Then a figure came up
the walk in the moonlight.
"Juanita!" cried Daisy, with an accent of joy, though she
could not see the figure from where she lay, — "it's papa!"
"Is she asleep?" said the voice of Mr. Randolph the next
minute softly.
"No, sir. She knows it's you, sir. Will his honour walk in?"
Mr. Randolph, with a gentle footfall, came in and stood by the
side of the couch.
"Daisy — my poor little Daisy!" — he said.
"Papa! —"
This one word was rich in expression; joy and love so filled
it. Daisy added nothing more. She put her arms round her
father's neck as he stooped his lips to her face, held him
fast and returned his kisses.
"Cannot you sleep?" The question was very tenderly put.
"I did sleep, papa."
"I did not wake you?"
"No, papa. I was awake, looking at the moonlight."
"Pain would not let you sleep, my poor darling?"
The sympathy was a little too trying. Tears started to the
child's eyes. She said with a most gentle, loving accent, "I
don't mind, papa. It will be better by and by. I am very
happy."
An indignant question as to the happiness which had been so
rudely shaken, was on Mr. Randolph's lips. He remembered Daisy
must not be excited; nevertheless, he wondered, for he saw the
child's eyes full, and knew that the brow was drawn with pain;
and the poor little thin face was as white as a sheet.
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