"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 clipped 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 ate 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 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."
"Do!" said Captain Drummond; and the request spread and became general.