Mr. Randolph stood by Mrs. Benoit's chair. "My good woman," he said, in suppressed tones, "this is a strange way to put a patient to sleep."
"As your honour sees!" replied the black woman, placidly.
Mr. Randolph looked. Daisy's eyes were closed; the knitted brow had smoothed itself out in slumber; the deep breath told how profound was the need that weakness and weariness had made. He stood still. The black woman's hand softly drew the curtain between Daisy's face and the moonlight, and then she noiselessly withdrew herself almost out of sight, to a low seat in a corner. So Mr. Randolph betook himself to his station in the doorway; and whether he slept or no, the hours of the night stole on quietly. The breeze died down; the moon and the stars shone steadily over the lower world; and Daisy slept, and her two watchers were still. By and by, another light began to break in the eastern horizon, and the stars grew pale. The morning had come.
The birds were twittering in the branches before Daisy awoke. At the first stir she made, her father and Mrs. Benoit were instantly at her side. Mr. Randolph bent over her, and asked tenderly how she felt.
"I feel hot, papa."
"Everybody must do that," said Mr. Randolph. "The breeze has died away, and the morning is very close."
"Papa, have you been awake all night?"
He stooped down and kissed her.
"You must go home and get some breakfast, and go to sleep,"
Daisy said, looking at him lovingly with her languid eyes.
"Shall I bring you anything from home, Daisy?" he said, kissing her again.