Randolph's pocket. June's heart groaned within her.
The whip was small but it had been made for use, not for play; and there
was no play in Mrs. Randolph's use of it. This was not like her father's
ferule, which Daisy could bear in silence, if tears would come; her
mother's handling forced cries from her; though smothered and kept under
in a way that shewed the child's self-command.
"What have you to say to me?" Mrs. Randolph responded, without waiting
for the answer. But Daisy had none to give. At length her mother paused.
"Will you do what I bid you?"
Daisy was unable to speak for tears--and perhaps for fear. The wrinkles
on June's brow were strangely folded together with agitation; but nobody
saw them.
"Will you sing for me next Sunday?" repeated Mrs. Randolph.
There was a struggle in the child's heart, as great almost as a child's
heart can bear. The answer came, when it came, tremblingly--
"I can't, mamma."
"You cannot?" said Mrs. Randolph.
"I can't, mamma."
The chastisement which followed was so severe, that June was moved out
of all the habits of her life, to interfere in another's cause.
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