The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations
A drooping daisy changed into a cup,
In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up.
"So there you are up for the day--really you look very comfortable," said
Ethel, coming into the room where Margaret lay on her bed, half- raised by
pillows, supported by a wooden frame.
"Yes, is not it a charming contrivance of Richard's? It quite gives me the use
of my hands," said Margaret.
"I think he is doing something else for you," said Ethel; "I heard him
carpentering at six o'clock this morning, but I suppose it is to be a secret."
"And don't you admire her night-cap?" said Flora.
"Is it anything different?" said Ethel, peering closer. "Oh, I see-- so she has a
fine day night-cap. Is that your taste, Flora?"
"Partly," said Margaret, "and partly my own. I put in all these little white
puffs, and I hope you think they do me credit. Wasn't it grand of me?"
"She only despises you for them," said Flora.
"I'm very glad you could," said Ethel, gravely; "but do you know? it is rather
like that horrid old lady in some book, who had a paralytic stroke, and the
first thing she did that showed she had come to her senses was to write,
'Rose-coloured curtains for the doctors.'"
"Well, it was for the doctor," said Margaret, "and it had its effect. He told me
I looked much better when he found me trying it on."
"And did you really have the looking-glass and try it on?" cried Ethel.
"Yes, really," said Flora. "Don't you think one may as well be fit to be seen if
one is ill? It is no use to depress one's friends by being more forlorn and
disconsolate than one can help."
"No--not disconsolate," said Ethel; "but the white puffiness--and the
hemming--and the glass!"
"Poor Ethel can't get over it," said Margaret. "But, Ethel, do you think there is
nothing disconsolate in untidiness?"