But I had better cease.  Were I sure that the Reader was seeing what I am seeing, hearing as 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

’Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’—­
Merchant of Venice.