen to Daisy's designs, which were always mischievous and wicked, but she could not carry them out herself, although she would be faithful to her sister to the last drop of her blood.
Daisy was the only person who really belonged to her. She had therefore a certain passion for this queer, crabbed nature. Therefore, she was led by Daisy, who told her that she must pretend to be fond of father, and she did pretend. She would have flirted with Dominic if he had allowed her, but Dominic knew how to keep her at a distance. Try as she might, try as she would, she could not bridge the gulf which stood between her and him. That gulf also extended itself between Dominic and Daisy. The fact was that he was an exceedingly sharp lad; he read their characters aright and, as far as lay in his power, protected his dear little cousin Maureen and his sweet baby sister Kitty from their machinations. But even Dominic could not guess what was passing through Daisy's mind on that special evening. He only noticed that she was in particularly good spirits, that she and Henrietta laughed and joked and whispered, and presently that they became suddenly quiet and sat one at each side of the Rector on the old Chesterfield sofa. They petted the Rector a good deal, calling him "father" and "dear father" and "dearest dad" and "ownest duck," and the poor Rector endured their most unwelcome embraces and their silly words until finally, in despair, he asked Maureen to sing for him.