The Daisy Chain or Aspirations
What matter, whether through delight,
Or led through vale of tears,
Or seen at once, or hid from sight,
The glorious way appears?
If step by step the path we see,
That leads, my Saviour, up to Thee!
"I could not help it," said Dr. May; "that little witch--"
"Meta Rivers? Oh! what, papa?"
"It seems that Wednesday is her birthday, and nothing will serve her but to
eat her dinner in the old Roman camp."
"And are we to go? Oh, which of us?"
"Every one of anything like rational years. Blanche is especially invited."
There were transports till it was recollected that on Thursday morning school
would recommence, and that on Friday Harry must join his ship.
However, the Roman camp had long been an object of their desires, and
Margaret was glad that the last day should have a brilliancy, so she would not
hear of any one remaining to keep her company, talked of the profit she
should gain by a leisure day, and took ardent interest in every one's
preparations and expectations, in Ethel's researches into county histories and
classical dictionaries, Flora's sketching intentions, Norman's promises of
campanula glomerata, and a secret whispered into her ear by Mary and
"Meta's weather," as they said, when the August sun rose fresh and joyous;
and great was the unnecessary bustle, and happy confusion from six o'clock
till eleven, when Dr. May, who was going to visit patients some way farther
on the same road, carried off Harry and Mary, to set them down at the place.
The rest were called for by Mr. Rivers's carriage and brake. Mrs. Charles
Wilmot and her little girl were the only additions to the party, and Meta,
putting Blanche into the carriage to keep company with her contemporary,
went herself in the brake. What a brilliant little fairy she was, in her pink
summer robes, fluttering like a butterfly, and with the same apparent felicity
in basking in joy, all gaiety, glee, and light-heartedness in making others
happy. On they went, through honeysuckled lanes, catching glimpses of
sunny fields of corn falling before the reaper, and happy knots of harvest
folks dining beneath the shelter of their sheaves, with the sturdy old green
umbrella sheltering them from the sun.