"Both your doors?"

"Yes, mamma."

"All night locked! Now, Daisy, I forbid you ever to turn the key in your
door again, night or day."

"O mamma!--I want it shut sometimes."

"Hush. Go and let June dress you."

June was vexed enough with herself to have inflicted some punishment on
her awkward tongue and head, when she saw that Daisy was for some reason
or other deeply grieved. The tears gathered and fell, quietly, all
through the process of dressing; and a sort of sob heaved from the
child's breast now and then, without words and most involuntary.
Juanita's cottage was a palace to Melbourne House, if peace made the
furniture. But June did not know what to say; so she was silent too.

When June was gone Daisy went to her beloved window, and stood there.
She did not like to kneel, because her mother might come in, or even
June, while she was doing so. She stood at the sweet open window, and
prayed that the Lord would take care of her, and help her to pray
however she could. And then the thought of those words came to
Daisy:--"Thou, therefore, endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus
Christ." She remembered very well how Captain Drummond had described the
way a good soldier takes things--hard and disagreeable things as well as
others. It is part of his business to endure them; he expects them, and
minds them not at all in comparison with the service in which he is
engaged. And a soldier of Jesus Christ has only to obey him, and take