"Daisy —" whispered her father.
"Yes, papa."
"Are you afraid?"
"No, papa — not for myself."
"What? Look up here, Daisy."
She lifted her face; it was wistful and troubled.
"Are you concerned about the storm, my darling?"
"No, papa; not myself."
"How then, Daisy?"
She shuddered. "Papa, I wish they would not scream so!"
"Why does that trouble _you?_" said Mr. Randolph, smiling.
But Daisy's face was unutterably grave, as a new brilliant
band of forked lightning glittered outside the windows, and
the burst of the thunderbolt sounded as if at their very feet,
making a renewal of the same cries and exclamations.
"Why does it trouble you, Daisy?" said Mr. Randolph,
soothingly, feeling the quiver of the child's frame.
"Papa," said Daisy, with intense expression, — "they do not
love Jesus!" — And her head went down again to be hid on her
father's shoulder.
Mr. Randolph did nothing to bring it up again; and Daisy lay
quite still, while the storm raged in full fury, and the
screams and ejaculations of the ladies were joined now and
then by a word of impatience from one of the gentlemen, or a
"Hech, sirs!" in Logan's smothered Scotch brogue. Once Mr.
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