bring him here to drink of
your nectar!"

The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still called
out--"How came she here?"

The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the whole
night, would not answer the question, though the flowers were
certain that she could, were she so inclined.

"I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can
breathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor
Poppy.

"I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena.

"And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant.

"That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in
the shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes,
the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where that
is?"

Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:--

"The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the
Styx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away
to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in
her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess
planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower
of Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus
make her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with a
garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which
drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death follows
wherever she comes!"

"We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, with
difficulty preserving her cheerfulness.

But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth,
who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was very
stoical. But another trial awaited the poor Poppy.

The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle human
voices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, with
rosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came bounding
down the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady. The child had
come to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as she
carolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breath
of some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich and
varied tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly and
cheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet and
beautiful.

The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had found
her way in