nd that we took great care of the books, and how much we enjoyed the
ones about gardening, and all that we were going to do, she was very
kind indeed, and promised to put on a blue dress and lace ruffles and
be Queen of our Earthly Paradise as soon as she came home.

When she did come home she was much better, and so was Chris. He was
delighted to be our Dwarf, but he wanted to have a hump, and he would
have such a big one that it would not keep in its place, and kept
slipping under his arm and into all sorts of queer positions.

Not one of us enjoyed our new game more than Chris did, and he was
always teasing me to tell him the story I had told the others, and to
read out the names of the flowers which "the real Queen" had in her
"real paradise." He made Mother promise to try to get him a bulb of
the real Dwarf Daffodil as his next birthday present, to put in his
own garden.

"And I'll give you some compost," said Arthur. "It'll be ever so much
better than a stupid book with 'stuff' in it."

Chris did seem much stronger. He had color in his cheeks, and his head
did not look so large. But he seemed to puzzle over things in it as
much as ever, and he was just as odd and quaint.

One warm day I had taken the "Tour round my Garden," and was sitting
near the bush in the little wood behind our house, when Chris came
after me with a Japanese fan in his hand, and sat down cross-legged at
my feet. As I was reading, and Mother has taught us not to interrupt
people when they are reading, he said nothing, but there he sat.

"What is it Chris?" said I.

"I am discontented," said Chris.

"I'm very sorry," said I.

"I don't think I'm selfish, particularly, but I'm discontented."

"What about?"

"Oh, Mary, I do wish I had not been away when you invented Paradise,
then I should have had a name in the game."

"You've got a name, Chris. You're the Dwarf."

"Ah, but what was the Dwarf's name?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"No; that's just it. I've only one name, and Arthur and Harry have
two. Arthur is a Pothecary" (Chris could never be induced to accept
Apothecary as one word), "and he's John Parkinson as well. Harry is
Honest Root-gatherer, and he is Francis le Vean. If I'd not been away
I should have had two names."

"You can easily have two names," said I. "We'll call the Dwarf Thomas
Brown."

Chris shook his big head.

"No, no. That wasn't his name; I know it wasn't. It's only stuff. I
want another name out o