"Miss Daisy," said June, "drink this."
"What is it?"
"It is brandy and water. It is good for you."
"I am not faint. I don't like it."
"Miss Daisy, please! You want something. It will make you feel
better and put you to sleep."
Disregarding the tumbler which June offered, Daisy slowly
crawled off the bed, and went and kneeled down before her open
window, crossing her arms on the sill. June followed her, with
a sort of submissive pertinacity.
"Miss Daisy, you want to take some of this, and lie down and
go to sleep."
"I don't want to go to sleep."
"Miss Daisy, you're weak — won't you take a little of this, to
strengthen you a bit?"
"I don't want it, June."
"You'll be sick to-morrow."
"June," said Daisy, "I wish a chariot of fire would come for
me!"
"Why, Miss Daisy?"
"To take me right up. But I shall not be sick. You needn't be
afraid. You needn't stay."
June was too much awed to speak, and dared not disobey. She
withdrew; and in her own premises stood as Daisy was doing,
looking at the moonlight; much wondering that storms should
pass over her little white mistress such as had often shaken
her own black breast. It was mysterious.
Daisy did not wish to go to sleep; and it was for fear she
should, that she had crawled off the bed, trembling in every
limb.
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