s and the many sorts of apples and pears; here, too, were the
great glass houses where the grapes assumed their deep claret color
and their wonderful bloom; and here also were some peculiar and
marvelous foreign flowers, such as orchids, and many others.

Whenever the children were not in the house they were to be found in
the garden, for, in addition to the abundance of fruit and vegetables,
it also possessed some stately trees, which gave plenty of shade even
when the sun was at its hottest. Here Iris would lie full length on
her face and hands, and dream dreams to any extent. Now and then also
she would wake up with a start and tell marvelous stories to her
brothers and sister. She told stories very well, and the others always
listened solemnly and begged her to tell more, and questioned and
argued, and tried to make the adventures she described come really
into their own lives.

Iris was undoubtedly the most imaginative of all the little party.
She was also the most gentle and the most thoughtful. She took most
after her beautiful mother, and thought more than any of the others of
the peculiar names after which they were all called.

On a certain day in the first week of a particularly hot and lovely
June, Iris, who had been in the house for some time, came slowly out,
swinging her large muslin hat on her arm. Her face looked paler than
usual, and somewhat thoughtful.

"Here you are at last, Iris," called out Diana, in her brisk voice,
"and not a moment too soon. I have just found a poor innocent dead on
the walk; you must come and look at it at once."

On hearing these words, the gloom left Iris' face as if by magic.

"Where is it?" she asked. "I hope you did not tread on it, Diana."

"No; but Puff-Ball did," answered Diana. "Don't blame him, please,
Iris; he is only a puppy and always up to mischief. He took the poor
innocent in his mouth and shook it; but I think it was quite deaded
before that."

"Then, if it is dead, it must be buried," said Iris solemnly. "Bring
it into the arbor, and let us think what kind of funeral we will give
it."

"Why not into the dead-house at once?" queried Diana.

"No; the arbor will do for the present."

Iris quickened her footsteps and walked down the straight path through
the midst of the Scotch roses. Having reached the pretty little
summer-house, she seated herself on her rustic chair and waited until
Diana arrived with the poor innocent. This was a somewhat unsight