CHAPTER VI. 



A drooping daisy changed into a cup, In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. WORDSWORTH. 

"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. 
Who had a stroke?
horrid old lady