"Thank you, papa!"
"Do you know," said Mr. Randolph, "that your mother is going to ask you to sing that song again when Sunday evening comes?"
The smile vanished from Daisy's face; it grew suddenly dark; and a shuddering motion was both seen and felt by Mr. Randolph, whose arm was round her.
"Daisy," said he, not unkindly, "do you know that I think you a little fool?"
She lifted her eyes quickly, and in their meeting with her father's there was much much that Mr. Randolph felt without stopping to analyse, and that made his own face as suddenly sober as her own. There was no folly in that quick grave look of question or appeal; it seemed to carry the charge in another direction.
"You think it is not right to sing such a song on a Sunday?" he asked.
"No, papa."
"But, suppose, by singing it, you could do a great deal of good, instead of harm."
"How, papa?"
"I will give you a hundred dollars for singing it, which you may spend as you please for all the poor people about Melbourne or Crum Elbow."