"That is why you like to call us your Daisy Chain," said Ethel.

"Did you write it in verse?" said Margaret. "I think I once saw some
verses like it in her desk."

"I was in love, and three-and-twenty," said the doctor, looking
drolly guilty in the midst of his sadness. "Ay, those fixed it in my
memory, perhaps my fancy made it more distinct than it really was.
An evening or two ago I met with them, and that stirred it up I
suppose. Last night came the tournament again, but it was the melee,
a sense of being crushed down, suffocated by the throng of armed
knights and horses--pain and wounds--and I looked in vain through the
opposing overwhelming host for my--my Maggie. Well, I got the worst
of it, my sword arm was broken--I fell, was stifled--crushed--in
misery--all I could do was to grasp my token--my Daisy Chain," and he
pressed Margaret's hand as he said so. "And, behold, the tumult and
despair were passed. I lay on the grass in the cloisters, and the
Daisy Chain hung from the sky, and was drawing me upwards. There--it
is a queer dream for a sober old country doctor. I don't know why I
told you, don't tell any one again."

And he walked away, muttering. "For he told me his dreams, talked of
eating and drinking," leaving Margaret with her eyes full of tears,
and Ethel vehemently caressing the baby.

"How beautiful!" said Ethel.

"It has been a comfort to him, I am sure," said Margaret.