She bent her head round to look in the face of the lady who had last used them, as if to assure herself what was meant; and then her head went down on Mr.Randolph's shoulder and her face was hidden.
"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.Randolph felt Daisy's lips pressed against his face, and then her other arm came round his neck and nestling there closely she was after that as still as a mouse.

The storm lasted a long time.

The lightning and thunder at last removed their violence some distance off; then the wind and the rain did their part, which they had not fully done before.