s I, I should not fear; but how can I be sure of that?
Had I the pen which that same George will persist in keeping for his
letters, I should venture to delight the Reader with more of his story.
One underhand hope of mine, however, for these poor hints is, that they
may by their very imperfection arouse him to give the world 'the true
story' of a happy home. Narcissus repeatedly threatened that, if he did
not take pen in hand, he would some day 'make copy' of him; and now I
have done it instead. Moreover, I shall further presume on his
forbearance by concluding with a quotation from one of his letters that
came to me but a few months back:--

'You know how deeply exercised the little ones are on the subject of
death, and how I had answered their curiosity by the story that after
death all things turn into flowers. Well, what should startle the wife's
ears the other day but "Mother, I wish you would die." "O why, my dear?"
"Because I should so like to water you!" was the delicious explanation.
The theory has, moreover, been called to stand at the bar of experience,
for a week or two ago one of Phyllis' goldfish died. There were tears at
first, of course, but they suddenly dried up as Geoffrey, in his
reflective way, wondered "what flower it would come to." Here was a
dilemma. One had never thought of such contingencies. But, of course, it
was soon solved. "What flower would you like it to be, my boy?" I asked.
"A poppy!" he answered; and after consultation, "a poppy!" agreed the
others. So a poppy it is to be. A visit to the seedsman's procured the
necessary surreptitious poppy seed; and so now poor Sir Goldfish sleeps
with the seed of sleep in his mouth, and the children watch his grave
day by day, breathless for his resplendent resurrection. Will you write
us an epitaph?'

Ariel forgive me! Here is what I sent:

'Five inches deep Sir Goldfish lies;
Here last September was he laid;
Poppies these, that were his eyes,
Of fish-bones are these blue-bells made;
His fins of gold that to and fro
Waved and waved so long ago,
Still as petals wave and wave
To and fro above his grave.
Hearken, too! for so his knell
Tolls all day each tiny bell.'

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: From a tiny privately-printed volume of deliciously
original lyrics by Mr. R.K. Leather, since republished by Mr. Fisher
Unwin, 1890, and at present published by Mr. John Lane.]

CHAPTER IX

THAT THIRTEENTH MAID

'