"I'd find something else then. Daisy, Daisy," said he, shaking her shoulders gently, "this religious foolery is spoiling you. Don't you go and make yourself stupid. Why I don't know you. What is all this ridiculous stuff? You aren't yourself."
"What do you want me to do, Preston?" said Daisy standing before him, not without a certain childish dignity. It was lost on him.
"I want you to be my own little Daisy," said he coaxingly. "Come!—say you will, and give up these outlandish notions you have got from some old woman or other. What is it they want you to do?—sing?—Come, promise you will. Promise me!"
"I will sing any day but Sunday."
"Sunday? Now Daisy! I'm ashamed of you. Why I never heard such nonsense.
Nobody has such notions but low people. It isn't sensible. Give it up,
Daisy, or I shall not know how to love you."
"Good night, Preston"—
"Daisy, Daisy! come and kiss me and be good."
"Good night"—repeated Daisy without turning; and she walked off.
It half broke June's heart that night to see that the child's eyes were quietly dropping tears all the while she was getting undressed. Preston's last threat had cut very close. But Daisy said not a word; and when, long after June had left her, she got into bed and lay down, it was not Preston's words but the reminder of the stars that was with her and making harmony among all her troubled thoughts—"If a man love me, he will keep my words."