Down the straight path which led to the pretty arbor were Scotch roses, red and white.  The smell of these roses in the summer was quite enough to ravish you.  Iris in particular used to sniff at them and sniff at them until she felt nearly intoxicated with delight.

The central garden, which was mostly devoted to flowers, led through little, old-fashioned, somewhat narrow postern doors into the fruit gardens on either side.  In these were the gooseberries.  Here were to be found the great beds of strawberries; here, by-and-by, ripened the plums 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 unsightly object, being nothing more nor less than a dead earthworm which had been found on the walk, and which Diana respected, as she did all live creatures, great or small.