At last came a propitious morning. It was more moderate
weather; Daisy herself was doing very well, and suffering
little pain; and Mrs. Randolph looked in good humour, and had
sat down with her tetting-work, as if she meant to make her
daughter something of a visit. Mr. Randolph was lounging at
the head of the couch, out of Daisy's sight.
"Mamma," began the child, "there is something I wish to say to
you."
"You have a favourable opportunity, Daisy. I can hear."
Yet Daisy looked a minute at the white hand that was flying
the bobbin about. That white hand.
"It isn't much, mamma. It is only — that I wish you to know —
that I am a Christian."
"That you are _what?_" said Mrs. Randolph, coldly.
"A Christian, mamma."
"Pray, what does that mean?"
"That I am a servant of Christ, mamma."
"When did you find it out, Daisy?"
"Some time ago, mamma. Some time — a little while — before my
birth-day."
"You did! What do you think _me?_"
Daisy kept silence.
"Well! why don't you speak? Answer me."
"Mamma, I don't know how to answer you," said Daisy, flushing
for an instant. Her mother's eyes took note of her.
"I shall not ask you a third time, Daisy."
"Mamma," said the child low, — "I do not think you are what I
mean by a Christian.
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