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“Once upon a time there was a Queen–“

“How was she dressed?” asked Adela, who thinks a good deal about dress.

“She had a beautiful dark-blue satin robe.”

“Princesse shape?” inquired Adela.

“No; Queen’s shape,” said Arthur. “Drive on, Mary.”

“And lace ruffles falling back from her Highness’ hands–“

“Sweet!” murmured Adela.

“And a high hat, with plumes, on her head, and–“

“A very low dwarf at her heels,” added Arthur.

“Was there really a dwarf, Mary?” asked Harry.

“There was,” said I.

“Had he a hump, or was he only a plain dwarf?”

“He was a very plain dwarf,” said Arthur.

“Does Arthur know the story, Mary?”

“No, Harry, he doesn’t; and he oughtn’t to interfere till I come to a stop.”

“Beg pardon, Mary. Drive on.”

“The Queen was very much delighted with all fair flowers, and she had a garden so full of them that it was called the Earthly Paradise.”

There was a long-drawn and general “Oh!” of admiration.

“But though she was a Queen, she couldn’t have flowers in the winter, not even in an Earthly Paradise.”

“Don’t you suppose she had a greenhouse, by-the-bye, Mary?” said Arthur.

“Oh, Arthur,” cried Harry, “I do wish you’d be quiet: when you know it’s a fairy story, and that Queens of that sort never had greenhouses or anything like we have now.”

“And so the King’s Apothecary and Herbarist, whose name was John Parkinson–“

“I shouldn’t have thought he would have had a common name like that,” said Harry.

“Bessy’s name is Parkinson,” said Adela.

“Well, I can’t help it; his name was John Parkinson.”

“Drive on, Mary!” said Arthur.

“And he made her a book, called the Book of Paradise, in which there were pictures and written accounts of her flowers, so that when she could not see any of them fresh upon the ground, she could read about them, and think about them, and count up how many she had.”

“Ah, but she couldn’t tell. Some of them might have died in the winter,” said Adela.

“Ah, but some of the others might have got little ones at their roots,” said Harry. “So that would make up.”

I said nothing. I was glad of the diversion, for I could not think how to go on with the story. Before I quite gave in, Harry luckily asked, “Was there a Weeding Woman in the Earthly Paradise?”

“There was,” said I.

“How was she dressed?” asked Adela.

“She had a dress the color of common earth.”

“Princesse shape?” inquired Arthur.

“No; Weeding Woman shape. Arthur, I wish you wouldn’t–“

“All right, Mary. Drive on.”

“And a little shawl, that had partly the color of grass, and partly the color of hay.”

“Hay, dear!” interpolated Arthur, exactly imitating a well-known sigh peculiar to Bessy’s aunt.

“Was her bonnet like our weeding woman’s bonnet?” asked Adela, in a disappointed tone.

“Much larger,” said I, “and the color of a Marigold.”

Adela looked happier. “Strings the same?” she asked.

“No. One string canary color, and the other white.”

“And a basket?” asked Harry.

“Yes, a basket, of course. Well, the Queen had all sorts of flowers in her garden. Some of them were natives of the country, and some of them were brought to her from countries far away, by men called Root-gatherers. There were very beautiful Daffodils in the Earthly Paradise, but the smallest of all the Daffodils–“

“A Dwarf, like the Hunchback?” said Harry.

“The Dwarf Daffodil of all was brought to her by a man called Francis le Vean.”

“That was a much nicer name than John Parkinson,” said Harry.

“And he was the honestest Root-gatherer that ever brought foreign flowers into the Earthly Paradise.”

“Then I love him!” said Harry.

CHAPTER V.

One sometimes thinks it is very easy to be good, and then there comes something which makes it very hard.

I liked being a Little Mother to the others, and almost enjoyed giving way to them. “Others first, Little Mothers afterwards,” as we used to say–till the day I made up that story for them out of the Book of Paradise.

The idea of it took our fancy completely, the others as well as mine, and though the story was constantly interrupted, and never came to any real plot or end, there were no Queens, or dwarfs, or characters of any kind in all Bechstein’s fairy tales, or even in Grimm, more popular than the Queen of the Blue Robe and her Dwarf, and the Honest Root-gatherer, and John Parkinson, King’s Apothecary and Herbarist, and the Weeding Woman of the Earthly Paradise.