For gentle as she was, Daisy was a little lady who had a very deep and particular sense of personal dignity; she felt wronged as well as hurt.

Her father and mother never indulged in that method of punishment; and if they had, Ransom's hand was certainly not another one to inflict it.
Daisy was quite as much stung by the insult as by the unkindness; but she felt both.

She felt both so much that she was greatly discomposed.
Her watch over the feast was entirely forgotten; luckily Fido had gone off with his master, and chickens were no longer in immediate danger.
Daisy rubbed away first one tear and then another, feeling a sort of bitter fire hot at her heart; and then she began to be dissatisfied at finding herself so angry.

This would not do; anger was something she had no business with; how could she carry her Lord's message, or do anything to serve him, in such a temper?
It would not do; but there it was, offended dignity and pride, hot at her heart.

Nobody would have thought perhaps that Daisy was proud; but you never can tell what is in a person's heart till it is tried; and then the kinds of pride are various.