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.
“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?”
“You could be tidy without the little puffs! Your first bit of work too! Don’t think I’m tiresome. If they were an amusement to you, I am sure I am very glad of them, but I can’t see the sense of them.”
“Poor little things!” said Margaret laughing. “It is only my foible for making a thing look nice. And, Ethel,” she added, drawing her down close over her, “I did not think the trouble wasted, if seeing me look fresher cheered up dear papa a moment.”
“I spoke to papa about nurse’s proposal,” said Margaret presently to Flora, “and he quite agrees to it. Indeed it is impossible that Anne should attend properly to all the children while nurse is so much engaged with me.”
“I think so,” said Flora; “and it does not answer to bring Aubrey into the school-room. It only makes Mary and Blanche idle, and Miss Winter does not like it.”
“Then the question is, who shall it be? Nurse has no one in view, and only protests against ‘one of the girls out of the school here.’ ”
“That’s a great pity,” said Flora. “Don’t you think we could make her take to Jane White, she is so very nice.”
“I thought of her, but it will never answer if we displease nurse. Besides, I remember at the time Anne came, dear mamma thought there was danger of a girl’s having too many acquaintances, especially taking the children out walking. We cannot always be sure of sending her out with Anne.”
“Do you remember—” said Ethel, there stopping.
“Well,” said both sisters.
“Don’t you recollect, Flora, that girl whose father was in the hospital—that girl at Cocksmoor?”
“I do,” said Flora. “She was a very nice girl; I wonder whether nurse would approve of her.”
“How old?” said Margaret. “Fourteen, and tall. Such a clean cottage!”
The girls went on, and Margaret began to like the idea very much, and consider whether the girl could be brought for inspection, before nurse was prejudiced by hearing of her Cocksmoor extraction. At that moment Richard knocked at the door, and entered with Tom, helping him to bring a small short-legged table, such as could stand on the bed at the right height for Margaret’s meals or employments.
There were great exclamations of satisfaction, and gratitude; “it was the very thing wanted, only how could he have contrived it?”
“Don’t you recognise it?” said he.
“Oh, I see; it is the old drawing-desk that no one used. And you have put legs to it—how famous! You are the best contriver, Richard!”
“Then see, you can raise it up for reading or writing; here’s a corner for your ink to stand flat; and there it is down for your dinner.”
“Charming, you have made it go so easily, when it used to be so stiff. There—give me my work-basket, please, Ethel; I mean to make some more white puffs.”
“What’s the matter now, Ethel?” said Flora; “you look as if you did not approve of the table.”
“I was only thinking it was as if she was settling herself to lie in bed for a very long time,” said Ethel.
“I hope not,” said Richard; “but I don’t see why she should not be as comfortable as she can, while she is there.”
“I am sure I hope you will never be ill, Ethel,” said Flora. “You would be horrid to nurse!”
“She will know how to be grateful when she is,” said Margaret.
“I say, Richard,” exclaimed Ethel, “this is hospital-meeting day, so you won’t be wanted to drive papa.”
“No, I am at your service; do you want a walk?”
So it was determined that Richard and Ethel should walk together to Cocksmoor.
No two people could be much more unlike than Richard and Etheldred May; but they were very fond of each other. Richard was sometimes seriously annoyed by Ethel’s heedlessness, and did not always understand her sublimities, but he had a great deal of admiration for one who partook so much of his father’s nature; and Ethel had a due respect for her eldest brother, gratitude and strong affection for many kindnesses, a reverence for his sterling goodness, and his exemption from her own besetting failings, only a little damped by compassionate wonder at his deficiency in talent, and by her vexation at not being always comprehended.
They went by the road, for the plantation gate was far too serious an undertaking for any one not in the highest spirits for enterprise. On the way there was a good deal of that desultory talk, very sociable and interesting, that is apt to prevail between two people, who would never have chosen each other for companions, if they were not of the same family, but who are nevertheless very affectionate and companionable. Ethel was anxious to hear what her brother thought of papa’s spirits, and whether he talked in their drives.
“Sometimes,” said Richard. “It is just as it happens. Now and then he goes on just like himself, and then at other times he will not speak for three or four miles.”
“And he sighs?” said Ethel. “Those sighs are so very sad, and long, and deep! They seem to have whole volumes in them, as if there was such a weight on him.”
“Some people say he is not as much altered as they expected,” said Richard.
“Oh! do they? Well! I can’t fancy any one feeling it more. He can’t leave off his old self, of course, but—” Ethel stopped short.
“Margaret