le!" was the first word that came from anybody's lips in
the darkened drawing-room.

"Very remarkable!" somebody else said. "Did you ever see such acting?"

"It has all been good," said a gentleman, Mr. Sandford; "but this _was_
remarkable."

"Thanks, I suppose you know to whose management," said the soft voice of
the lady of the house.

"Management is a good thing," said the gentleman; "but there was more
than management here, Mrs. Randolph. It was uncommon, upon my word! I
suppose my wife came in for the wings, but where did the _face_ come
from?"

"Daisy," said Mr. Randolph as he found his little daughter by his side
again,--"are you here?"

"Yes, papa."

Her father put his arm round her, as if to assure himself there were no
wings in the case.

"How do you like playing pictures?"

"I think I do not like them very much--" Daisy said sedately, nestling
up to her father's side.

"Not? How is that? Your performance has been much approved."

Daisy said nothing. Mr. Randolph thought he felt a slight tremor in the
little frame.

"Do you understand the allegory of this last tableau, Daisy?" Dr.
Sandford asked.

"I do not know what an allegory is, Dr. Sandford."

"What is the meaning of the representation, then, as you think of it?"

"This last picture?"

"Yes."

"It is a trial of skill, Dr. Sandford."

The room was still darkened, and the glance of intelligence and
amusement that passed between her friend and her father, their own eyes
could scarcely catch. Daisy did not see it. But she had spoken
diplomatically. She did not want to come any nearer the subject of the
picture in talking with Dr. Sandford. His mind was different, and he
went on.

"What is the trial of skill about, Daisy?"

The child hesitated, and then said, speaking low and most unchildlike--

"It is about a human soul."

"And what do you understand are the powers at work--or at play?"

"It is not play," said Daisy.

"Answer Dr. Sandford, Daisy," said her father.

"Papa," said the child, "it isn't play. The devil tries to make people
do wrong--and if they try to do right, then there is a--"

"A what?"

"I don't know--a fight, papa."

Mr. Randolph again felt a tremor, a nervous trembling, pass over Daisy.

"You do not suppose, my darling," he said softly, "that such a fight
goes on with anything like this horrible figure that your cousin Preston
has made himself?"

"I do not suppose he looks like that, papa."

"I do