She was glad to be on the free land again. She went along the bank towards the sluice. The daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond, tiny radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here and there. Why did they move her so strongly and mystically?

‘Look,’ he said, ‘your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and they are a convoy of rafts.’

Some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shy bright little cotillion on the dark clear water. Their gay bright candour moved her so much as they came near, that she was almost in tears.

‘Why are they so lovely,’ she cried. ‘Why do I think them so lovely?’

‘They are nice flowers,’ he